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would have more credibility with my coaches. Maybe now they’d listen when I said I should be playing quarterback—that I could be a quarterback. I could imagine the shock on Coach Hubbard’s face at the thought of me introducing him to the Cowboys’ coaching staff and maybe a few of the star players.
    â€œWhat are you thinking about, Ry?” my mom asked, breaking the spell.
    â€œJust . . . can you believe this?” I had this vision of myself standing in front of the entire Dallas Cowboys’ offensive line. Maybe I’d strike a jaunty pose, with one foot on the ball, looking up at them, expectant, with my arms folded and them staring down, waiting for orders.
    â€œI guess I can,” she said, with a tone in her voice.
    â€œDon’t sound so happy about it.” I couldn’t help being annoyed that she trampled the nice image in my brain.
    â€œI’m not happy about it, Ryan. You’re twelve years old. I told you years ago, my whole focus has been about you having a normal childhood and growing up into a good person.”
    â€œI’m not good?”
    â€œOf course you are,” she said. “I’d like to keep it that way is all.”
    â€œHow can this make me bad?” I tried not to sound too angry.
    â€œOkay,” she said. “Tell me. Whose faces have you already imagined the look on when they hear you own the Dallas Cowboys? Jackson? Izzy? No, not your friends. You thought of your enemies, didn’t you? Bryan Markham and Jason Simpkin. Or maybe their fathers, the coaches in elementary school who didn’t let you off the bench until the fourth quarter? Coach Hubbard. The one you say acts like you’re not there?”
    â€œWhat’s that got to do with anything?” I asked.
    â€œRyan, don’t you see? You can’t wait to hold it over those people, the ones you don’t like. That’s not a good thing. It’s just negative energy.”
    â€œCan’t you just be happy for me? My gosh, Mom, this is a dream come true. I love the Cowboys. I love football. You know that!”
    â€œIt’s a lot easier to love the Cowboys than to own them, Ryan. I know it sounds fun, but it’s a business and your . . . father had no right to hand you a billion-dollar business like it’s a ten-speed bike.” My mother seemed to be growing angrierby the minute, the shock of it having worn off. She slapped the steering wheel. “In fact, I don’t think I’m going to allow it, Ryan.”
    â€œWhat? No!” I felt instantly sick. “You can’t just not allow it. He left it to me. You can’t undo that. And—and I’ve got a trustee.”
    â€œOh, sure. Dietrich, his old crony. That’s just great. Guidance from above. Not. Dietrich is a barracuda.”
    â€œYou mean, he won’t really let me control the team?” I was confused.
    â€œNo, I mean he will. ” She was growling more than talking now. “He doesn’t care about a young boy growing up to be ‘normal,’ and he and your father were thick as thieves. Your father’s company used Dietrich Die Molding to help make all those high-tech medical devices. They got rich together.”
    I didn’t say anything. She wanted me to be a “normal” boy? What was that? Who cared about a normal boy, let alone Minna Zinna—that’s what some of the kids called me—the half-pint shrimp?
    I almost laughed out loud.
    But they’d definitely care now, especially when they saw the headline of the sports page in the Dallas Morning Star the very next day .

13
    I have to say Jackson disappointed me when I got to school the next day.
    Jackson Shockey was my best friend. He’d appeared in Highland during the summer, and had shown up unannounced on the first day of football practice for the seventh-grade team at Ben Sauer Middle School. I didn’t see a single kid besides Jackson who wasn’t