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Dad cheered me all through elementary school and into middle school, when I decided to compete for the starting quarterback position. He supported me constantly, even when we lost, but he really cheered those beautiful, soaring passes that I nailed more and more often for touchdowns. "That throwing arms of yours will be your ticket out, Tyler," Dad would say - only his voice got more hoarse and wheezy every year from the crud in the mines where he worked, until now he isn't here at all to cheer me or coach me.
We're hot this year, really sizzling. I have scholarship offers to three fancy prep
schools, the kind that only take rich kids - Dad would have been so proud. Playing on any of their varsity teams will get me into the kind of college where winning big means my ticket to the NFL - just what Dad dreamed.
But I'm not sure I can do it without him. Not just without him cheering me, though I miss that - but how am I supposed to leave Mom and the other kids without Dad to support them? He left a pension and a little savings, but not enough for a family. So when this swarthy guy accosted me after I passed for five touchdowns in the last game of the season to get us into the playoffs, I listened.
"I know it's just middle school ball," he said, his voice low. "But I've got friends with big bucks riding on the playoffs - lavis spenders who'll be delighted to compensate you if you guarantee the right victor."
"Sure," I stammered. "I mean - I always play to win."
He sneered. "That's the point," he said. "My friends want the other team to win." Then he whispered how much compensation he meant before adding, This could be your ticket out, Tyler."
Copyright ©2002 by National Reading Styles Institute