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cushion my fall.
    Suddenly I jerk awake. I’m shaking. A dream, just a dream, but the images are so clear. I go to the bathroom and look in the mirror. My eyes are bright and wide, as if I’ve seen something bad.
    Back in bed, I can’t sleep. I roll and turn, and each time I close my eyes, I see green shapes with white dots shifting and spreading. They look like cells under a microscope and then form a word in block letters: C ANCER . Coach Sepolski said he’s going to beat it. As if cancer were our next opponent. As if he can call new plays, make the right adjustments, and score more points.
    â€œOur Father, who art in heaven.” I pray for Coach, who’s been like a father to us. The repetition helps ease my anxiety.
    Then I remember Stahl’s head coach. That’s a real nightmare.

chapter fifteen
    On Wednesday, there’s a note on the locker-room door: F OOTBALL P LAYERS —R EPORT TO THE G YM I MMEDIATELY !
    â€œFile in, men. Take a seat on the bleachers.” Coach Stahl wears a gray shirt marked H EAD C OACH . Behind him is a huge blue sign: S ECOND P LACE I S F IRST L OSER .
    â€œI don’t want any of you thinking about second place.” Stahl points to the sign.
    I’m confused. I haven’t been thinking about second place. I’ve had other things on my mind, like Coach Sepolski having cancer.
    â€œSecond place…” Stahl holds the pause for emphasis. “…is first loser. We’re not in the business of being first losers.”
    What’s he on? We’re not in business. We’re in school. Then I remember Dad’s warning about respecting Stahl.
    â€œMen.” Stahl scans the bleachers looking at each of us. “You are about to begin the most important six weeks of your lives.”
    I watch faces. Zach’s listening closely. So are most of the guys. I hope this isn’t the most important six weeks of my life.
    â€œThat’s right, men.” I can tell already how much Stahl likes calling us men. “Because the next six weeks will determine whether you’re champions or first losers. Think about it, men. You decide.”
    I bite the inside of my cheek. Coach Sepolski never talked to us like this. Stahl paces with his hands behind his back like he’s a general addressing soldiers. “That’s right, men. It’s up to you. Let’s see a show of hands: How many of you think of yourselves as first losers?”
    I’m tempted to raise my hand. After Kyra Richman, I’ve got as much reason as anyone.
    â€œNow, who wants to be a champion?”
    Everybody raises their hands. Some of the sophomores raise two, but that’s not enough for Stahl.
    â€œI asked you a question. I want an answer. Who wants to be a champion?”
    â€œI do,” some of the linemen bellow.
    â€œI can’t hear you. Who wants to be a champion?”
    â€œI do,” everybody yells. Everybody but me.
    At practice, everything’s different. “We’re going to play power football, smashmouth football. You need to be in shape for that. Let’s have fifty sprints.” With Sepolski we used to do ten. “Don’t give up. Don’t give up.” Stahl looks at me. I keep my head down and run.
    We do endless laps of “darkness.” Every time Stahl blows the whistle, we fall to the ground, do a push-up, and jump back up. He blows the whistle again and again. “I have a high tolerance for other people’s pain,” he yells. “You need to be bigger, stronger, faster. You’ve got two choices: Become men or quit.”
    I’m totally wrung out. I’m bending over with my hands on my knees. Zach’s grinning. He’s holding up better than anybody. I just want to make it without puking.
    â€œOne hundred push-ups,” Stahl shouts. “Make sure your chest touches the ground.” Coach Sepolski seems light-years away. This is Stahl’s team