Twenty-three
DARK CLOUDS GATHERED OVERHEAD AS CODY WALKED OUT TO the Lyle practice field. He was running later than usual, stopped by a parent who had dropped by during his last PE class to talk. The man had been full of compliments, telling Cody that years had passed since anyone had cared about the football players at Lyle.
“You’ll have ‘em whipped into shape in no time,” the man wore a flannel and Wranglers, and he could barely talk for the wad of tobacco stuffed behind his lower lip. Cody was pretty sure the guy owned the feed store at the end of town. After just a few months already he could put a face to nearly every shop along Main Street — mostly because the Lyle men had started coming out to watch spring practice.
A buzz was in the air. Coach Oliver was gone and hope lived for the Buckaroo football program.
As Cody reached the field he did a quick count. Twenty-seven men along the outer fence — many of them with the look and limp of retirees — all out to watch today’s scrimmage. The townspeople weren’t the only ones who had taken notice of the change in the football program. Talk around school had brought another two dozen players to the spring practices. Every day the bond between them grew, and gradually Cody was learning their stories.
DeMetri lived alone with his mother in tenement housing on the outskirts of town. Last week the player confided in Cody
that sometimes his mother got in a little trouble. Cody didn’t push for specifics, but that conversation was coming. He wondered if DeMetri had any idea how closely Cody could relate to his situation.
There was Marcos Brown — a six-foot-five lineman whose highest grade was a D in music. His father was in prison, and his mother had died of the flu three years ago. Marcos lived with his cousin’s family and spent every day after school working his uncle’s farm. Homework was considered a sign of weakness.
Arnie Hurley was the team’s quarterback, a good kid with average grades. But talk was that Arnie spent most nights at his girlfriend’s house. Her bedroom window was an easy access, and her parents didn’t care what the girl did in her spare time. As long as the guy sneaking in was quarterback of the football team.
Two of the offensive line were rumored to be alcoholics — drinking so much on the weekends that more than once Cody had seen burst blood vessels in their eyes Monday at practice.
The kids weren’t all bad—just an average mix of high school boys searching for significance and scared to death about what to do after graduation. More of that in a small town, Cody had learned since he’d been here. College wasn’t a given for these kids, and sometimes they couldn’t see past Friday night.
There were a few guys who had started praying with DeMetri. LeSean Peters, Andrew King, Josh Corothers. Guys who could smell change in the air and weren’t willing to settle for defeat or mediocrity. Corothers was president of the school’s Christian club. Cody planned to learn a lot more about his players between now and summer. Already he was working out the details of taking the boys to camp. Like everyone else in town, he wanted a winning season this fall.
But more than that he wanted players who were winners at life.
He was almost to the end zone, where most of the guys were already stretching and coming together, when two of the men approached him.
“Howdy, Coach,” the bigger of the two stepped up first and shook Cody’s hand. “If you don’t mind, me and Verne here would like a minute of your time.”
Verne nodded, polite the way Lyle prided itself on being. But his smile seemed forced.
Cody was about to explain that he couldn’t talk. Practice was already running later than he wanted, but the man didn’t wait for his answer. “Anyway, thing is our boys are the running backs. Talk is a few new boys came out this past week and they might look to take the starting positions.”
Was this really happening? When it wasn’t even May yet? Cody stopped and squinted at the men. “I don’t have a starting lineup yet, gentlemen. Let’s talk about it then.” He thanked them and walked away. As he did he heard the big guy mutter something about Cody being too young to make a lineup, let alone coach it to a winning season.
This was something he hadn’t expected — the way parents talked. Maybe he would have a big barbecue here at the school before summer. Let everyone know that he was ready for the challenge ahead, and welcome them to share their thoughts whenever they wanted. He was certainly open to suggestions. Just not manipulation.
“All right,” he yelled over the din of conversation among the townsmen on the adjacent sideline. “Bring it in. This is a big day, men.”
The scrimmage would stage his top offense against his second team defense for a series of ten plays. Then he would switch and give his best defense a shot at the second-string offense. He would’ve liked to have the top teams go against each other, but six of the guys played both ways, so that wouldn’t be possible.
“This is about plays and play-breakers, gentlemen.” He looked at each of the guys, one at a time. “No contact. If you’re touched, you’re down.” He explained the rules of two-hand touch and then held up his clipboard. “If I call your name, you’re first team offense.” He glanced at the dads on the sidelines and looked right at the bigger guy. “This is the lineup for today only.” He turned back to the players. “Don’t gripe about where you think you should be. Let your play do the talking, men. You’re winners. All of you.”
Cody was halfway through the list, reading the names and second-guessing whether he’d found the right mix of players for each team when from two blocks down came the sound of tires screeching loud and long and then a blood-curdling, deafening crash.
“Dear God … what happened?” One of the older men cried out, and everyone stopped and turned toward the sound.
The screech of glass and twisted metal still rang in the air, and Cody felt his face go white, his knees weak. Whatever had just happened, the sound was as horrific as anything Cody had ever heard. In a rush, the townsmen hurried from the field and rushed down the street toward the sound of the crash.
Cody did a quick count of his players. They were all there, each man. But the victim might’ve been a teacher leaving school or a parent coming to watch practice or any of the other Lyle residents — all of whom were connected somehow. Cody needed to know, needed to assure the boys that everything was okay and they could carry on with practice.
“DeMetri,” his voice rose above the murmuring among the players. “Lead the guys in the first three stretching drills.” He set his clipboard down and took off at a run. “I’ll be back.”
It was crazy, really … his almost desperate need to go to the crash and see who was hurt, how the wounded might be connected to Lyle High. Cody’s heart pounded in time with his feet as he passed the older men and made it one block, then two. Cars were stopped and already sirens were blaring through town. He tugged on his baseball cap, shading his eyes as he strained to see beyond the gathering crowd, beyond the commotion.
Only then did he catch a glimpse of something that made him stop cold. The tangled wreck had come to a stop twenty yards from the intersection. A delivery truck and … and … He couldn’t feel his hands or his feet, but he had to keep running, had to reach the scene of the accident, because the other car … the other car was as familiar to him as his name.
“No,” he whispered out loud as he ran. “Please, God … no.” He passed people pouring out of their houses and parking their cars in the middle of the road to look in on the mangled vehicles. “Please, God …”
But the closer Cody came to the scene, the more certain he became. The truck must’ve run a stop sign, because it had crashed square into the side of a yellow Volkswagen.
The same exact type Cheyenne drove.
Emergency vehicles were racing up to the intersection, and paramedics were flying from their vehicles, sprinting toward the wreck. As Cody ran up, people were lined two and three deep along the street, their hands to their mouths. Two guys from the hardware store across the street were pulling on the door of the yellow VW. “Over here,” one of them shouted. “We can’t reach her.”
Her.
Cody stopped running, and everything around him went into a horrifying slow motion. The man had said her, which could only mean … Not Cheyenne, please, Lord … if it was her, then she was coming to watch his scrimmage. She hadn’t called, but then she usually didn’t. Just showed up, proud of him and ready to support him.
He had to move, had to make his way to her car door, but as he did the scene changed and he wasn’t in Lyle, but in a sandstorm outside Basra and bullets were flying everywhere and beside him … right beside him his buddy was saying, “We gotta get out of here … run for — “ and before he could finish his sentence a bullet hit the guy square in the face.
“No!” Cody screamed, but he wasn’t sure any longer if he was screaming here or in the flashback, and he was dropping to his knees next to his buddy and trying to find the pieces of his face, grabbing at sand and flesh and wanting desperately to put the guy back together, and someone was pulling on his arm, pulling him up off the ground.
Cody blinked, his breathing hard, his fists clenched, and suddenly he was looking into the eyes of a businessman, a banker maybe. A guy with a white shirt and tie. “You’re the new football coach, right? Cody Coleman?”
Fear and embarrassment collided in his mind, and he scrambled to his feet. What was he doing on the ground? The flashbacks again … he couldn’t escape them. “I … I must’ve tripped.” He dusted off his jeans and stared back at the wreck. “I think … I might … I might know the girl in that car.”
“I’m sorry.” The banker stepped back, helpless.
Cody moved into the street, closer to the mangled yellow bug. The truck had hit her passenger side, but at this point it was hard to make out any part of the car. More sirens sounded in the distance, and police and a fire truck arrived on the scene. “Get the jaws,” someone yelled. “She’s trapped. Hurry up … we’re losing her.”
Losing her … Losing the driver of the yellow bug? Were they losing Cheyenne? Cody kept walking, fighting back the feeling of sand against his skin and the baking sweat of the sun on his back. No, he told himself. I’m not in Iraq … God, please, keep me in the moment. If it’s her … God, please … don’t let her die.
“Excuse me,” a paramedic stopped him. “You’ll have to stand back. We’re bringing machinery in here.”
“But I think I—” Cody didn’t finish his sentence. He couldn’t finish it. Because at that moment he saw what used to be the back window of the Volkswagen lying in pieces on the road. And the piece Cody couldn’t take his eyes off had a simple bumper sticker that read Indiana University Nursing Program. The same sticker Cody had stared at the other day for half an hour as he followed Cheyenne to the hospital outside Indianapolis. So there was no doubt now, the woman trapped in the car was Cheyenne.
He wanted to fight his way past the paramedics until he was at her side, because maybe they’d missed something. He’d fought his way through battles worse than this, so there might be a way to get the car door off without using the jaws of life, right? He could rip the metal apart with his bare hands if he had to. Anything to reach her, to hold her and beg her to hang on.
But people were staring at him, and the paramedic needed to get back to work. So Cody did the only thing he could do. He stepped back to the curb, moved past the gawking bystanders and the banker, and he found a quiet doorway. Then he dropped to his knees and began to pray. As he did, as he prayed believing that somehow Cheyenne would live through this nightmare, he promised God that he would do whatever he could to help her. Behind him he could hear the machine being moved in, the wretched sounds of the jaws of life as it set to work to free Cheyenne from the wreckage.
Was Tara right, Lord? Did You save me back in Iraq so that I’d be here now for Cheyenne? The possibility was so real it consumed him. Please, God … Let her live. He cared about her more than he had allowed himself to believe. She was one of the sweetest girls he’d ever met … he knew that now. She had to live … he hadn’t had time to tell her how he felt, to let her know how much he valued her friendship.
The machines roared to life, filling the air with deafening sounds of metal on metal. “Watch her head,” someone shouted.
Please, God … Keep her alive.
As he tried not to listen to the voices shouting about CPR and blood loss and the victim’s spinal cord, he became absolutely convinced of one thing. If Cheyenne lived through this, he would be at her side when she woke up.
And every step of the way after that.