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game or a meet. In those cases, they would stop for a burger afterwards. Often, a few of Cody’s fellow athletes and their parents would join them.
    Cody entered the front door. The television was tuned to CNN. Dad sat in his large black recliner, head buried in his slender hands. Cody couldn’t hear much over the din of a correspondent giving a report from “war-torn” someplace or other, but from the way his father’s head and torso trembled, he was probably crying.
    Cody slipped quietly upstairs to his room. He hadn’t seen his dad cry since the day of the funeral.

Chapter 3
Hungry for Action

    O n the first Friday afternoon in October, Grant traveled to Lincoln. The team was smarting after a one-point loss to Cook—in which Cody played only on the kickoff and extra-point teams.
    By the end of the first half of the Lincoln game, Cody had seen action on a grand total of three plays. One kickoff and two punts. The second half wasn’t much better. Coach Smith let him play monster on the Raiders’ final defensive effort, but Lincoln, up 23-3, ran two lackluster off-tackle plays, then had Locke, their QB, kneel in the backfield to run out the clock. Cody didn’t even bother to shower after the game.
    I worked up a better sweat during the history test last week, he thought as he changed out of his uniform.
    Before he left the locker room to head for the bus, Cody found Pork Chop, who was muttering something about “complete and total disgrace” as he unwound tattered white athletic tape from his left wrist.
    “Chop?” he asked tentatively, “I need to talk to you on the bus, okay? It’s important.”
    Pork Chop looked up, studying his friend’s face. “Okay, Code.” He sighed. “All the cheerleaders are fighting over who should sit by me, but I guess I might as well break all their hearts.”
    “This is about playing time, isn’t it,” Pork Chop said, as he shucked the wrapper off a Snickers bar.
    Cody wearily punched the seat in front of him. “More like a lack of playing time. Chop, I’m thinking of quitting the team.”
    Cody thought Pork Chop was going to spit peanuts, caramel, and chocolate all over himself.
    “Are you trippin’?” Chop said. “This is four years we’ve been playing together. We’ve been the heart of every defense we’ve been on—even back in Bantams. Dude, you love football!”
    “I know, Chop. But I love playing football, not watching it from the sidelines. If I just want to be a spectator, I’ve got the Broncos, or your brother andthe high school team. It just hurts too much to stand around.”
    Pork Chop crumpled his candy bar wrapper and stuffed it into the pocket of his blue jeans. “You’ll get some PT soon. You’re just in Coach Smith’s doghouse right now. It’s happened to everybody. He even benched Berringer in the second half today for not hitting the holes fast enough.”
    “Yeah, but Coach usually lightens up once he’s made his point. But with me, it’s like he’s going for a world-record grudge or something. Has he forgotten about all the good stuff I did earlier in the season? Is he senile or what? I think he hates me now. I don’t know if I’ll ever get any real playing time. It’s like I’m trapped in his doghouse. And I don’t need this kinda stuff in my life right now, know what I’m sayin’?” He buried his head in his hands and admitted quietly, “I miss her. I miss her every single day.”
    Pork Chop sat back in his seat, studying the back of Coach Smith’s head seven rows in front of them. “I feel what you’re sayin’. Want me to say something to Coach?”
    Cody shook his head furiously. “No way, Chop. That just seems all wrong to me. Besides, it would probably just make things worse.”
    “It’s your choice, man. But just don’t quit, okay? I know that you don’t roll like that. Besides, if you quitfootball, how are we going to play for the Broncos someday? Now that would make your mom proud.”
    Cody sighed. “Well,