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Suddenly, his eyes locked on number 53, who was pointing at him from across the field and laughing as he said something to a teammate.
    Cody quickly put his helmet back on. Just wait till I get back in the game, fifty-three, he seethed. I’m puttin’ a big hurt on you.
    He felt tears slithering down his face. But that was okay. It was a blistering day. He hoped everyone would think they were drops of sweat.
    Cody stood on the sidelines and watched Mill Creek methodically march downfield for a touchdown. The Marauders wisely avoided the middle of the Grant line—and Pork Chop—and stuck to running sweeps and short out-patterns.
    On Grant’s next offensive possession, Bart Evans underthrew his twin brother on an out-pattern and suffered his first interception of the young season. Mill Creek took over on the Raiders’ forty-one yard line.
    On first down, the Marauders ran a QB sweep to the left. Back in the game now, Cody felt his heart race as he chased the play. A Creek blocker took Brett Evans out along the left sideline, leaving Cody one-on-one with Mike Riley, the QB, who lowered his head and charged forward. Cody kept his head up and tried to square his shoulders, preparing for a mighty collision.
    Then something flashed through his mind. It wasn’t an image, but the split-second memory of the hit he had taken against Central. Reflexively, Cody looked to his right, fearing another blocker ear-holing him from the blind side.
    But the hit came head-on. He felt Riley’s face mask plunge into his gut and then he felt himself tumbling backward. He hoped the impact would at least trip up Riley, but he knew that wasn’t the case, even before he rolled from his back to his stomach and watched the QB scamper into the end zone.
    This time, Coach Smith didn’t even speak to Cody as he reached the sideline. He merely folded his arms and turned his back.
    Grant was able to answer with a long drive of its own. Halfback Marcus Berringer cut the Mill Creek lead to a touchdown with a one-yard plunge.
    After Creek returned the kickoff to its own thirty-three, Cody buckled his chinstrap and headed onto the field to join the defense. But Coach Smith grabbed him from behind, by the shoulder pads, and spun him around.
    “No, Martin! You stay here with me, where it’s safe. A baby like you could get hurt out there.”
    Cody glared at his coach, who sneered at him and then turned away. “Betts,” he barked, “get in there and play monster for Martin.”
    On the bus ride home, Cody sat alone in the rear seat. He barely moved for the forty-five-minute trip, his eyes boring into the seat ahead of him. No one attempted to talk to him, not even Pork Chop.
    Grant had won the game, 21-17, but Cody felt no joy, no sense of accomplishment. He felt only anger at Coach Smith.
    The next week, Grant bumped its record to 3-1 with a win at Maranatha Christian School. Cody played only on special teams and missed an open-field tackle on a punt return. He expected Coach Smith to scream at him when he went to the sideline, but the coach just shook his head disgustedly.
    Betts, who missed half of his attempted tackles because he closed his eyes on impact, seemed well on his way to becoming the team’s new monster back, despite his shortcomings.
    In the following Wednesday’s scrimmage, Cody got no repetitions on defense, not even with the second team. As he trudged home from practice, he decided to tell his father about what was happening.
    Maybe Dad will talk to Coach Smith, he thought. Maybe it takes an adult to talk sense into another adult. Betts is killing us at monster, and Coach doesn’t even seem to care. Besides, is Coach forgetting what happened to me this summer? Doesn’t he have any sympathy at all?
    He was surprised to see his dad’s car in the driveway at 5:30. Luke Martin had been putting in heavy overtime lately. It wasn’t like when his wife was alive and family dinner was at six o’clock sharp everynight—unless Cody had a