“Thumbs in. Grab and go!” Coach Stahl hollers as we line up for the pass patterns. Ninety-five and humid and we’ve been practicing for three hours. I’m shot, but Coach keeps saying hard work in summer makes champions in fall. Over by the track, two linemen are down on all fours puking.

I run twelve yards, plant my right foot, and cut left. Jonesy fires a rocket. Instinctively I stretch my hands, little fingers together – the way Dad drilled into me in the backyard – and make the catch.

“Thumbs in, Manning.” Stahl throws down his cap.

“Can’t you hear?” He holds his hands, thumbs touching.

“Do it again.”

I run my pattern and twist my arms around to make the catch.

“Grab and go,” Stahl yells. “Don’t do it half-assed.”

I run hard upfield. I like Dad’s way of catching better. Zach Turner, my best friend, who starts at the other corner, runs his pattern. We both wear the dark blue jerseys of starters. The other guys wear white.

“That’s the way, Zach.” Stahl claps. Stahl teaches gym. He’s short, but he’s got the big chest of a weight lifter.

Why’s he insisting we catch like this? Dad always says fingers together is the natural way, like holding a watermelon.

When Stahl walks over to Coach Sepolski, the head coach, I put my hands out, fingers touching. It is more natural. On my next down and in, I catch that way.

“I saw that, Manning.” Stahl rushes over. “If I say thumbs in, I mean thumbs in. You understand?”

“But Coach –”

Stahl grabs my face mask. “I don’t want any of you ‘but Coach’ BS. You think you’re so smart. Take a lap.”

The other guys grin, glad it’s me who’s getting it from Stahl, not them. Everybody’s sick of practice and ready for our first game tomorrow.

My Nikes kick up dust on the path around the fence. Stahl can be suck a jerk. I was just experimenting.

“Head up. Dig! Dig! Drive you block,” Coach Norlander calls. He’s a big guy, but he’s got a high voice. Linemen are cracking pads in a two-on-two hamburger drill near the fence. Tyson Ruden, our three-hundred-pound All-State tackle, runs over a sophomore like a semi crushing a cardboard box.

On the sideline, Sam Hunter and a group of second stringers take a water break. Sam staggers around like a drunk, and guys laugh. He’s not serious about football. Why isn’t Stahl yelling at him?

A light breeze blows as I circle the backstop. This morning, Coach Sepoliski asked us to set goals. I want to repeat as conference champs and go to the play-offs. I want to be named first team All-Conference and to one of the All-State teams. I want to win State. I want to show Dad how good I am.

On the tennis courts, the girls’ team is hitting overheads. They’re wearing short shorts and sleeveless tops. I slow down for a look. That’s another goal. Megan Harkin hammers a smash so hard the ball sticks in the fence.

I turn the last corner and sprint back. “I’ve been coaching twenty-seven years, and I’ve had some excellent teams. This one has the potential to be the best.” Coach Sepolski chops the air with his right hand. “Live up to that potential. Be the best football player you can be.” He pauses to let it sink in. “Shower up.”

“Manning.” Coach Sepolski calls. “That’s a bad way to end practice.” He puts his hand on my shoulder, and I smell his Marlboro breath. “You’re a junior now; I expect some leadership out of you. Listen to Coach Stahl. Is that clear?”

“Yes, Coach.” Sepolski was my freshman biology teacher, and last year he picked me to start. Not many sophomores play varsity at Confluence, and at five foot eleven and 155 pounds I’m not that big. But I love to smash guys. Sepolski likes hitters.

“One more thing, Manning.”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Carry the tackling dummies back to the shed.”

“Yes, Coach.” Sepolski won’t hold the lap against me.

I’m afraid that Stahl will.