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mean, Coach.”
    Coach grinned and slapped a hand on the table, jarring the silverware. “Then it’s settled. Tomorrow after school I’ll get you geared up and you can get started. No sense wasting time. You’ll need ten practices before you can play in a game, but that means you can play in next week’s game. This is great. You’ll like the team.”
    Mrs. Kelly gave her husband an impatient look. “Coach has a lot riding on this season, Harrison, so you’ll have to forgive his overexcitement.”
    â€œThere’s no such thing as overexcitement when you’re talking about football,” said Coach.
    Mrs. Kelly continued as if her husband wasn’t there. “The varsity coach is retiring after this season, and there are some people who’d like Coach to take over.”
    â€œBut not everyone.” Coach clenched and unclenched his jaw so that the muscles in his face did a dance.
    â€œNot the head of the booster club,” Mrs. Kelly said in a voice as light as the butter she spread across her bread. “He thinks we should find someone outside the program.”
    â€œI need to win the league,” Coach said. “Then he can’t say no.”
    â€œBut we lost the first two games,” Mrs. Kelly said.
    â€œWe should win this week,” Coach said. “I haven’t lost to East Manfield in ten years.”
    â€œYou’ve never started out oh-and-two and made the playoffs.” Mrs. Kelly bit into her slice of bread and sipped at a cup of tea. A dab of butter clung to her upper lip until she wiped it away with a napkin. “But winners never quit, and quitters never win.”
    â€œHow fast are you?” Coach asked.
    Harrison blushed and shrugged. He didn’t know how to answer. As a little kid, he won all the races on the playground, and he was always good in gym class, but he’d never been allowed to play any sports. “Pretty fast, I think.”
    â€œPretty fast, and big for sure.” Coach seemed to speak to himself.
    â€œHe’ll need a physical,” Mrs. Kelly said.
    Coach scratched the stubble on his head. “Maybe I could get Doc Smart to see him and give us a clean bill of health.”
    Mrs. Kelly pointed quickly to her own eye and said, “What about . . .”
    â€œYour mom said his eye is fine. It just looks bad,” Coach said.
    Harrison knew from the mirror that what should be white in his eye was still bloodred, and that even though the swelling had been gone for several weeks now, the skin around his eyes was still marbled with purple and a sickly yellow.
    â€œIt’s Sunday, Ron.”
    Coach waved a hand. “Doc won’t mind. He’s a friend. If Harrison wants to play, there’s no sense in making him wait.”
    Mrs. Kelly sighed. “I guess you can ask.”

Chapter Nine
    COACH DROVE AN OLD white pickup truck. Rust crept along the underside of the doors, and the tires looked dusty and smooth. Riding through town, Harrison couldn’t help admiring the neatly trimmed lawns and the old houses wearing coats of fresh paint. Doc Smart lived in a big house up a long driveway. A handful of kids played Frisbee on the lawn. They wore fancy clothes—shirts with collars, dresses, and shoes that reflected the sunlight. A pretty girl with a blond ponytail caught the Frisbee and stopped the game to watch Harrison follow Coach up the front steps and into the house. Harrison put a hand up to cover his discolored eye.
    Doc Smart showed them into an office, where he poked and prodded Harrison.
    â€œLet me take a look at that eye.” The doctor shone a penlight at it. “Can I ask what happened?”
    â€œHit by a belt buckle,” Harrison said.
    Coach cleared his throat.
    â€œIt feels fine, though,” Harrison said. He didn’t want to wreck the whole deal before he even got started.
    Doc Smart glanced at Coach and snapped off his light.