Scramble
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 12
I was actually nervous as I walked out to the field the following Wednesday. Today was a big day, and could decide if I got into a D1 program or even the NFL, eventually. Today was the day that I was supposed to meet with Coach Moreno and Coach Holloway had told me it was all set up for right after school.
The guys on the track team were still filtering out to start stretching and warm-ups for track practice and I could feel their eyes on me as I walked across the field. I’d made sure to check with Coach Greer beforehand and get permission to skip, or at least be late to practice today, but I still felt a little guilty when he looked up and joined my teammates in watching me walk toward Coach Holloway.
I tried to ignore them as I made my way toward the bleachers where Coach Holloway stood with an older man that I assumed was Coach Moreno. While it made me nervous, that was at least expected. What I hadn’t expected was to see Elton, Connor, and Andre sitting in the bleachers near Coach Holloway.
It was my fault for mentioning it to them at lunch, but why did I have to have an audience?
“Here he is,” Coach Holloway said as I approached.
The older man turned. Coach Moreno looked nothing like I expected. He was shorter than Coach Holloway by at least four inches, with a stocky build and his hair completely white. Despite being in his sixties, he stood straight-backed with muscular forearms that belonged to someone decades younger. His face was deeply tanned and weathered, making the crow’s feet around his eyes look permanently etched.
“Blake Sims,” I said, extending my hand.
Moreno’s grip was firm, almost painful. He didn’t smile.
“Phillip Moreno,” he said. “Your Coach Holloway has pretty good things to say about you.”
Considering how often Coach Holloway yelled at me, that was a bit of a surprise.
“I hope to prove him right, sir. Thank you for taking me on.”
Moreno looked me up and down like I was a used car he was considering buying. “Let’s get something straight. This isn’t me taking you on. This is me deciding if you have anything worth developing. Most kids don’t.”
“Yes, sir,” I said, trying hard not to swallow.
“Today, we’ll run through three assessments. Accuracy, pocket presence, and reading coverages. I’m not interested in how pretty your spirals look or how far you can throw. I want to see if your brain works and if you can make the corrections I give you.”
I nodded, trying to appear confident.
“Any questions before we start?” Moreno asked.
“No, sir.”
“Good. Your coach and these boys were nice enough to set up some equipment for us,” he said, gesturing toward stacks of boxes with small cones on them, some tackling dummies with x’s drawn on them, and a few other things. “First test is accuracy. See those cones stacked on the boxes? You’re going to hit just the cones without knocking over what they’re sitting on. Different distances, different angles. We’ll do fifteen throws.”
I looked at the setup. One was only ten yards away, but others stretched to forty yards downfield.
“Starting position,” Moreno pointed to a spot. “No crow-hopping forward. Plant and throw from where I tell you.”
I moved to where he indicated and took a deep breath.
“Any time today, Sims.”
I set my feet, checked my grip, and delivered the first throw. The ball sailed straight, knocking the cone cleanly off without disturbing the boxes underneath.
“Again,” Moreno said without comment, pointing to another position.
The second throw worked just as well. On the third, I overthrew slightly, missing everything.
“Your front shoulder opened too early,” Moreno called. “You’re rushing. Set it again.”
I reset and threw again, correcting the issue. The ball clipped the cone, sending it spinning.
“Better. Move to the hash mark.”
We continued through all fifteen throws. I hit eleven targets cleanly, missed two completely, and grazed two others. Moreno made no indication whether this was good or bad.
“Okay, next, let’s see how you handle pressure. You three, get over here,” he yelled at my three teammates, who jogged onto the field from the stands. “Go reset those cones then come back.”
Once the cones were back in place, Moreno arranged the three players and two tackling dummies in a rough semicircle.
“Here’s the drill,” he said. “Mr. Price is your center. These dummies are your tackles. These two are defenders trying to get to you. They’ll start at my command, and Mr. Price will give you partial protection. If either defender touches you before the ball is released, it’s a miss.”
“Where am I throwing?” I asked.
“I’ll call out which target as the play starts. You’ve got four seconds to deliver.”
“Got it.”
“Position.”
I moved behind Andre, placing my hands ready for the snap.
“Set!”
Andre snapped the ball into my hands and immediately turned to block Connor, who charged from my right. Elton came hard from the left.
“Yellow cone!” Moreno barked.
I backpedaled three steps, feeling Elton closing in. Connor had beaten Andre’s block and was coming straight at me. I planted my back foot and delivered the ball just as their fingers brushed my jersey.
“Too long on the drop,” Moreno called. “You’re drifting back instead of setting depth. Again.”
We ran the pocket drill twelve times. I got the ball off cleanly eight times, was “sacked” twice, and threw two passes that missed their targets because I rushed.
“Final test,” Moreno said. “Coverage recognition.”
He reconfigured the players, having all three of them represent defensive backs. Moreno positioned himself behind me.
“I’ll tell you the coverage,” he said. “You have to identify the open receiver based on the routes I assign. Just point and tell me why that’s your read. You need to do it fast, just like you would on the read. No time to think about it.”
For the next twenty minutes, Moreno put me through increasingly complex scenarios. He’d set up the defenders, tell me what coverage to imagine, and have me identify where the ball should go.
“Cover two. Three receivers. Outside running a fade, slot on a corner, inside on a post.”
“The post. Safety will carry the fade, linebacker will take the flat, leaving the middle open behind the linebackers.”
“Why not the corner route?”
“Corner route puts the receiver between the corner and safety. Too much traffic.”
Moreno changed the setup. “Cover three. Four receivers. Outside running a curl, slot on an out, tight end on a seam, running back in the flat.”
“The out route. Corner has to respect the curl, safety is deep middle, linebacker should carry the seam, leaves the sideline open for the out.”
“What’s your progression?”
“Seam first to hold the safety, then the out, curl as my checkdown, flat as my last option.”
The drill continued with Moreno adding wrinkles, disguised coverages, and zone blitzes. I missed a few but felt strong on most of the recognition.
“Last one,” Moreno said. “Cover four. Three verticals.”
I started to answer when he cut me off.
“No, that’s wrong. Why would you go there? The safety is sitting right on that route.”
“But you said Cover four. In Cover four, that safety should be...”
“I don’t care what I said. Read what you see!” Moreno’s voice grew sharp. “The defense isn’t going to tell you what they’re in. They’re going to show you one thing and do another. You think the safety cares what he’s supposed to do by the book if he sees something he can jump?”
“No, sir.”
“Then stop telling me what should happen and tell me what is happening.”
I studied the setup again and realized he’d positioned Connor slightly off from where a typical Cover four safety would align.
“The outside vertical to the right,” I said. “The safety is cheating inside to help on the seams.”
Moreno nodded once. “Better.”
He called the three players over.
“Thanks for your help, gentlemen,” Coach Holloway said, dismissing them.
They jogged back toward the school, Andre giving me a thumbs-up as they left.
Moreno walked to the sideline and grabbed a water bottle, taking a long drink before turning back to me.
“Let’s talk about what I saw,” he said. “Your mechanics are inconsistent. Your front shoulder flies open when you get rushed. Your footwork gets sloppy after your first read is covered. Your follow-through cuts off too early on deep throws.”
I nodded, taking the criticism.
“You also have natural arm talent that can’t be taught. Your release is quick. You understand leverage concepts. You make good decisions under pressure. You’re coachable; you fixed your shoulder issue after I mentioned it once and haven’t done it since.”
He pulled a small notebook from his pocket and flipped through some pages.
“Holloway tells me you’re smart, dedicated, and a natural leader. Says the team responds to you despite your age.”
“I try, sir,” I said.
“Here’s what I think. You have potential, but you need extensive technical refinement. You’ve got some bad habits that will limit you at the next level. It’ll take daily work to fix them.”
“I’m willing to put in the work,” I said quickly. “I know I’m not perfect. That’s why I want to train with you.”
“It’s not about willingness. It’s about time and priority. How many commitments do you already have?”
“School, football conditioning, track, morning training with some teammates, and possibly seven-on-seven this summer.”
Moreno frowned. “Seven-on-seven is a waste of time for a quarterback with your issues.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because it rewards bad habits. No pass rush means no pressure footwork. All quick game and spread concepts, no progression reading. It’s basketball on grass. Looks pretty but builds false confidence.”
“Some of the guys on the team really want me to play,” I said. “They say we could be good.”
Moreno shook his head. “I’m not interested in being one voice among many. If you want my help, my program comes first, after your schoolwork. Period.”
“What exactly would your program involve?” I asked.
“I’m not here every week, I have other commitments and other players I’m working with. I will be here once a month, and we will have five day practices lasting three hours each. The weeks that I am not here, Coach Holloway will arrange two sessions in person a week and work with you based on what I saw at our last practices, and he’ll send me video of your practices so I can give updated instructions. Beyond that, you will have daily homework film study worksheets and assigned games to watch and give me written analysis of situations in those games. In addition, I will give you a list of conditioning for you to do that’s specific to what you need.”
“How much of that could we do alongside track practice? I’m committed to Coach Greer for the season.”
Moreno looked at Coach Holloway, who had been quietly observing our conversation.
“Scott, what’s Greer’s schedule like for the kid?”
“Practice after school Monday through Thursday, meets most Fridays or Saturdays,” Coach Holloway answered. “Blake only does sprints, but Coach Greer tells me he’s also a leader on the team.”
Moreno considered this. “I’ll talk to your track coach and we’ll work something out.”
“Okay.”
“What about when seven-on-seven starts?”
“I haven’t committed to that yet.”
“Good. Don’t.” Moreno’s tone made it clear this wasn’t a suggestion. “If you’re serious about developing as a quarterback, you need focused work on fundamentals, not glorified scrimmaging.”
I hesitated. I knew that seven-on-seven was going to be made up of all people who were most likely going to be on next year’s varsity, and could help build chemistry with my receivers. Something I’d need for next season. But I also didn’t want to waste this opportunity.
“Can we compromise? If I prioritize your training and hit all my targets, could I participate in some of the seven-on-seven games as application?”
Moreno stared at me for a long moment, then turned to Coach Holloway and said, “Your kid’s ballsy.”
“Tell me about it,” Coach Holloway said unhelpfully.