Page 13 of Quarterback Crush
“Uh, about the rules and the plays,” I said, opening my laptop and setting it on his lap. “You know, like what the quarterback does and stuff.”
Dad pulled up the Owls’ quarterfinal game on screen and I brought the ottoman closer so I could sit next to him. And I proceeded to take notes in my journal about all the things the quarterback—aka Oliver Blackwell, my new fake boyfriend—was doing. Gets the play from the Coach, calls the cadence, signals to his center to snap the ball, hands off to the running back or throws the ball to the receiver.
“Wait, what, so...say that again,” I said, jotting down the words I’d heard in nonsensical order. “The quarterback calls the what?”
“Cadence. It’s the code, like what the team is gonna do,” Dad said. “You hear Oliver call Green 80 or something like that. That’s him telling his offense what’s going to happen.”
“You mean when he yells out random colors and numbers?”
“Nothing random about it,” Dad said with a kind of smug glee. “It all means something. The quarterback will have his own special code or signals for when the snap will happen, whether it’s a pass play or a run play.”
I let out a frustrated sigh, my ears and fingers not in sync. “Pass, run or what?”
Dad slowed down, iterating as if I was a five year old learning my spelling words. I wrote quickly, hoping it might make more sense when I reread it later.
“Now you notice when Oliver lifts his left leg?”
“Huh?” Heat flushed across my cheeks as though Dad knew my most intimate thoughts and how closely I had watched Oliver’s every movement.
“If you’ve ever watched Oliver, you’ll notice he’ll use a leg lift to let his center know he wants the ball right now. Just a rise of the leg.”
“He’s not just stretching his leg?”
Dad laughed. “No, it’ll be a signal to say he’s ready for the ball. Sometimes if the crowd is particularly loud, the players can’t hear the verbal call. So a signal, like a leg lift, or it could be a hand motion like a clap or a tap to his helmet, any of those things means something.”
“He doesn’t just have an itchy head?” I said.
“Every movement is precise and particular,” Dad said in an impatient and impassioned tone.
“How do you know so much about this?” I asked as I wrote down ‘lifts leg and hand tap means QB wants the ball.’
Dad inhaled through his nose and puffed his chest. “Bourkeville High Buccaneers’ junior varsity quarterback here,” he said.
“Youwere quarterback?” I didn’t mean to sound shocked but Dad wasn’t exactly a prime athletic specimen. He’d affectionately pat his protruding belly and laugh about it, but get grumpy if Mom told him he needed to go on a diet. Dad loved football but I hadn’t known he’d played. It was an ancient high school trophy for discus champion that held pride of place on the bookshelf in the living room.
“Yes, in my freshman year I was starting quarterback, but unfortunately I only played four games.”
“Why?”
“I got a concussion against Sun Valley High, got knocked down pretty bad. I had terrible headaches after that. Doc wouldn’t let me play again,” Dad said, sheepishly adding, “Neither would your Grandma.”
“I didn’t know that. Is the quarterback a dangerous position?” It had never occurred to me that Oliver could get injured.
“Generally no, but I got clobbered by a hit I didn’t see coming. It happens.” Dad grimaced, his voice deflating.
“Is that why your memory’s so bad? The concussion?” I joked.
Dad shot me a cheesy smile. “I’ll have you know I once threw a 30 yard pass straight to my receiver who scored a touchdown. I had a good arm.”
“Thirty yards? Is that good?”
“Good? It was exceptional!” Dad wasn’t holding back on his self-acclaim. “It wasn’t just the distance, it was the accuracy. Itwas all anyone talked about for weeks. Me and Danny Iversen were heroes!”
I sucked on the end of my pen. “Ah...so can Oliver throw thirty yards?”
“Thirty yards and then some. He’s got a super arm for sure. But most importantly, he’s accurate and a smart player.”
My heart skipped a beat, my chest swelling with pride. My Dad just called Oliver smart, my new boyfriend, okay, my newfakeboyfriend. That meant Dad would approve of us dating. That was one hurdle out of the way. Now, only Mom to convince, though there was no reason she’d not let me date—Lizzie had paved the path before me. My older sister had been a social butterfly and George Blackwell had been one of the many boys she dated.
