Chapter 78: Chaos Begets Drama

The number of fans watching the game live had grown since it began.

Coach Barrett and Coach Alvarez, the two Freshman football coaches, helped the other coaches by watching the varsity game from the press box, serving as two new sets of trusted eyes on the varsity football team. They videotaped the game from the press box and kept track of plays for the varsity coaches to review afterward. There was a straightforward reason for the coaches to run the filming of the games. The equipment was expensive, and the school didn’t trust anyone other than a higher-tenure employee to run the equipment. So, non-varsity coaches were tasked as cameramen during varsity football games.

The activity in the press box, next to the home team box, looked like someone set off a hornet’s nest in a quilting club meeting. Word had gotten out that a team had figured out how to stop Mayhem and his cohorts at their own game. The word spread like wildfire over the Texas High School football internet sphere about what the Austin Vandergrift Vipers were doing to the unbeatable Roosevelt Rough Riders, and there was a rapid influx of new attendees to the game.

The two coaches passed the reporters without being recognized for their positions and entered the private elevator to go down to the home locker room. When the elevator doors closed, Coach Alvarez immediately pointed out the obvious To his fellow ninth-grade football team coach, “Did you see what they were doing to Mayhem in the first half?”

Coach Mario Barrett rolled his eyes and stared back at his friend in the mirror of the mirrored elevator doors. “Joe, I was sitting right next to you and watching the same game as you were,” he answered. “Did you ever get a chance to teach Tim to recognize where extra blockers were coming from?”

“Nope. Never needed to,” Coach Alvarez replied. “Mayhem would just power his way through the blockers to make the sack or tackle the running back. Not much proper triple-team blocking happening in the ninth-grade game.”

“That’s true.”

The elevator dinged, announcing the arrival to the floor. As the coaches exited the elevator, about half the team had entered the locker room. The two coaches followed the flow of players and other coaches. Once inside, the two went to the computer terminal, finding the other coaches preparing the terminal for the film. Coach Barrett produced a copy of the filmed first half on a USB drive.

After seeing the coaches had set up the proper views for their positions, they scanned the locker room but did not see Tim where he typically sat during halftime. He had just entered the locker room, followed closely by the head coach looking frustrated.

The two freshman football coaches returned to their regular halftime place, leaning against a side wall and helping wherever needed. They were extra eyes for the varsity coaches. If they saw something that needed to be addressed, they quietly brought it to the appropriate position coach, who usually already knew what they saw. They all collected examples to show the players. It was a system Big John had installed several years back, and the coaching staff was well-versed in how it worked but had not needed the extra set of eyes since Mayhem was promoted to the varsity.

The coaches said nothing. They stood back and listened to the slowly increasing conversations between teammates that started constructive but quickly devolved into non-constructive.

“I’d be able to get a few yards if you would stop playing o-line like you were a matador, you fat fuck!”

“Why don’t you take the time to wash your face and get the shit outta your eyes, so you can catch the damn ball!” That retort amazingly came from the quarterback and offensive captain after a wide receiver complained of not having the ball thrown in his direction more.

Tim stopped by the table filled with paper cups of Gatorade and sliced oranges for the players—all to keep the team hydrated throughout the game to avoid cramping. Keeping players hydrated was a real problem during essential games like this playoff contest since the coaches and players tended to forget about something not so obvious, but it was beyond necessary.

“Sit the hell down and shut up!” Big John boomed from the front dry-erase board. “Coach, if you would,” Big John gestured toward his son, who handed him a clipboard. It contained a list of the plays called, their results, and a brief description of the Vipers’ offensive play alignments and the subsequent defense called against it. Big John looked over the notes momentarily as everyone nervously waited for the inevitable eruption they had not heard since the first couple of games that season. The season had been going so well the team had nearly forgotten how high Big John’s volume levels could rise when he was upset.

The head coach began pacing while reading the first half alignments and counters. “Ten completions out of 24 attempted passes for the first half? Why are we throwing it so damn much if it ain’t working?!?” He slammed the clipboard on his thigh, and the slapping sound reverberated throughout the cinder-block locker room. “Oh, maybe it’s the goddamn drops. Christ Almighty, y’all, catch the ball before you freaking start to run!”

Big John continued his pacing as he read off the clipboard. When it looked like he read to the end, he paused. He took a big breath and looked straight up into the air like he was waiting for an answer to some unanswered prayer. After the pause, face still raised, he continued, “What’s wrong, fellas? Are you not worried enough about the future of this game?”

He finally brought his head down and looked around the locker room. No one moved or said anything. There was a good chance everyone held their breaths for that moment. “The coaches are calling the right plays on offense. We’ve shown all of you what to look for in their offense, so your vaunted defense should stop them. Fine. I’ll grant you, they are the fastest kids we’ve come across this season, but do you think the next team we have a chance to play won’t be at least that same kind of fast? Adapt. Give a little room for the speed and get yourselves into the goddamned game!” Big John paused again and dared anyone to complain about his language.

“Why aren’t you guys able to stop or even slow down those guys? Y’all should have been pounding that little sawed-off running back into the ground so far that it would be easier for him to dig himself out of the ground in China than to come back this way!”

Big John shifted his gaze toward the offensive line. “Why aren’t you guys switching the protections when you see the defense is in a position to stop what we called? That’s football 101 stuff. You should know it cuz we already hammered it into your fat heads! We can’t blame Tim. He don’t fuckin’ play full-time with the ‘O!’”

Big John turned his head toward the defense and continued. “Do you think you are gonna get into your little girlfriends’ panties tonight if y’all don’t win like she will throw you a little pity pussy?”

The locker room had an initial gasp from several directions. Unnervingly fast, though, someone uttered something under their breath, and several of the offensive skill players seated on a bench with their captain could not stop the snickers from escaping their mouths.

The vein in Big John’s forehead seemingly burst from under his skin. In his rage, he unthinkingly threw the clipboard at a wall to regain the attention of the team — the metal clamp of the clipboard connected with Troy Williams’ left eye. The young man screamed at the initial shock, then fell backward off the bench and onto the ground. The players sitting near him jumped off the bench and stared at the young man writhing in pain as he dislodged the clipboard from his forehead. The blood began spewing immediately.

Troy had the mind to grab a white towel and press it onto the deep gash over his right eye. An inch or so lower would mean even more things than a deep cut to worry about. Coach Shackelford, the school’s athletic trainer, ran from where he was holding up the wall along the back and immediately called for his top aide to grab a bag from the myriad of supplies brought with the players to every game.

“Shit. It’s deep,” Coach Shackelford muttered and then looked to his boss. The boss was catatonic, with his wide-open jaw threatening to scrape the floor.

Being next in line via seniority, Coach O’Shaughnessy took control with boisterous hand-clapping and ordered everyone in the locker room, “Okay, girls. Nothing to see there. Let’s get outside and get ready for the second half.”

As they flowed out, the players were as quiet as a mouse in church. Each player attempted to look like they weren’t checking out their offensive captain as he lay on the floor with a halo of blood soaking into his hair from the off-yellow linoleum floor.

Coach Shackelford grabbed Coach Alvarez before he could exit the locker room. “Coach, on your way to the coaches’ box, ask the stadium announcer for a doctor to report to the home locker room. It’s very deep and very close to the eye. I’m not going to sew something like that up. I don’t wanna cause more damage anywhere, especially not to his eye.”

Coach Alvarez nodded and caught up to Coach Barrett, who was holding the elevator for his friend. “I gotta stop by the announcer booth and ask them to call for a doctor.” Coach Barrett shook his head in disgust. Unfortunately, the coach’s conversation was overheard by several nearby Rough Riders fans who wanted to be around the locker room for support going into the second half.

“What the hell do you mean you need a doctor?” Someone outside of the elevator yelled out when the doors closed. Coach Alvarez cursed aloud, and Coach Barrett dramatically wiped the sweat from his forehead into his hair under his baseball hat while the elevator door closed.

“How long do you think it’ll take for word to get out over what just happened?” Coach Alvarez solicited before the elevator reached the top floor.

“I’m guessing the news will spread pretty quick. Don’t say anything, or we’ll be pulled into the coming lawsuit,” Coach Barrett cautioned.

Coach Alvarez’s eyes grew wide while looking at his friend in the mirrored elevator door. “Oh, shit! That kid’s dad! Oh, fuck, Big John’s got trouble comin’ his way.” Coach Barrett nodded his agreement when the elevator dinged.

The rumor must have just made it up to the press box at the same time the two coaches left the stadium announcers’ booth. Questions started flying in their direction from reporters.

“What happened in the locker room, Coach?”

“I heard someone freaked out and choked a coach.”

“Ah, bullshit. I heard a bunch of the Riders got into a fight over the game so far.”

The coaches said nothing, pushed past the press, and entered their coaching booth. Coach Barrett just looked at Coach Alvarez, and no word was spoken. Soon, the public address announcer asked for any doctors in the stadium to report to the home team locker room.

“Did I hear that right, Raymond?” Juanita Murphy asked her husband.

“Yep. I guess they need a doctor in the locker room.” Raymond calmly answered and enjoyed more of his second order of nachos.

“Raymond, what if Tim is hurt and needs a doctor?” Raymond quickly glanced at his daughter, seated one row behind them, enjoying her order of nachos and paying no attention to her parents. He made a slicing motion to his hand so his wife could see, and when recognition flashed across her face, he dove in for another couple of nachos. “Well, what if someone is hurt and they need help?”

Raymond calmly placed his nachos on the seat between them. “Do you want me to go see what is going on?”

“Please?”

Raymond leaned over and kissed his wife’s cheek. “I’ll be right back.”

He picked up his remaining nachos and finished them while standing over a trash can. Once finished, Raymond dropped the empty basket into the trash before going to the locker room. The door slammed open, and the team began pouring out. Unlike their other games, the players were quiet and not trying to hype themselves up for the second half. Raymond put it down to the team no longer used to playing behind in points. The difference between this opponent and the rest of the season was glaring even to those who wouldn’t necessarily notice.

To a player, each one looked like they had just seen something that shocked them all to the core as they half-heartedly jogged by the fans attempting to urge them to victory. The players seemed to be mumbling to each other.

Raymond stood by, noticing a couple of doctors he had worked with. They acknowledged each other with simple head nods. Seeing there were plenty of medical experts for whatever happened, Raymond was about to return to the stands when he saw his son come jogging out of the locker room with the same look on his face.

“Timothy,” he called out to his son. His son instantly recognized his father’s voice and began jogging toward him, accepting several high faves and shoulder pad hits from the fans who had gathered at the locker room door. “Timothy, what happened? Why did they ask for a doctor?”

Tim was about to answer when Coach Van Cleave grabbed Tim by his shoulder pads and pulled him toward the field, saying, “Sorry, Dad. We gotta get out on the field for the second half.” He rushed Tim along and yelled at the multiplying fans at the locker room door. “Enjoy the second half, everybody!” He then gave Tim another slight nudge toward his teammates.

Raymond thought it strange but suddenly realized they might need some motivation. “Timothy!” His father called out, but when he looked like he would turn around again, the coach was behind him to edge him toward the field. “Remember why you play the game ... to win!” Raymond saw his son disappear down the tunnel toward the field and finally saw nothing else he could do.

There were several school officials now standing guard at the locker room door. “Well, they must know what they’re doing. I hope they do.” Raymond said to himself while turning in the direction of his seat, but soon, that thought left his mind as, out of the corner of his eye, he saw the line to the concession stand dwindling to the last few people. He took the initiative, sped to the line, and ordered more nachos before returning to his family in the stands.

“Remember, Tim, tell your teammates, too. Do not say anything today, and do not talk to the press until we know what is going to happen. It sucks, but it’s best for everyone, especially the ones who had nothing to do with what just happened,” Coach Van Cleave whispered into his ear before a final nudge to join his team underneath the inflatable tunnel featuring the schools’ “TR” insignia.

Tim didn’t say anything but realized the team was looking at him. The captains were not in the huddle before retaking the field for the second half, and all the eyes in that huddle were focused on him. That was when he noticed the same befuddled look on their faces that was probably on his. “Well, this is kind of different, huh?” The guys in the huddle lightly laughed at the attempt to joke. “Still, though, we got a second half to play, and we have a lot of work to do in that second half.”