Cracking the Bell Read online

  “I wasn’t at that game,” Dad said. “I’m glad I didn’t see it.”

  “Brutal,” Kirby said. “I remember that. You seemed fine, though.”

  “I really wasn’t fine,” I said. “Yale runs that offense.”

  “What?” Kirby asked.

  “Can we watch some defensive sets in the Lancaster game?” I asked.

  It took Kirby about thirty seconds to pull up defensive sets from the Lancaster game.

  I only had seven tackles, quite a bit by normal standards, but I’ve been averaging eleven all season. Lancaster intentionally ran away from me. That’s okay. It limited the field. I still had a huge impact even if I wasn’t the one doing the tackling. We were lined up in the right position to defend against them every single time. That was me. I lined them up. When Lancaster gained yards, it was only because they are good and fast, not because we’d slipped up or had been fooled.

  They did run some counteraction, meant to catch defensive players off guard. I was never fooled by that action. I kept my head up. I flowed. I took on blockers with both hands, because I kept them in front of me. Nobody during that whole game had a chance to crack back on me and knock me stupid. I was prepared for what was coming. If I played every play like that, there would be no second impact syndrome.

  Then we got to the final defensive play.

  Kirby paused the video. “Sure you want to see this?” Kirby said. “It’s scary.”

  “Would you believe I didn’t actually see it happen?” Dad said. “I was so nervous for that play, I looked down at my shoes.”

  “Let it roll,” I said.

  My teammates did just what I asked. They jammed Dakota Clay, funneled him right at me. And what did I do? I lost my head, acted like a beginner, dropped my eyes, and knocked myself out cold. If I ever did that again against a big dude like Clay, there might be second impact syndrome. There might be permanent brain damage.

  Kirby didn’t cut the video immediately after the play, like he normally does. Instead, you could see me down on the turf, lying completely still while teammates jumped and celebrated. Only Twiggs seemed to notice things weren’t right. He started waving to the sideline while staring down at a lifeless-looking me. And then, boom, I was awake, up off the turf and jogging toward the celebrating sideline.

  “You looked dead for a minute,” Dad said quietly.

  “Seriously,” Kirby said.

  “Dakota Clay is the size of a Division I tight end,” I said. “He’s the size of a college dude. Shit.”

  “Shit?” Dad said.

  “I think we have to go.”

  I thanked Kirby and then we left the school.

  “What are you thinking, Isaiah?” Dad asked as we exited.

  “I’ll tell you in a second,” I said, because I was still turning it all over.

  CHAPTER 37

  OCTOBER 7: 1:07 P.M.

  By the time we got to the car, I’d made my decision. I wasn’t emotional about it because I think I’d spent the week before preparing myself for some kind of reckoning, even though I wasn’t fully cognizant of why.

  Dad climbed in behind the wheel. I climbed into the passenger seat. Before he had a chance to turn the key, I spoke.

  “Since you brought me up here to the school before freshman year, you know, forced me to play football, or else?”

  “Yes. I did force you. Your mother was on board, too, though.”

  “It was a great thing to do for me. I love it. And since then, I haven’t thought for a second what life would be like without football. But I’m going to have to now. I’ve made a decision.”

  “What’s that?” Dad said. “You’re quitting? What about Cornell, Isaiah?”

  “I can’t play college football. Could you see it on that video? When I was small I went low on ball carriers. I’m as big as I’m going to get, probably. Playing at one sixty-five is fine in high school, but I don’t want to be on a college field at one seventy or whatever. I don’t want to have to go low to take players out, because I will. I’ll succeed at the next level, and that means going low against bigger players, dropping my head, probably hearing more witch whistles.”

  Dad nodded. “I’d be afraid, too.”

  “No, I’m not afraid. Not really.”

  “Really?”

  “No. Getting hurt doesn’t scare me. My sister is dead, you know? What do I have to worry about? If she can die, so can I. Fine. Right? We’ll all die. There are pickup trucks and intersections those trucks might blow through all over the world. I could get injured or killed tomorrow for no apparent reason, right?”

  Dad laughed, then said, “I can’t believe I’m laughing at this.”

  “It’s just true. It’s sort of ridiculous but true. And the Yale offense is like Oconomowoc’s. If I go to Cornell and play against Yale, play against the kind of athletes they have, I’ll probably get blindsided. Crushed on some play, because I won’t see it coming. Fine, okay? I don’t care, except, for what? What is the point of getting crushed?”

  “For victory?” Dad asked.

  “Victory for what?” I said.

  Dad thought for a second. “I don’t know, Isaiah. School pride? Or to pay for your scholarship?”

  “Not enough. If I’m going to intentionally put myself in harm’s way, put myself in a place where I will get hurt and maybe get myself killed in the long term, I want it to be for something more.”

  Dad squinted at me. “What are you talking about?”

  “First things first, I need to go to Coach Reynolds and ask him to forgive me.”

  Dad turned the key. “Where does he live?”

  CHAPTER 38

  OCTOBER 7: 1:11 P.M.

  “Oh crap.” When we got to Coach Reynolds’s house, we had to park among a dozen cars jamming his driveway and the street out front.

  “Family reunion or something?” Dad asked. “Still want to talk to him?”

  “Yeah,” I said, but it was extra weird.

  Why? It was Packer Sunday in Wisconsin. Of course. That’s why all the people were there. The game, between Green Bay and Detroit, was the second in a row I’d missed watching. The last time I missed two Packer games in a row was probably . . . never.

  I didn’t want to make a scene, but I also didn’t want to carry these feelings with me any longer without getting them out into the world. During this concussion recovery, I’d reverted to the worst version of myself, to an Isaiah that still apparently resided in me, a sad, angry, broken kid who couldn’t see the ways in which he was actually lucky. I’d acted as if this game I love, and my friends, my teammates, made no difference. What a privilege it was to be invited in by these guys, what a privilege it was to be given football. How could I spit in the face of this privilege? I felt so embarrassed and couldn’t bear the embarrassment any longer.

  I walked to the door. Dad followed me. I rang the bell and Tif, Coach’s wife, answered.

  “Isaiah?” she said. “Are you here for the game?”

  “Oh. Wow. Packers,” Dad said. He turned to me. “We really are messed up.”

  “No,” I said. “I just wanted to talk to Coach, quick. Is that possible?”

  “Well . . . I guess it is halftime. Better go. He won’t miss a play.”

  We followed her into the house. Honestly, I probably would’ve been scared if Dad hadn’t been with me. Probably was a little awkward for him, nerd professor going into a house filled with forty-year-old former jocks. I was really glad he was there.

  Coach was stunned to see me. He had just placed a tortilla chip in his mouth when I climbed the stairs of the split-level into the living room. He didn’t chew the chip. He stood, chip hanging halfway out his mouth. “Isaiah?” he said, crunching the chip. “What’s up?”

  “Can I have a quick word with you?” I asked.

  Dad and I followed him out of a sliding glass door onto a second-level deck. No one was out there, but the grill smoked and the smell of meat slow-cooking permeated the air.

&
nbsp; “What’s going on? Are you quitting?” he asked, face red.

  “Well. No. I’m not going to quit.”

  “You’re not?” Dad asked, surprised. “I thought that was why we came over.”

  “No. I’m not going to quit on this team,” I said. Watching the video made me certain. I can avoid dropping my head or getting blindsided against high school competition. I just have to stay aware, have to remember. I can avoid second impact syndrome.

  Coach gathered himself a little. “Well, that’s good. That’s good news. I’m glad to see you in one piece. Have to admit I was a little confused yesterday when your dad called. . . .” He extended his hand. “Good to see you, Mr. Sadler.” They shook. “When your dad called over and asked if you were babysitting Taylor yesterday. I was like, ‘When the hell would I ask one of my players to babysit my thirteen-year-old girl?’ Then he went on to say that he’d been under the impression you’d done some babysitting, Isaiah, which I found surprising.”

  “I lied,” I said. “Bad.”

  “Yeah, you did, didn’t you?” Coach said.

  I took a big breath. “Long and short story, Coach. I let down the team. I let you down. I’ve acted like an idiot. Mom told me last week that I couldn’t play football anymore, because of concussions, and I reacted like a full-on maniac, got totally lost, which isn’t that surprising if you knew me in middle school. . . .”

  “I didn’t know you, but I sure heard stories.”

  “That’s not how I’ve conducted myself in high school.”

  “So I’m surprised by all this, bud,” Coach said.

  “Here’s the deal. I’m not a hundred percent sure I’ll be able to play anymore. I cracked my bell against Lancaster. It was a bad one. So bad, I’ve decided I’m done with football after this year. No college ball. I don’t want to get rung up like that a bunch of times and find myself suicidal when I’m forty, you know? Because that’s what happens to some guys.”

  “Yeah, I know, I know,” Coach said. “Whenever I forget something, I worry that maybe I got rung up one too many times, myself.”

  “And for what? For a game?”

  “That’s all this is in the end,” Coach said.

  “But I want to try to play. I want to try this week. If I’m feeling okay, I want to finish out the season, because Riley, Twiggs . . .” I had to catch my breath. “Riley and Twiggs have been the best friends a dude like me could ever have. I want to be on the field the last second the two of them play high school ball. I want to be there with them. I want to win state with them.”

  “Well, I like the sound of that,” Coach said.

  “Here’s the deal, though. I have two conditions.”

  “Come on,” Dad said. “I don’t think you’re in any position to put conditions on your coach.”

  “Yeah, odd request, bud,” Coach said.

  “I have to get this out there, so I can play. Hear me out.”

  “Fine. All ears,” Coach said.

  “First, if I show any signs of head trauma this week when I come back, pull me. I don’t trust myself. I don’t think I can believe what I’m thinking if my head gets messed up. I mean, I feel good and I’m pretty sure I can avoid bad contact, but I need someone watching out for me.”

  “You bet. We’ll be watching out. I won’t let you get hurt if I can help it.”

  “Thank you. Second, don’t let me start next week. Make an announcement tomorrow, saying I can’t start, telling everybody I lied and made a mess of shit. Let me talk. Let me apologize for my behavior. Is that okay? Please? I need the guys to know I can’t get away with shit just because I’m good. I want them to know I messed up and I’m sorry.”

  “Really?” Dad said. He swallowed hard. “That’s, uh . . . honorable, I guess is how I’d say it.”

  Coach nodded. He clenched his jaw. “Yeah. Okay. You got it. I appreciate you. I do.”

  “I will play my goddamn ass off, Coach,” I said. “I promise.”

  “My gosh. Watch your mouth. We got kids here,” Coach said.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  Coach smiled. “You’ve always been a little intense, bud.”

  CHAPTER 39

  OCTOBER 7: 1:48 P.M.

  Iggy Eze, the sophomore running back who showed up this year and made us even that much harder to beat, only lived three blocks from Coach Reynolds. I gave Dad the directions and stayed silent during the few breaths it took to get over to Iggy’s house. Dad parked in front of the house and turned off the car. I moved to get out, but he grabbed my arm, stopped me.

  “Hey. I have zero idea of what we’re doing here. Can you please explain it to me before we go inside and meet this family?”

  “You know Iggy,” I said.

  “I’ve seen him play. I don’t know him.”

  “Have you seen his dad?” I asked.

  “He’s the only one wearing full military dress in the stands, so yes, Isaiah, I know who he is.”

  “He’s a recruiter, okay?” I said. “He’s the army recruiter.”

  “What?” Dad said, eyebrows crunching together. “What is this? Are you planning to enlist? I have to say, I think that’s a little bit hasty, given the emotional content of the last couple of days.”

  I exhaled hard and looked down at my hands. What Grandma Gin had said to me during the middle of the night, during the ghosting hour, had hit me so hard.

  “Maybe you should let your grandpa be your mentor? Even though he’s gone, there’s a lot he can teach you. Maybe you should spend some time thinking of that?”

  Grandpa had been a screwup when he was a kid? I never knew that. He’d been the most honorable human being on the planet, that’s all I knew. What if I really could be like him? What if I could use what I’d learned from football as a base for becoming something new and good? What if I could use my fearlessness to help people?

  I looked up, turned to Dad. “I’m not going to enlist right now. I just have some questions. You know, Grandpa John was military, right?”

  “Of course I know. Are you seriously thinking about this?”

  “I just want some information, that’s all.”

  “The military isn’t a joke, Isaiah. It’s dangerous and they have to do terrible things, sometimes. I don’t know that I like this. It’s not a simple answer to what you’re dealing with here.”

  “I’m not looking for the answer. I’m looking for the next step, okay?” I said.

  “Okay?” Dad said, but it sounded like a question.

  We rang the doorbell, and Iggy answered. He looked totally confused.

  “Hi,” he said. “You brought your dad over. That’s cool?”

  “Hey. Listen. I know this is weird, but do you think we could speak to your dad for a couple minutes?”

  “He’s watching the Detroit game.”

  “Detroit? You mean the Packers?” I asked.

  “Not if you’re from Michigan, man,” Iggy said. “It’s the Lions game, then. But they’re up quite a bit. Dad might not be too mad at you.”

  We walked into the foyer. The house looked almost exactly like Coach Reynolds’s, except it was decorated with lots of army memorabilia instead of football junk.

  Sergeant First Class Reginald Eze took us into an office down the hall from the living room. “If my Lions weren’t kicking some Green Bay butt right now, I might not be so happy to see you,” he said, smiling. “Call me Reggie. What can I do you for?”

  “I won’t take you away from the game for long. Just quick questions. Am I too late to get into West Point next year? Like, too late to apply?”

  “West Point?” Dad said. “Seriously?”

  “Yeah. West Point.”

  “Yes. Too late to apply, son. You would’ve needed to meet with a senator last spring.”

  “A US senator?” Dad asked.

  “Right you are. Exactly. A US senator writes potential cadets a letter of recommendation after reviewing their background very seriously.”

  “How seriously?
Like, if I had trouble with the law when I was in eighth grade would that be a problem?” I asked.

  “Well, depends. How bad was the offense? What have you done in the meantime? Have you done any volunteer work?”

  “No. Nothing. I just play football.”

  “Volunteer work would help.”

  “Doesn’t matter, though, right? Isaiah’s too late to apply?” Dad asked.

  “Well, he could take a gap year and put together an app this spring for the following year or enlist and apply for the following year. All roads are not closed.”

  “Huh,” I said. “I could just enlist. Just do the army. Then come back to college after, right? That’s what my grandpa did. He finished his degree after Vietnam.”

  “Sure. You could go that route. But if you’re an officer candidate—and I’m guessing you have some good grades and test scores if West Point occurred to you—there are also ROTC programs that would help fund your education while turning you into a soldier and, eventually, an officer.”

  “What’s ROTC?” I asked.

  “Reserve Officers’ Training Corps. Good schools all over the country have programs. It’s tough. You’re a cadet and a student. You drill at the crack of dawn, take military classes and regular college classes in the day, study your nights away.”

  “That sounds great,” I said. And I meant it. Constant work? No downtime? That was the tower on which my football career had been built. Reggie had pretty much described my life when I am at my happiest.

  “It’s not a commitment to be taken lightly,” Reggie said. “Four years of college, eight years after. Four of those can be in inactive ready reserve while you pursue graduate education or a career, but you’re certainly looking at active duty for many years of your life.”

  “Sounds terrible,” Dad said.

  “No,” I said. “Not at all.”

  “Okay?” Dad asked.

  I nodded at him.

  “What would he get for that commitment?” Dad asked.

  “Tuition-free attendance at a fine school. Money for books. A monthly stipend. It can be a very, very good situation for the right kind of student.”