Read Online Carter Finally Gets It by Brent Crawford - Free Book Online

parents of the loser kid who missed the game-winning field goal. My potential girlfriend is hoping to bask in the potential glory. My sister is . . . well, I think she’s at the mall, but she’ll still be pissed at me if I miss, because it’ll reflect poorly on her.
    The cheerleaders have honestly started to cheer, “Carter, Carter, he’s our man!” which flashes me back to my earlier train of thought, where I am indeed “their man.” Please, focus! You’ve got to kick the crap out of this ball! Everybody is set. The tension is thick, or hot, or moist . . . Not sure exactly what the tension is, but IT’S FRIGGIN’ TENSE! The other team is going to try to block my kick—and my legend—from blossoming.
    The ball is HIKED. . . . Dang it, BAG, I never gave the nod that I was ready, because I sure as hell am not! Bag catches the ball and puts it down, I take my steps, I plant my foot. I keep my eyes open and swing my leg through, like I’m launching a missile off my foot. I blast the ball so hard and with such a BOOM , if anybody tries to block the thing, their hand, arm, or head will be ripped off from the force. The ball makes a hissing noise as it flies away. It’s definitely got the distance, but I wouldn’t exactly call it straight. Everybody’s hands, arms, and heads are out of danger. Nobody blocked it. I really wish they had, though, because that ball must have flown fifty yards straight to the left. A scientist could draw a diagram and show me how a ball could go that far left, but I still wouldn’t believe it. It flies over the sidelines, beyond my coach, past my parents, the drill team, and cheerleaders before finally crashing into the back of a band kid’s head. Dude wasn’t even paying attention to my kick (that’ll teach him). It knocks his glasses off, and his funny hat and trombone hit the dirt as well. That’s embarrassing.
    I hear my mom yelling, “It’s OKAY, SWEETIE!”
    Not helping, Mother.
    “You’ll get the next one,” Bag says as we run back to the sidelines, followed by another pat on the butt. When did it become okay for us to touch each other’s butts? I guess he’s trying to make me feel better, but he’s just making me uncomfortable.
    We stop the game for halftime, and the drill team comes out with flags to bust a move. The marching band plays a cheesy version of a Stevie Wonder song, minus a trombone player, who’s still sitting on the ground trying to figure out what hit him. I’m kind of hoping Abby’s flag will get away from her and impale one of the other heifers, so I won’t be the only dumbass in our relationship today; but of course she’s friggin’ perfect.
    I’m guessing I’ve spaced off for a second or fifty, because my nose is being smushed by my coach’s finger and he’s screaming, “Carter, you are killin’ me, son!”
    “Sorry, Coach,” I instinctively reply. “I’ve just got to keep practicing, work on my control, and I’m sure I’ll do better.”
    He gets in close to my face and whispers very seriously, “I wasn’t talkin’ about your kickin’. I’m talkin’ to you, right now, about your lack of focus. I’m tryin’ to wake you up from this daydream you live in. ’Cause you’re gonna waste your life in it if you’re not careful. Pull your head out of your ass and realize that you’re lettin’ your team down, and you’re lettin’ yourself down.” He stares at me for a second to make sure I’ve understood what he said, then turns and blows into his whistle for us to huddle up for the second half.
    I don’t cry and I don’t say anything to him. I’m not sure if you’re supposed to talk after someone tells you you’re retarded, letting everyone down, and wasting your life, so I just try to look more serious.
    Andre scored another touchdown after halftime, so I got to kick another extra point, and thank God, I made it. We won the game, and I scored two points. That’s two more points than I’ve ever scored before, but I