Control Freak Read online

  The device looked like it had exploded. Buttons were popped out. The inner guts of the controller were exposed. Worst of all, the crucial thumb joystick had broken off.

  Joey explained that he’d worked the Magic N64 just as I’d instructed. But his tiny hands move at the same speed as his feet when he runs, so it was way too much for even athletic tape to withstand.

  I asked Joey when, exactly, the Magic N64 had exploded—before or after I ran for the touchdown?

  “Before.”

  Derp!

  I had scored a touchdown. On my own. With no help from the “magic” video game controller. Apparently, it was all in my imagination, which explained Billionaire Bill’s mysterious advice when he gave me the antique device:

  “Control your own life.”

  Nike Prep rallied behind their motto “Think positive!” and drove the ball all the way down to the twenty-yard line.

  Three times the Platypuses tried to run the football into the end zone, and three times they were stopped by Mosi Humuhumunukunukuapua’a.

  On every play, Mosi flattened the Nike Prep running back at the line of scrimmage.

  The Platypuses’ only choice was to kick a field goal. The player that we had nicknamed Thunderfoot booted the football, barefoot, out of the stadium.

  Nike Prep had a three-point lead with only a minute left in the championship game.

  The Mighty Plumbers had sixty seconds to move the football downfield and either score a touchdown to win the game or kick a field goal to tie the score.

  The Nike Prep defense had “smarts.” They’d figured out that we no longer had an offense with a balanced attack. When Jimmy injured his wrist, our passing game was dead. So the Platypuses focused on our running game.

  Not Jimmy. Not Becky.

  On first down, I took the handoff from Jimmy and closed my eyes (hey, it worked before). I ran straight ahead, right into a pack of Nike Prep linebackers. No gain. They anticipated the play and were waiting to smash my face into the grass.

  I got up and was surprised—no pain! Okay, maybe a little. Like when you accidentally walk headfirst into a tree because you’re distracted by texting.

  It was second down. Coach Earwax sent in a play called “Student Body Right.”

  Jimmy took the snap and pitched the football to me. I took off running toward the right sideline as our entire offensive line ran right to block for me.

  When a Student Body Right works to perfection, a running back can turn the corner and sprint all the way down the sideline for a touchdown.

  But that didn’t happen.

  I got smothered. Some more pain, but, once again, no gain.

  The next play was “Student Body Left.” Same result. Tacklers were waiting. Zero gain. And greater pain.

  We were eighty yards away from the end zone. There was no hope for a field goal to tie the game. Maybe Thunderfoot could have made it from that distance, but it was too far for Becky. So on fourth down, with only a few seconds left on the clock, Coach Earwax sent in the final play.

  Student Body Right.

  Derp!

  Everyone in our huddle was disappointed. It was our last chance to win the Big Game and that play was a total dud.

  The old Jimmy—the “me-first” Jimmy—would have ignored Coach’s play and tried to win the game all by himself. But the new Jimmy wanted to follow Coach’s orders. We tried to talk him into changing the play, but Jimmy wouldn’t budge.

  Jimmy was the one who had peer-group pressured me into joining the football team when all I wanted to do was sit in the bleachers and eat Eskimo Pies. This time, I wasn’t going to let him decide my fate.

  I had to take control.

  CHAPTER 28

  The Mighty Plumbers broke out of the huddle, but before we took our positions, I pulled Becky aside and whispered in her ear. She smiled Nature’s Near-Perfect Smile.

  I set up next to Jimmy and looked across the line of scrimmage. The Platypuses defenders all had their eyes on me.

  Jimmy took the snap. He turned and pitched me the football. Our entire offensive line ran to the right to block for me. I followed the blockers all the way to the right sideline.

  Then I slammed on the brakes.

  Instead of trying to turn the corner (where the Platypuses defenders would be waiting), I stopped and turned back toward the other side of the field. I spotted Becky.

  There were no Platypuses anywhere near Becky because they had all chased me to the right side of the field.

  I’m good at throwing a baseball, and I can pass a basketball better than most people my age. But my hand isn’t big enough to get a proper grip to throw a football in a spiral.

  So when I turned and threw a pass to the opposite side of the field, the football floated in a slow arc and wobbled like one of Carlos’s punts.

  It didn’t matter. The football reached its target.

  Becky caught the pass and sprinted eighty yards into the end zone without even being touched by a Nike Prep defender. The game was over.

  We had fooled a team with “smarts” on a razzle-dazzle play that I totally made up in the huddle!

  Spiro T. Agnew Middle School had won its first football championship since the ancient 1990s during the Beanie Babies craze.

  The Platypuses players and fans in Phil Day Stadium were stunned. But they quickly got over the shock of losing the Big Game and regained their upbeat and positive outlook on life.

  The Mighty Plumbers fans celebrated the championship.

  My mom and dad hugged each other and jumped up and down. I was afraid Mom was going to leap over the wall and run out onto the field again, but I’m pretty sure Dad persuaded her to be cool until we got home.

  All the Mighty Plumbers players rushed into the end zone to celebrate. Becky was swarmed and congratulated by every player on the team.

  Except one.

  Carlos was still standing alone on the sideline. He and Jessica Whitehead—aka the Mighty Plumbers mascot—were apparently no longer “a thing.”

  Carlos stared forlornly across the field at the Platypuses’ sideline, where the Mighty Plumbers mascot and the Platypuses mascot were sharing a moment.

  I worked my way through the crowd of players surrounding Becky. She spotted me and practically mowed down several of our biggest players to reach me.

  Jimmy Jimerino was watching, but I didn’t care—and I don’t think Becky cared, either.

  Becky and I slapped hands, bumped fists, and gave each other a huge hug. Then she smacked her palm on top of my helmet and flashed Nature’s Near-Perfect Smile.

  “That was brilliant!”

  In the locker room, Coach Earwax pulled me aside.

  He gave me a stern look. I expected him to chew me out for seizing control of the offense without his permission.

  “Don’t you ever do that again.” Then he winked and said, “Atta babe, Steve!”

  While our team was getting on the bus for the ride home, Becky apologized for “accidentally” kicking me in the shin when I sort of flirted with the Nike Prep cheerleader.

  I told her it was no big deal, and that it didn’t really hurt all that much, which was a total lie.

  I wasn’t sorry that she kicked me in the shin, even though it is one of the most sensitive bones in the entire body.

  Becky and I sat next to each other in the front of the bus across the aisle from Joey Linguini and Coach Earwax, who yanked hairs out of his nostrils all the way back to Spiro T. Agnew Middle School.

  CHAPTER 29

  The mystery of the Magic N64 had been solved.

  It was not a device with some kind of powerful mojo that made heroes out of running backs, but with a painful price. That was all either a figment of my imagination or just some crazy coincidence.

  There was only one thing left to do—return the antique N64 to its original owner.

  So I patched up the controller with athletic tape. Then Joey, Carlos, Becky, and I walked to Goodfellow Stadium and entered in the usu
al way—by helping the concessions staff unload boxes in exchange for free passes and a snack of our choice.

  Joey picked a churro. Carlos chose salted peanuts. And Becky and I both selected our favorite snack in the entire universe: Eskimo Pie!

  The Goodfellow Goons were playing the Dallas Cowboys, and they were getting slaughtered, as usual. I was tempted to use the N64 one last time to help out the pathetic Goons, but I knew the antique controller was basically weak and useless.

  We found Billionaire Bill patrolling the bleachers with his air horn, blasting away at the pigeons in the rafters.

  I showed Bill the mangled N64 that was held together by athletic tape.

  “You can have it back.”

  I also offered him my slightly melted Eskimo Pie, because I felt bad about ruining his antique video game controller.

  Billionaire Bill is no dummy. He knows a good deal when he sees it. He took back the N64 and accepted my delicious Eskimo Pie without hesitation.

  Joey, Carlos, Becky, and I left him to his pigeon duties. As we walked away, I turned and looked back.

  Bill was fiddling with the N64’s buttons and joystick.

  At that very moment, down on the football field, the Goodfellow Goons running back took a handoff from the quarterback. He juked left. He dodged right. Then the running back sprinted ninety yards for a touchdown.

  And I’m not even making that up!

  Billionaire Bill turned toward me. He had a smudge of Eskimo Pie on his cheek that my mom would have wiped off with her germy spit.

  Bill gave me a wink and a sly smile. Then he broke into a wild and crazy touchdown dance.

  EPILOGUE

  So I wasn’t exactly the hotshot athlete hero of the Big Game, but I did take control of my life and make the most of an opportunity—and without the help of the mysterious N64.

  Anyway, I don’t even want to be a hotshot athlete hero. I’m okay with sitting on the pine.

  I’m probably better at it than anyone else my age in the entire universe. End of the bench. Middle of the bench. Doesn’t matter.

  I’m King of the Bench!

  No brag. It’s just a fact.

  BACK AD

  CREDITS

  Cover art © 2017 by Steve Moore

  Cover design by Katie Klimowicz

  COPYRIGHT

  KING OF THE BENCH: CONTROL FREAK. Copyright © 2017 by Steve Moore. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the nonexclusive, nontransferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse-engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.

  www.harpercollinschildrens.com

  *

  ISBN 978-0-06-220332-8

  EPub Edition © August 2017 ISBN 9780062203335

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