by Evan

Perry was the third string kicker on the Wildcats. That means there were two kickers in front of him. That means he never kicked.

Every day at practice Perry kicked into the net behind the end zone. Fifty kicks. Every day. Nobody watched. The other kids were doing tackling drills and running plays and Perry was down at the end of the field going THUMP, THUMP, THUMP into the net.

"Why do you even practice?" said one of the linemen. "You're never going to play."

Perry didn't say anything. He just kicked.

Then came the big game against the Hornets. The Wildcats and the Hornets were both undefeated. Whoever won would be the champions.

Mitchell, the first string kicker, was not there. His cousin was getting married in San Antonio and his mom made him go. He was very mad about it.

Bradley, the second string kicker, was supposed to be there. But his family's van got a flat tire on the highway and they were waiting for a tow truck.

That left Perry.

The game was close the whole time. The Hornets scored. The Wildcats scored but they went for two and didn't make it. The Hornets scored again. The Wildcats scored again and this time went for two and made it. The score was 14 to 14 with one minute left.

The Wildcats drove down the field. Pass. Run. Pass. They got to the 15 yard line with 4 seconds left. Coach Bair called timeout.

Then he looked down the bench. He looked at Perry.

"Can you make it from here?" Coach said.

Perry's mouth was so dry he couldn't talk. So he just nodded.

He ran out on the field. His legs felt like spaghetti. The crowd was so loud. He could hear somebody's mom yelling "WHO IS THAT?"

Andre was the holder. He knelt down and looked at Perry. "Just like the net," he said. "Just like the net, OK?"

Perry took three steps back and two steps over, like always.

The center snapped the ball. It was a perfect snap. (The center never gets credit. I'm just saying.) Andre caught it and put it down and spun the laces.

Perry ran up and kicked it.

It was not a pretty kick. It was low and it wobbled. It went end over end like a duck that got hit by something. The Hornets jumped as high as they could with their hands up. It went right over their fingers.

Then it hit the crossbar. CLANG!

Everybody stopped breathing.

The ball bounced straight up in the air. It came down on the crossbar again. And then it rolled over the top and fell down on the other side.

The ref put his arms up. GOOD!

The Wildcats won 17 to 14!

Everybody ran out on the field and picked Perry up on their shoulders. Somebody's mom was still yelling "WHO IS THAT?" and now she was crying too.

On Monday at practice Mitchell was back. Bradley was back. Perry was still the third string kicker.

But when he went down to the end of the field to kick into the net, this time the whole team came with him. And they watched.

THE END

by Evan (this is kind of based on our Panthers game but not exactly)

It started raining at 7:00 in the morning. By the time we got to the field it was raining so hard the windshield wipers couldn't keep up. My dad said "they're not going to play in this." But they did.

In the first quarter the field was wet. In the second quarter the field was mud. By halftime the field was not even a field anymore. It was a swamp with lines on it. Actually you couldn't see the lines either.

You could not hold onto the ball. It was like trying to hold a bar of soap in the bathtub. Jonathan our quarterback tried to throw a pass and the ball slipped out of his hand and went backwards. Their quarterback tried to throw a pass and it went straight up and came straight down on his own helmet. Nobody could pass. Nobody could kick. The punter slipped and kicked the ball 4 yards and sat down in the mud.

Every time somebody got tackled they slid about 5 feet. It was kind of fun to be honest.

By the third quarter you could not tell who was on which team. Everybody was brown. The refs were brown. Coach was brown up to his knees. At one point I lined up and the guy in front of me said "wait, are you on our team?" and I said "I don't know, are YOU on OUR team?"

It was 0 to 0 going into the fourth quarter. The rain got even harder. The parents were all under umbrellas and ponchos and trash bags. My little sister had a trash bag on with a hole for her head and she was still yelling.

Coach called us over. He had mud in his mustache. He said, "Boys, there is only one play that works in a swamp. Straight ahead. Everybody push."

So we ran the same play. Marcus our tailback got the ball and we all pushed. Three yards. Same play. Four yards. Same play. Two yards. Same play. Same play. SAME PLAY. We ran it fourteen times in a row. The other team knew it was coming. It didn't matter. They couldn't stand up either.

We got to their 2 yard line. There were 30 seconds left. Coach called the same play again. Of course.

I snapped the ball (I'm a lineman in this story too) and it was so slippery it almost squirted out. But Jonathan held on. He handed it to Marcus. We pushed. Everybody pushed. I pushed so hard my feet were going but I was not going anywhere, like running on a treadmill made of chocolate pudding.

And then the whole pile started to slide.

Everybody slid. Our line and their line and Marcus all together, one big brown pile sliding through the mud like a sled. We slid right into the end zone. Then we kept sliding. We slid all the way to the back of the end zone and kind of out of it.

The ref ran over. He had to wipe off his whistle. He looked at the pile. He looked at the ball. Then he put his arms up. TOUCHDOWN!

We won 6 to 0. We didn't even try the extra point. Coach said it wasn't worth it.

After the game we all jumped in a big puddle on purpose, the whole team, even Coach.

When I got home my mom met me at the garage. She would not let me in the house. She hosed me off in the driveway like a dog. Then she held up my jersey with two fingers and said, "I don't think this is ever going to be white again."

She was right. It's still a little brown. I don't care. It's my lucky jersey now.

THE END

by Evan (this one is my favorite)

Daniel played center. Every single play, Daniel snapped the ball. And every single play, nobody watched him.

When the quarterback threw a touchdown, everybody watched the quarterback. When the running back ran 40 yards, everybody watched the running back. When there was a big tackle, everybody watched the tackle. Nobody ever watched the center. Daniel had been snapping the ball for two whole seasons and his name had never been in the newspaper one time.

Except his grandpa watched him. His grandpa came to every game and sat on the top row of the bleachers with a thermos of coffee and a pair of binoculars. And he never watched the ball. He only watched Daniel.

"Why do you watch me, Grandpa?" Daniel asked once. "I'm just the center."

"I played center," Grandpa said. "1951. Nobody watched me either. Nobody watches the center until something goes wrong. Then everybody finds out what he's made of."

Daniel didn't really get it. But he remembered it.

Then came the last game of the season. It was the championship. The Bulldogs against the Cougars. It was cold and windy and the ball felt like a rock.

The Bulldogs were losing 12 to 7. They had the ball on the Cougars' 20 yard line with less than a minute left. One more drive.

Daniel got down over the ball. He put his hand on the laces. Jacob the quarterback put his hands under him.

"Blue 32! Blue 32! HUT!"

Daniel snapped it. But Jacob's hands were cold. The ball hit his fingers and bounced off. FUMBLE! The ball was rolling on the ground right behind Daniel's feet. Everybody was diving for it. The Cougars' nose guard was diving for it. He was huge.

Daniel didn't even think. He spun around and dove backwards on top of the ball. The nose guard landed on top of him. Then about six other guys landed on top of the nose guard. It got very dark under there. Daniel held on to the ball like it was a puppy in a thunderstorm.

The ref pulled everybody off one by one. At the very bottom was Daniel. And he still had the ball.

"BULLDOGS BALL!" said the ref.

The crowd went crazy. They were cheering for Daniel. For the CENTER. Daniel looked up in the bleachers. Grandpa was standing up on the top row with his binoculars in the air.

They lost 3 yards on the play. Now there were 20 seconds left. Jacob came in the huddle. He looked at Daniel. "Sorry," he said. "My hands were cold."

"Stick them under your arms between plays," said Daniel. "Like this." He showed him. Everybody laughed. Then they stopped laughing because it was the championship.

Jacob called the play. "Same play," he said. "Blue 32."

Daniel got down over the ball. He waited until he felt Jacob's hands, nice and warm now. Then he snapped it. PERFECT.

Jacob turned and handed off to the running back. And Daniel did his job. He blocked the huge nose guard. He blocked him so hard that they both fell down. When Daniel looked up, the running back was in the end zone.

TOUCHDOWN! The Bulldogs won 13 to 12!

The running back got the game ball. He got his picture in the newspaper. Everybody watched the running back.

But after the game, Grandpa came down from the top row. He didn't say anything. He just put his hand on Daniel's helmet, which was covered in mud and grass and a little bit of somebody else's mud, and he left it there for a long time.

And that was better than the newspaper.

THE END

(Note from Evan: my grandpa did not play center. He played tackle. But he does sit on the top row.)