In sportswriter Mike Lupica’s latest middle-school-centered novel, he addresses the reality of families losing jobs in today’s tough economy. Loyalty, teamwork and friendship come together to turn the spirit of one town around. Here's an excerpt.
Just about everybody who’d ever seen Will Tyler play said the same thing—that he could ﬂy on a football field.
He was deﬁnitely ﬂying now.
Ball tucked ﬁrmly in the bend of his arm, open ﬁeld in front of him. A slight wind at his back. Not that he needed it. At midﬁeld he made an effortless cut to his left, switching the ball from his right hand to his left in the process. Will did it without even thinking, did it on instinct, one more move that nobody had to teach him. Not even his dad, who’d been a star running back in this same town, on this same ﬁeld.
Back when the ﬁeld was in much better shape. And the town was, too. But Will’s dad always said that even on his best days, all the way through high school, he was never as fast as Will.
“You’ve got that gear,” he told Will once.
“That extra gear that the great ones have,” Joe Tyler said.
Will shifted into that gear now. Flying, like the wind at Shea Field wasn’t just behind him, it was trying to keep up with him.
At the thirty he cut back again, back to his right, angling toward the sideline. Switching the ball back to his right hand. Imagining that he was watching himself on one of those giant screens most NFL stadiums have now, pretending he was trying to see if anybody was gaining on him.
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Knowing that nobody would be.
Twenty-yard line now.
Only the end zone ahead of him.
And that’s when he went down.
He hadn’t been tackled. He’d stepped into a hole at the ﬁve-yard line.
He hadn’t seen it because he had his eye on the prize, like always. Just felt his right foot go into it, the leg collapsing, like he’d been tripped. Like he’d been caught from behind. Just like that.
Will was mad. The beat-up ﬁeld at Shea was the only thing that could stop him. And it had. And had cost him a touchdown. Of course he knew it could have been worse, he could have rolled an ankle or hurt his knee the way his dad had once. It had been his senior year in high school. His dad hadn’t stepped into a hole, though. He’d just made a cut into the secondary and thought he was about to break into the clear when he got hit by tacklers from both sides, at the same exact moment, their helmets meeting at his right knee.
In so many ways, too many ways for Will to even count, it was a hit from which his dad still hadn’t recovered. Will had gone down hard but knew he was all right, knew he would have no trouble getting back up. The only burn he was feeling now was embarrassment. The same he’d felt last season after the fumble against Castle Rock.
He sat there, ball under his arm, thinking: It’s a good thing I’m alone.
Alone with his ball, alone on this ﬁeld, no teammates or opponents there to see him trip and go down, nobody to see somebody this good at football look so bad.
He turned and saw how deep the hole was. One of many at Shea Field, a ﬁeld that the town seemed to have forgotten, or maybe just given up on, the way it was about to give up on a football team and a football season for twelve-year-olds like Will Tyler.
The town council of Forbes had made it clear a couple of weeks earlier that there wasn’t enough money in the budget to ﬁnance all the local sports teams, as it had in the past. They’d said that some of the younger age groups might have to suffer so that no programs were cut at Forbes High School. They’d said it was more expensive than ever to ﬁnance football teams, telling the parents there had been barely enough in the budget to let Will’s eleven-year-old team compete last season in the West River Youth Football League, Forbes’s version of Pop Warner. Now unless somebody in town could come up with the money in a few weeks, enough money to cover membership in the league, helmets, uniforms, ﬁeld maintenance, emergency services, insurance—what Will’s dad called “the full boat”—there would be no football for twelve-year-olds this year.
No team, no practices, no games, no shot at the league title Forbes had come within a touchdown of winning last season.
Maybe, Will thought—alone on this ﬁeld, two yards short of the end zone—a run like this in an imaginary game would be the only kind he would get to make this year.
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Will felt as if football was about to leave Forbes the way the sneaker factory had.
Technically the factory hadn’t left, he knew. It was still there on the river, only it was empty now the way it had been for most of Will’s life. It was the business that had left, the business that used to make Forbes Flyers, once one of the most famous athletic-shoe brands in the country.
That was before other companies began to dominate the business with cool sneakers of every color, for every sport. And even cooler catchphrases and commercials, with endorsements from the hottest athletes. Those other companies became what his dad called the “superpowers” of the sneaker business, and they had wiped out Forbes Flyers like powerful armies invading a tiny nation.
“It wasn’t that Nike or any other others were doing anything wrong,” Joe Tyler told Will once. “They were just selling shoes and giving the people what they wanted. But in the process, it was like they wiped out the world we’d grown up in, the one built around that factory.”
Now his dad wondered how Forbes Flyers had held on as long as they had, before the shoes with the cool wings logo ﬁnally just disappeared. When they did, the factory where his father had worked and his grandfather before him went with them. Some of the people who had worked there found other jobs in Forbes. A lot more moved away.
Will knew all about it by now, the sad history of the business and the town, just because he’d grown up hearing his dad talk about it so much, like somehow his own life story was tied up with the story of the Forbes Flyers. It was like a book Will had not just read, but re-read, a movie he had seen over and over again. Families gone. Friends gone. Houses empty and yards ignored. Will was pretty sure that the only successful business in Forbes was the one that printed the “For Sale” signs.
And yet across the river sat the town of Castle Rock, home of Castle Rock Springs, the bottled water company that was thriving. It was only a few miles from Forbes to Castle Rock. To Will it felt like the people who lived there, the kids growing up there, were on the other side of the world. A world people moved to and not away from. A world where people didn’t worry about abandoned neighborhoods and empty factories and football seasons lost.
Guys Will’s age were going to have a season over there, that was for sure. Another great season, no doubt. The kind they always seemed to have, playing on a two-year-old turf ﬁeld that was in better condition than most of the high school ﬁelds in the area. Wearing the new uniforms they got every single year.
There were a lot of days when Will would sit by himself on the river and just stare at the world across the water, wanting to be over there, wanting to play on their team. He never said that out loud to anybody, certainly not to his dad. He would never say anything in front of his dad that sounded like whining or complaining, no way. Not when he knew the story of his dad’s life, knew how hard he had worked to take care of Will from the time his mom had died, back when Will was just two years old.
How hard his dad was still working.
It didn’t change the fact that Will thought he was growing up on the wrong side of the river.
At dinner that night Will said to his dad, “How come we can’t play one more season with last year’s uniforms? That would save us some money right there.”
His dad started to smile, then stopped himself, as if he knew none of this was funny to Will.
“Last season was the one more season with those uniforms,” his dad said. “After the last game, they bagged them up and carted them away. Helmets, pads, the whole deal.”
“Then we’re going to have to raise the money ourselves,” Will said.
“Who’s we?” his dad said.
“The guys on the team.”
“All fourteen of you?”
There were times last season when only eleven guys suited up for games. It was as if some of the kids—or their parents—were giving up on football before football gave up on them.
Will said, “We can do it.”
“In two weeks?”
Will managed a smile. “Hey, whose side are you on?”
“Yours,” his dad said. “Always. But you’ve got about as much chance of ﬁnding that money in Forbes right now as you have of ﬁnding gold in the river.”
His dad had gotten home late tonight. He was still wearing the shorts he wore in summer when he was delivering the mail.
Will pounded the table, hard enough that his water glass started to tip over before he caught it.
“I’m not letting them take football away from me!” he said. “They’re not supposed to be able to do that.”
In a quiet voice his dad said, “And the factory wasn’t supposed to shut down. And the banks weren’t supposed to own half the houses in town.”
“But, Dad,” Will said, “I can . . .”
He didn’t need to ﬁnish the thought, because his dad did it for him.
“You can ﬂat-out play,” Joe Tyler said. “Nobody knows that better than I do. Now that’s enough complaining. Finish your dinner.”
Will could play. He wasn’t the biggest kid his age in Forbes, or even close. Truth was, he was closer to being the smallest in his seventh-grade class, height-wise, than he was to being the biggest. When he’d shown up for tryouts last season, the coach thought Will was too small to be a halfback.
That lasted until they were midway through their ﬁrst scrimmage, Will ﬁnally getting his chance to line up behind the quarterback. He took a handoff on what was supposed to be a simple belly play and turned it into an eighty-yard run.
That was when Coach Jerry York, found out that Will could ﬂy.
From the Book "The Underdogs" by Mike Lupica. Copyright © 2011 by Mike Lupica. Reprinted by arrangement with Philomel Books, a Division of Penguin Young Readers Group.
© 2012 MSNBC Interactive