Control Freak Page 3

  It drove Coach Earwax right out of his skull.

  Poor Carlos. He got mowed down over and over again, the entire scrimmage.

  Meanwhile, Joey had signed up to play running back. I could tell that Coach Earwax was excited about Joey because he knew from baseball that he was quick as a flea.

  Coach was eager to see what would happen when Joey got his hands on a football.

  On his very first run, Joey took the handoff from Jimmy and—ka-zoom! He was gone.

  Joey bolted through the defense before they could even see him, and then he beat cheeks down the sideline. Unfortunately, before Joey reached the end zone, his tiny hands lost control of the football, and he fumbled it out-of-bounds.

  Every time Joey would get the ball, he’d fumble it away, which is a common ailment among all tiny-handed running backs.

  Coach scribbled a note on his top-secret clipboard.

  Becky and I set up in front of a net on the sidelines to practice placekicks. Becky used a kicking tee for kickoffs, but she needed an actual human to hold the ball upright for field goals and extra points. That was my job.

  Mr. Joseph had to teach me how to hold the ball. It was really embarrassing because I was a complete rookie and he had to start with the basics.

  The very first time I held the ball for a kick, I used the wrong hand to hold the tip of the ball, which is a good way to get your hand kicked.

  Then I leaned my head way out over the ball, which is a good way to get your head kicked.

  Finally, I knelt with the wrong leg forward, which is a good way to get kicked right in the shin.

  Meanwhile, Jimmy Jimerino kept looking over at us between snaps on offense.

  I’m pretty sure he wasn’t just checking to see if he could rely on Becky and me for accurate field goals and extra points.

  I think he was jealous.

  CHAPTER 9

  Our first game of the season was at home against what we thought would be a doormat team.

  Nike Preparatory Academy is a private school for students from kindergarten through twelfth grade. The school has excellent academics and one very wealthy donor who pumps a ton of money into the school. The Nike Prep team nickname is the Fighting Platypuses, which sounds goofy but is actually a pretty gnarly team mascot.

  In case you don’t know, a platypus looks like a cross between a duck and a beaver. It is a semi-aquatic mammal with a duck-like bill, a beaver-like tail, and webbed feet with—here’s the best part—venomous spurs!

  In the spring, Spiro had clobbered Nike Prep’s crummy baseball team and won by about a hundred to zip, so we assumed they would also have a crummy football team.

  Wrongity, wrong, wrong.

  The Platypuses’ team bus pulled into the parking lot next to the Spiro football field. It was not an ordinary yellow school bus.

  The Nike Prep bus was one of those cushy celebrity coaches that famous rock bands cruise around in with groupies and all-you-can-eat buffets. It had dark privacy glass and a flashy Fighting Platypuses logo on the side.

  The players filed off the bus, led by a Nike Prep official who I remembered from the baseball game. Jimmy Jimerino had given him the nickname “Jeeves” because he looked like a butler.

  Jeeves was directing the players to the visitors’ locker room and encouraging them with what apparently was their team slogan.

  The Platypuses’ uniforms were green and yellow with flashy designs on the shoulder pads that looked like venomous spurs. The helmets were shiny silver—so shiny you could see your reflection.

  During pregame warm-ups, the Nike Prep players didn’t jog or stretch. They marched like robots around the football field chanting, “Platypuses! Platypuses! Platypuses!”

  It’s a Nike Prep ritual, both strange and awesome at the same time.

  Our first hint that this was no doormat team came during the opening kickoff. We won the coin toss, and Coach Earwax chose to receive.

  Joey, Carlos, and I were on the bench, as usual. Actually, we weren’t “on” the bench.

  Football players rarely actually sit on the bench. Football is a gutsy sport, so players are expected to stand on the sideline for the entire game unless they get hurt or come down with a nasty stomach virus.

  Except for Carlos. He almost always sits, even though he’s not hurt or sick to his stomach.

  Behind the bench, the Spiro fans sat comfortably in the bleachers and scarfed delicious concession food. Joey began to fidget because his central nervous system had detected a nearby sugary churro.

  Across the field, the visitors’ bleachers were packed with the Platypuses fans who were all dressed in yellow and green. Our cheering section tried to engage them in that ancient “we’ve got spirit” cheer battle, but the Nike Prep fans blew it off.

  They had their own cheer.

  The Platypuses kicker ran onto the field and set the football on a tee. He wasn’t a very big kid, but his legs were really thick.

  Jimmy Jimerino and his posse pointed at him and cackled like hyenas because the kicker was barefoot!

  I already told you that Joey is psychic, but what I didn’t tell you is that he has no control over his predictions. They just sort of pop up out of nowhere. And that’s what happened right before the Platypuses kicker booted the football.

  The barefoot kicker took three approach steps, and then he smacked the football, soccer-style, so hard the sound echoed in the stadium like one of Carlos’s epic burps.

  Skinny Dennis was standing at the ten-yard line waiting to return the kickoff, but he never got a chance to catch it and run it back.

  The football sailed over Skinny Dennis and the end zone and flew out of the stadium. It landed a block away on the roof of a police cruiser on Seventh Avenue.

  It was a monster kick.

  Jimmy and his posse stopped laughing. Coach Earwax stopped digging wax out of his ear with his car keys. The Spiro boosters went silent, except for one girl who didn’t realize everyone had stopped cheering.

  We immediately nicknamed the barefoot kicker “Thunderfoot.”

  He jogged back to the Nike Prep sideline and sat down, as if it was no big deal that he’d just kicked a football with his bare foot out of the stadium and onto the roof of a police cruiser on Seventh Avenue.

  The other Platypuses players were not extraordinary athletes like Thunderfoot, but they made up for it with what Coach Earwax called “smarts.”

  For example, the Platypuses quarterback didn’t have a strong arm like Jimmy Jimerino, but he could “read” the defense and throw short, quick passes to the receivers, who were always in the right spot to catch the ball.

  The Platypuses linebackers weren’t very big or fast, but they could “read” the offense and figure out ahead of time where the running back was going to go, and then they’d be waiting there to shove his face into the grass.

  And Nike Prep players lived up to their motto: “Think positive!” Even the poor Platypuses lineman who had to face off against Mosi Humuhumunukunukuapua’a.

  He couldn’t.

  But at least he was thinking positive!

  CHAPTER 10

  Jimmy Jimerino played brilliantly in the game against Nike Prep. He was always in control at quarterback and doing the right thing, but his Spiro teammates let him down.

  Tommy Hanks is Jimmy’s favorite receiver. He is not as fast as Joey, but he’s still a speedy guy. And normally he has “good hands,” which means the skin on his palms and fingers is like superglue.

  But in the game against Nike Prep, Tommy dropped every pass that Jimmy threw to him.

  And Kevin Bruce, our first-string running back, could not get through the Platypuses’ defensive line. Off left guard. Off right tackle. Straight up the gut.

  Zero yardage. Kevin got slammed every time at the line of scrimmage by the Platypuses defense.

  Smarts! Think positive!

  At one point, Coach Earwax got so frustrated and desperate, he put Joey in at running back.

  Joey
took the handoff from Jimmy and shot like a spit wad through the Platypuses defense.

  But fumble-itis struck again at the two-yard line and Joey lost control of the football. A Platypuses player scooped up the ball and ran all the way downfield for a touchdown.

  After halftime, Becky kicked off from the tee, but otherwise she and I never stepped foot onto the field because there was no opportunity to kick an extra point or a field goal.

  Until the final second of the game.

  All game long, I’d kept thinking to myself: Should I or shouldn’t I?

  Should I try to help my team with the Magic N64, or would that be cheating?

  With just ten seconds remaining in the game, I decided to pull the controller out of my equipment bag.

  We had the ball on our own twenty-yard line. Jimmy took the snap and handed it off to Kevin Bruce.

  It was our last chance to score and at least save us from the humiliation of a goose egg on the scoreboard.

  I pushed the red Start button on the Magic N64 and worked the joystick.

  Kevin dodged left. He cut right. He broke through the Platypuses’ defense and streaked down the field. It looked like he would score a touchdown, but at the last second, a Nike Prep defender dove at Kevin’s feet. Kevin tripped and stumbled out of bounds at the five-yard line.

  Kevin had to be helped off the field because when he tripped out of bounds he smacked into the Mighty Plumbers mascot. Jessica Whitehead, the school genius, was inside the mascot suit. She wasn’t hurt, but it looked like Kevin might have broken his wrist.

  Mr. Joseph helped Kevin into his filthy pickup truck and drove him to the emergency room.

  There was only one second left on the game clock.

  Coach Earwax signaled for a field-goal attempt. I stashed the Magic N64 back in my bag and ran onto the field.

  Becky and I set up exactly like Mr. Joseph had coached us in practice. Becky was focused and confident. I was a little nervous and not so focused.

  I glanced up into the bleachers. Because it was such a blowout, there were only a few Spiro fans remaining.

  Our guys were set up on the line, and I started the count. It was like being a quarterback who is in total control of ten other players. They wouldn’t move until I said they could move.

  Hike!

  I took the snap and set the football in the proper upright position.

  Becky took three approach steps and booted the ball straight through the uprights!

  I didn’t get my hand kicked. I didn’t get my head kicked. And I didn’t get kicked in the shinbone. (Maybe that would have been okay, according to Billionaire Bill.)

  Becky had scored the only Mighty Plumbers points in the game.

  Becky and I bumped fists and slapped high fives. Jimmy Jimerino glared at me.

  Spiro had lost to Nike Prep by about a hundred to three, but there was hope for the season thanks to the Magic N64.

  CHAPTER 11

  Our next football practice after we got creamed by Nike Prep was like another Agony Day.

  Okay, it wasn’t that bad. But we did get punished for our pathetic performance.

  Coach Earwax believed that we’d lost the game because the other team was in “superior physical condition.”

  So practice was two hours of running and push-ups and sit-ups, a five-minute water break, then more running and push-ups and sit-ups. It was brutal.

  Halfway through practice, Ricky Schnauzer got fed up and walked off the field. He changed back into his khakis and turtleneck sweater and told Coach Earwax that he was volunteering to be the team equipment manager.

  I actually admired Ricky. It’s not easy to say “I’m outta here” right in front of the entire team. But “Agony Day, the Sequel” wasn’t exactly frying Ricky’s burger, so he took control and did something about it.

  We closed out practice with ten trips up and down the Hill.

  Carlos showed some improvement from the first Agony Day. He crawled uphill and then rolled downhill four and a half times before Coach Earwax finally gave up and blew the whistle for the end of practice.

  As we staggered off the field toward the locker rooms, Coach Earwax gave Becky the only compliment from the Nike Prep disaster.

  It’s not very wordy, but “atta babe” is the ultimate compliment from a coach.

  CHAPTER 12

  When I got home from practice, I couldn’t stop thinking about the Magic N64.

  Was it cheating to use magic in a football game?

  I didn’t want to cheat because the Power Structure had drilled it into my brain, practically from the day I was born, that cheating is wrong.

  Mom says people who cheat are just trying to avoid hard work. And Dad would never cheat because he was a hotshot athlete before his knees got scrambled, so he never needed extra help.

  I decided I’d ask my ex–hotshot athlete dad if it’s against the rules in football to use a magic video game device to control the movements of human players.

  But before I could track down Dad, a disturbance erupted between two of my “family members.”

  I don’t have any brothers or sisters, but I do have four pets that can be just as annoying as human siblings.

  My favorite pet is Fido, a boa constrictor that will eventually grow to be ten feet long. That’s big enough to swallow a poodle. For now, he can only stretch his jaws open wide enough to swallow an average-size rat.

  I keep Fido under control with some basic commands: Sit up. Fetch. Roll over. Come. Stay.

  He can do pretty much anything that doesn’t require arms or legs. Fido is the coolest pet in the entire universe, but he has a bad habit of getting out of his cage and roaming the house.

  I’ve also got a bug-eyed goldfish named Zoner. He has a rare disorder that causes him to fall asleep without warning and go belly-up in his tank.

  But the family disturbance involved my other two pets, Cleo and Frenchy.

  Cleo is a duck that thinks she’s a dog. Why? I don’t know. You’d have to ask Cleo. She’s smarter than a ninth grader and lives a life of leisure in our backyard pond.

  Cleo barks whenever anyone rings our doorbell and howls when she hears sirens. And Cleo is madly in love with Frenchy.

  Frenchy is a poodle that’s just about the right size for a ten-foot boa constrictor to swallow.

  He is the most demented poodle in the universe, and I’m not even exaggerating. Frenchy lives under my bed and growls and barks at any sound or movement. He only comes out from under the bed when it’s absolutely necessary to “do his business.”

  On this particular night, I heard what sounded like a dogfight in the backyard, so I went to check it out.

  It looked like Cleo wanted to kiss Frenchy—even though ducks don’t have lips—but Frenchy wasn’t in the mood.

  Cleo can be really controlling. She calls the shots in the relationship with Frenchy, but he doesn’t like to be told what to do. And I don’t think Frenchy even wants to be in a relationship with a duck.

  I stepped in between the bickering couple like a referee and broke up the quarrel. I told Cleo to go into the pond and chill out. Then I told Frenchy to get back under my bed.

  Frenchy sprinted full speed into the house.

  When I returned to my bedroom, Frenchy was not under the bed. He was on his hind legs, drooling and sniffing the Magic N64, which I had left on my nightstand.

  When he saw me, Frenchy immediately dove under the bed. Poodles are a very sneaky breed of dog that does not like to get caught snooping around.

  Just for the heck of it, I pointed the controller at Frenchy and worked the buttons. I wanted to see if I could move him out from under the bed against his will, but it didn’t work.

  The Magic N64 apparently has no power over demented poodles.

  I put the controller on top of my dresser where Frenchy could not drool all over it. Then I went to ask my dad if using magic is against the Rules of Football.

  CHAPTER 13

  Dad was in the family ro
om practicing his putts on the carpet by tapping golf balls into a plastic cup. It wasn’t going well. He had missed about a dozen putts, and I could tell that he was losing control of his emotions. He cocked his arm and was about to throw his putter out the window, so I did that thing where you clear your throat before speaking up.

  Dad regained control of his golf tantrum and acted as if he was just … er … stretching.

  I didn’t want to totally spill the beans about the Magic N64, so I asked Dad in a vague and roundabout way if it was cheating to use magic in the game of football.

  Dad couldn’t think of a specific rule against using magic in the game of football.

  Then he missed another easy putt and I quickly left before a window got shattered.

  My dad usually is a reliable source of valuable wisdom, especially when it deals with sports. But this time he seemed a little distracted, so I decided to seek a second opinion from another adult role model.

  I went to Goodfellow Stadium where the doormat Goons were getting slaughtered by the Los Angeles Rams by about a hundred to zip.

  Billionaire Bill was patrolling the bleachers, blasting his air horn up at the pigeons roosting in the rafters. (The air horn fit right in with the usual noisy racket in the bleachers, so none of the spectators even noticed that they were being saved from a gross fate.)

  I spilled the beans to Bill about the magic controller. He looked at me as if I was gonzo. Crazy. Flip City.

  But then Bill repeated the same mysterious words he uttered when I first got the N64:

  “Control your own life.”

  I still wasn’t exactly sure what he meant. But I was pretty sure that if I added up both partial answers I now had full approval from two of my favorite adult role models to use the Magic N64 during football games.

  That was a huge relief because I wasn’t looking forward to suffering guilt pains for my entire life and then confessing at the last second on my deathbed.

  CHAPTER 14