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one, Max!” Coach Clemons shouted.
    I started arranging the cups of Gatorade and watched as Max continued running his routes. You’d think I would be jealous, but I wasn’t really. I mean, it would have been nice to get some of his football skills, size, or general good looks, but I was at least happy that he was doing so well. When we were younger, we’d both been just social outcasts, and it was nice that he was becoming popular.
    Part of me wondered if our friendship would survive high school when he was on the team there and had seniors to look cool in front of, but there wasn’t much point worrying about it now. I hoped he would stick with me, but I knew things changed when you got older.
    Just look at Steve. He used to be half-decent.
    I arranged the Gatorades on the table in neat rows that were swiftly decimated on the first break. We actually did have a water boy for games, but it was my job in practice—though, last Saturday our water boy had had plans so I’d had to do it for the game too. I saw my dad watching as I filled cups in my Erie Hills Elephants uniform. When our eyes met, he quickly looked away.
    But today Coach Clemons had different plans. I was sitting on the bench imagining a horde of goblins bursting through the chain-link fence at the end of the yard. I was right in the middle of snatching up a sword and charging, when Coach Clemons stepped in my way like a bulbous clipboard-wielding ogre.
    â€œLeigh,” he said. “Get out there. You look like a toothpick, so I’m assuming you can run. I want you to get down there as gunner and see if you can take down the returner. We’re getting killed on that.”
    I looked up at him, frowning at his square-jawed grimace. “Did I do something wrong?”
    The coach sighed. “Most kids want to play, son. Aren’t you sick of the bench?”
    â€œNo. I quite like it.”
    â€œGo.”
    Sighing, I trotted out onto the field and took up position on the special teams unit. Max saw me and hurried over, looking alarmed. “You’re playing?”
    â€œTheoretically.”
    He patted my arm. “Go get ’em.”
    â€œRight.”
    I looked at the opposing line. Taj was there, eyeing me like I was a piece of beef jerky. Our returner, a superfast, stocky kid named Pete, was waiting at the far end of the field. I just had to run around the line, get down there, and tackle him. No problem. I fidgeted nervously, waiting for the snap.
    I missed the bench already.
    â€œHut!” the punter shouted, and our long snapper tossed it back to him.
    I took the long way around the line, just missing an arm bar from Taj. I really wasn’t very fast, but I wasn’t slow either. I made it around the defensive line and started for Pete, who was already positioning himself to get under the ball. I just ran as fast I could, grinning as I sprinted down the field. This wasn’t so bad. As long as I didn’t think about the actual hitting-anyone part, it was just like going for a run. Which I didn’t do much, but that old lady across the street did, so how bad could it be? I didn’t have time to worry out here. I just had to go hit a kid and try to get the football back. Simple.
    I was ten feet away when Pete caught the ball. He pivoted, heading right and then left. I followed him, closing in fast. I couldn’t really see much through the helmet, so I was just locked on Pete like a bloodhound. He started past me, and I turned to chase after him, still grinning. This was kind of fun.
    I didn’t see the impending collision until it was way too late.
    There was a flash of a big, smiling Taj running at me for a block, and then it felt like I was hit by a truck. Suddenly I was flying through the air and wondering vaguely if Max would tell my family that I sort of played before I died. My dad would be happy. The ground hit just as hard as Taj, and I lay there, staring up at the afternoon