Read Online SYLO (THE SYLO CHRONICLES) by D.J. MacHale - Free Book Online
Authors: D.J. MacHale
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“Okay. I buy that. So do me a favor.”
“What?”
“Start taking care of the little things.”
Arguing with Quinn made my head hurt. He had turned a simple debate about whether or not I should compete for Olivia into aphilosophical speech about our futures. He was thinking years ahead while all I wanted was to get through the day.
I didn’t quit the team, and not because Quinn had shamed me out of it. The idea of facing the coach to tell him I was quitting was actually more daunting than getting pounded in practice. Maybe Quinn was right. I was even afraid of failing…at failing.
Practice was marginally better because I knew what to expect. I felt as though I was finally earning some respect from the other guys if only because I didn’t whine about getting hammered on every play. By Wednesday we stopped hitting and concentrated more on timing and getting me to execute the plays without thinking. By Thursday I was actually starting to have some fun. We wore our game uniforms and basically ran through plays at half speed. There was a moment where I stood back, took a breath, and thought about how cool it was that I was going to play a major role in the spectacle that was Friday night football.
Then a harsh reality hit: I was going to play a major role in the spectacle that was Friday night football. Meaning, we had a game. If my own team wanted to take me apart, I couldn’t imagine what would happen playing against guys who actually had a reason to want to destroy me.
We were playing Greely High in Cumberland on the mainland. Living on an island made it a challenge to travel to away games. As soon as school got out, we boarded a bus and the bus boarded the ferry. I’d made the crossing a hundred times and never felt so seasick. It probably had more to do with nerves than ocean swells but either way, I felt like ass. The bus ride to Cumberland took another half hour.
The best thing about that night was being introduced before the game with the starting offense.
“At tailback…number fifteen…Tucker Pierce,” came the announcement and I ran through the gauntlet of cheerleaders and onto the field. Only a handful of fans from Arbortown had made the trip but it didn’t matter. To me it was as good as running onto the field at Gillette Stadium.
There was a moment of silence for Marty, after which a couple of guys came up to me, pounded my shoulder pads, and said things like, “We’re with you, Rook” and “Let’s get ’em.” I was over the moon. These were my teammates. We were in this together.
Kent grabbed my face mask, pulled it close to his, and hissed, “Don’t screw up.”
Not exactly a “win this one for the Gipper” speech but I didn’t let it get to me. This was football and it was game time. The ref blew his whistle, the ball was kicked to us, and we returned it to the twenty-five. The impossible then became reality as I trotted out onto the field and into my first official huddle.
And that was pretty much where the fun ended.
The game was brutal. The Greely guys were like hungry sharks and I was bloody meat. It was much faster than in practice and I was one step too slow—not good for a guy who was carrying the ball. Fortunately we had a solid defense, so the game wasn’t a blowout, but I was fairly useless. When all was said and done my stats showed fifteen yards gained on twelve carries with one fumble lost and two dropped passes. We lost by ten points. Brutal.
When the game ended, I jogged off the field trying not to look as beaten as I felt. I glanced into the stands to see my parents cheeringgamely. I didn’t know if I should be grateful for the support, or embarrassed that they were there.
Behind them was another fan who stood out from the crowd because he wasn’t cheering. Mr. Feit had come to the game. Seeing him made me stop short. He gave me a sympathetic smile and a shrug as if to say, “Hey, don’t blame me.”
I briefly imagined how differently the game might
“What?”
“Start taking care of the little things.”
Arguing with Quinn made my head hurt. He had turned a simple debate about whether or not I should compete for Olivia into aphilosophical speech about our futures. He was thinking years ahead while all I wanted was to get through the day.
I didn’t quit the team, and not because Quinn had shamed me out of it. The idea of facing the coach to tell him I was quitting was actually more daunting than getting pounded in practice. Maybe Quinn was right. I was even afraid of failing…at failing.
Practice was marginally better because I knew what to expect. I felt as though I was finally earning some respect from the other guys if only because I didn’t whine about getting hammered on every play. By Wednesday we stopped hitting and concentrated more on timing and getting me to execute the plays without thinking. By Thursday I was actually starting to have some fun. We wore our game uniforms and basically ran through plays at half speed. There was a moment where I stood back, took a breath, and thought about how cool it was that I was going to play a major role in the spectacle that was Friday night football.
Then a harsh reality hit: I was going to play a major role in the spectacle that was Friday night football. Meaning, we had a game. If my own team wanted to take me apart, I couldn’t imagine what would happen playing against guys who actually had a reason to want to destroy me.
We were playing Greely High in Cumberland on the mainland. Living on an island made it a challenge to travel to away games. As soon as school got out, we boarded a bus and the bus boarded the ferry. I’d made the crossing a hundred times and never felt so seasick. It probably had more to do with nerves than ocean swells but either way, I felt like ass. The bus ride to Cumberland took another half hour.
The best thing about that night was being introduced before the game with the starting offense.
“At tailback…number fifteen…Tucker Pierce,” came the announcement and I ran through the gauntlet of cheerleaders and onto the field. Only a handful of fans from Arbortown had made the trip but it didn’t matter. To me it was as good as running onto the field at Gillette Stadium.
There was a moment of silence for Marty, after which a couple of guys came up to me, pounded my shoulder pads, and said things like, “We’re with you, Rook” and “Let’s get ’em.” I was over the moon. These were my teammates. We were in this together.
Kent grabbed my face mask, pulled it close to his, and hissed, “Don’t screw up.”
Not exactly a “win this one for the Gipper” speech but I didn’t let it get to me. This was football and it was game time. The ref blew his whistle, the ball was kicked to us, and we returned it to the twenty-five. The impossible then became reality as I trotted out onto the field and into my first official huddle.
And that was pretty much where the fun ended.
The game was brutal. The Greely guys were like hungry sharks and I was bloody meat. It was much faster than in practice and I was one step too slow—not good for a guy who was carrying the ball. Fortunately we had a solid defense, so the game wasn’t a blowout, but I was fairly useless. When all was said and done my stats showed fifteen yards gained on twelve carries with one fumble lost and two dropped passes. We lost by ten points. Brutal.
When the game ended, I jogged off the field trying not to look as beaten as I felt. I glanced into the stands to see my parents cheeringgamely. I didn’t know if I should be grateful for the support, or embarrassed that they were there.
Behind them was another fan who stood out from the crowd because he wasn’t cheering. Mr. Feit had come to the game. Seeing him made me stop short. He gave me a sympathetic smile and a shrug as if to say, “Hey, don’t blame me.”
I briefly imagined how differently the game might
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