Read Online Football Champ by Tim Green - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Tim Green
Tags: Ages 8 & Up
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backpedaling, drawing the defenders toward him. The fullback suddenly spun around and held up his hands. Hasselbeck lofted the ball toward him. That’s when, out of nowhere, Seth Halloway appeared, leaping in front of the fullback and snatching the pass.
The crowd howled and Seth hit the ground running. Hasselbeck came for him, but Seth gave his shoulders a twitch, faking one way, then running the other. The Seahawks’ quarterback dove, arms flailing, and fell to the turf. Seth didn’t stop until he reached the end zone. The Georgia Dome crowd went berserk
Although the Falcons’ defense dominated the game from that point on, the offense couldn’t seem to get its rhythm. The first half ended with Atlanta still down, 17–7. The executives below Troy conferred in whispers, checking their computers for statistics. The door beside Troy swung open. He half expected to see Peele, but Mr. Langan appeared, closed the door, and rested hishands on the desk in front of Troy.
“You had some trouble?” Mr. Langan asked.
“I couldn’t see the patterns at the beginning,” Troy said, hoping the owner wasn’t referring to Peele. Troy wanted to focus on the game, not the reporter. If he won the game and put them into first place, it would make what he planned on doing with Peele more acceptable. As Seth always said, winning was the ultimate deodorant. It could turn even the smelliest situation into something sweet.
“You’re on track now, though?” Mr. Langan asked.
“I am,” Troy said.
The door opened behind Mr. Langan. A tray appeared with drinks and food, but it wasn’t Peele carrying it. The female server squeezed past Mr. Langan, offering Troy a plate of hot dogs with a bag of chips and a large chocolate chip cookie. Troy took one of each, along with a bottle of water, before she served the men below.
Mr. Langan descended the small set of steps to talk with his executives, while Troy slathered ketchup on one of the dogs before taking a huge bite. The worry and excitement made him as hungry as Nathan. By the time he’d finished, Mr. Langan had gone and the team had begun to dribble back out into the bench area. Troy saw Jim Mora pick up his headset, so he put his own back on, stuffing a last bit of cookie into his mouth before answering the coach.
Troy saw the patterns after only a few plays, and theFalcons’ defense gave up barely a handful of yards. The Atlanta offense still struggled, though. Finally, late in the fourth quarter, the Falcons completed a long pass to Joe Horn, who lowered his shoulder, blasted through the free safety, then dashed into the end zone to make it 17–14.
With less than three minutes to go, Troy knew the Seahawks would just try to run out the clock. They wouldn’t pass the ball because an incomplete pass would stop the clock. On first down, he predicted a sweep to the left. That’s what Seattle did, and Seth stopped them for a two-yard gain. When Troy saw a second tight end jogging out onto the field and the fullback leaving, he smiled and his heart gave a leap.
“Coach,” he said into his microphone, “call a time-out!”
“We only have one left,” Mora said, “and Coach McFadden wants to save it for the offense.”
“Coach! You have to! I need to talk to Seth!”
The executives below him in the box spun around at the sound of Troy yelling. His faced heated up and he cleared his throat.
“Please,” he said, quieter now. “We can win this, but I have to talk to Seth.”
“’Cause you know the play?” Mora said. “Just tell me.”
“You don’t have a defense for what Seth needs to do,” Troy said. “I have to explain it to him.”
“Troy, if we call a time-out, they could easily change the personnel, and the play you think they’re going to run will change too,” Mora said. “We’ll waste the time-out for nothing.”
“They won’t,” Troy said.
“If I call time-out and you’re wrong,” Mora said, growling, “I don’t know if you’ll get
The crowd howled and Seth hit the ground running. Hasselbeck came for him, but Seth gave his shoulders a twitch, faking one way, then running the other. The Seahawks’ quarterback dove, arms flailing, and fell to the turf. Seth didn’t stop until he reached the end zone. The Georgia Dome crowd went berserk
Although the Falcons’ defense dominated the game from that point on, the offense couldn’t seem to get its rhythm. The first half ended with Atlanta still down, 17–7. The executives below Troy conferred in whispers, checking their computers for statistics. The door beside Troy swung open. He half expected to see Peele, but Mr. Langan appeared, closed the door, and rested hishands on the desk in front of Troy.
“You had some trouble?” Mr. Langan asked.
“I couldn’t see the patterns at the beginning,” Troy said, hoping the owner wasn’t referring to Peele. Troy wanted to focus on the game, not the reporter. If he won the game and put them into first place, it would make what he planned on doing with Peele more acceptable. As Seth always said, winning was the ultimate deodorant. It could turn even the smelliest situation into something sweet.
“You’re on track now, though?” Mr. Langan asked.
“I am,” Troy said.
The door opened behind Mr. Langan. A tray appeared with drinks and food, but it wasn’t Peele carrying it. The female server squeezed past Mr. Langan, offering Troy a plate of hot dogs with a bag of chips and a large chocolate chip cookie. Troy took one of each, along with a bottle of water, before she served the men below.
Mr. Langan descended the small set of steps to talk with his executives, while Troy slathered ketchup on one of the dogs before taking a huge bite. The worry and excitement made him as hungry as Nathan. By the time he’d finished, Mr. Langan had gone and the team had begun to dribble back out into the bench area. Troy saw Jim Mora pick up his headset, so he put his own back on, stuffing a last bit of cookie into his mouth before answering the coach.
Troy saw the patterns after only a few plays, and theFalcons’ defense gave up barely a handful of yards. The Atlanta offense still struggled, though. Finally, late in the fourth quarter, the Falcons completed a long pass to Joe Horn, who lowered his shoulder, blasted through the free safety, then dashed into the end zone to make it 17–14.
With less than three minutes to go, Troy knew the Seahawks would just try to run out the clock. They wouldn’t pass the ball because an incomplete pass would stop the clock. On first down, he predicted a sweep to the left. That’s what Seattle did, and Seth stopped them for a two-yard gain. When Troy saw a second tight end jogging out onto the field and the fullback leaving, he smiled and his heart gave a leap.
“Coach,” he said into his microphone, “call a time-out!”
“We only have one left,” Mora said, “and Coach McFadden wants to save it for the offense.”
“Coach! You have to! I need to talk to Seth!”
The executives below him in the box spun around at the sound of Troy yelling. His faced heated up and he cleared his throat.
“Please,” he said, quieter now. “We can win this, but I have to talk to Seth.”
“’Cause you know the play?” Mora said. “Just tell me.”
“You don’t have a defense for what Seth needs to do,” Troy said. “I have to explain it to him.”
“Troy, if we call a time-out, they could easily change the personnel, and the play you think they’re going to run will change too,” Mora said. “We’ll waste the time-out for nothing.”
“They won’t,” Troy said.
“If I call time-out and you’re wrong,” Mora said, growling, “I don’t know if you’ll get
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