Red Zone Read online

  RED ZONE

  ALSO BY TIKI BARBER AND RONDE BARBER

  Kickoff!

  Go Long!

  Wild Card

  For AJ and Chason—T. B.

  For my three roses—R. B.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS

  An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division

  1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020

  www.SimonandSchuster.com

  This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real locales are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2010 by Tiki Barber and Ronde Barber

  All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form.

  SIMON & SCHUSTER BOOKS FOR YOUNG READERS is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc.

  For information about special discounts for bulk purchases, please contact Simon & Schuster Special Sales at 1-866-506-1949 or [email protected].

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  Back matter artwork by Drew Willis © Simon & Schuster

  Book design by Krista Vossen

  The text for this book is set in Melior.

  Manufactured in the United States of America • 0810 FFG

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Barber, Tiki, 1975–

  Red zone / Tiki Barber and Ronde Barber with Paul Mantell.

  p. cm.

  A Paula Wiseman Book.

  Summary: Identical twins Ronde and Tiki Barber’s excitement over the

  approaching state championship football game turns to worry when there

  is a chicken pox outbreak at Hidden Valley Junior High.

  ISBN 978-1-4169-6860-3 (hardcover)

  1. Barber, Tiki, 1975—Childhood and youth—Juvenile fiction.

  2. Barber, Ronde, 1975–—Childhood and youth—Juvenile fiction. [1. Barber,

  Tiki, 1975–—Childhood and youth—Fiction. 2. Barber, Ronde,

  1975–—Childhood and youth—Fiction. 3. Football—Fiction. 4. Chicken

  pox—Fiction. 5. Schools—Fiction. 6. Twins—Fiction.

  7. Brothers—Fiction.] I. Barber, Ronde, 1975– II. Mantell, Paul.

  III. Title.

  PZ7.B23328Red 2010 [Fic]—dc22

  2009050976

  ISBN 978-1-4424-0947-7 (eBook)

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  The authors and publisher gratefully acknowledge Mark Lepselter for his help in making this book.

  EAGLES’ ROSTER 8TH GRADE HIDDEN VALLEY JUNIOR HIGH SCHOOL

  HEAD COACH—SAM WHEELER

  DEFENSIVE COACH—PETE PELLUGI

  OFFENSIVE COACH—STEVE ONTKOS

  QB

  CODY HANSEN, GRADE 9

  MANNY ALVARO, GRADE 7

  RB

  JOHN BERRA, GRADE 9

  TIKI BARBER, GRADE 8

  LUKE FRAZIER, GRADE 7

  OL

  PACO RIVERA (C), GRADE 8

  DL

  SAM SCARFONE (DE), GRADE 9

  IAN ROBERTSON (DE), GRADE 7

  LB

  RICKY RUSSELL, GRADE 9

  GARY LITTMAN, GRADE 9

  WR

  FRED SOULE, GRADE 9

  JOEY GALLAGHER, GRADE 9, HOLDER

  CB

  RONDE BARBER, GRADE 8

  BILL REEVES, GRADE 9

  JUSTIN LANDZBERG, GRADE 7

  S

  MARK ZOLLA, GRADE 9

  ALISTER EDWARDS, GRADE 7

  K

  ADAM COSTA, GRADE 8

  CONFERENCE SCHEDULE

  WILLIAM BYRD JUNIOR HIGH BADGERS—GAME 1 (HOME) — L 20–21

  PATRICK HENRY JUNIOR HIGH PATRIOTS—GAME 2 (AWAY) — L 7–14

  MARTINSVILLE JUNIOR HIGH COLTS—GAME 3 (HOME) — W 48–3

  NORTH SIDE JUNIOR HIGH ROCKETS—GAME 4 (AWAY) — W 31–28

  PULASKI JUNIOR HIGH WILDCATS—GAME 5 (HOME) — W 38–3

  MARTINSVILLE JUNIOR HIGH COLTS—GAME 6 (AWAY) — W 34–17

  BLUE RIDGE JUNIOR HIGH BEARS—GAME 7 (HOME) — W 30–10

  REMAINING GAMES

  JEFFERSON JUNIOR HIGH PANTHERS

  EAST SIDE JUNIOR HIGH MOUNTAINEERS

  BLUE RIDGE JUNIOR HIGH BEARS

  WILLIAM BYRD JUNIOR HIGH BADGERS

  NORTH SIDE JUNIOR HIGH ROCKETS

  CHAPTER ONE

  THE HEAT OF BATTLE

  “PLAY PROUD, TIKI!”

  More than 1,000 football fans were screaming their lungs out—but somehow, Tiki Barber was able to hear his twin brother’s voice.

  “Play proud!!!!”

  Everyone knew Tiki was about to get the ball. It was third and two, with his team in the red zone at the Rockets’ eighteen yard line. Who else would the Eagles give the ball to but their star running back?

  Tiki settled into his three-point stance. “I hear you, Ronde,” he muttered, digging his spikes into the ground to get a good jump.

  “Twenty-five . . . seventy-three . . . hut-hut!” Quarterback Cody Hansen took the snap from Paco Rivera. Tiki lunged forward, and Cody rammed the ball smack into his midsection. Clamping down on it with both arms, Tiki stutter-stepped left, looking for an opening in the North Side Rockets’ defense.

  There it was! Right between Paco and John Berra, the fullback. He darted through the tiny gap, and was almost into the open backfield when—THWUMP!

  The next thing he knew, Tiki was airborne. He landed hard, with five hundred pounds of North Side defenders piled on top of him.

  He could barely breathe, let alone tell them to get off! It seemed like forever before the refs pulled the pile away and Tiki could exercise his lungs again.

  Getting up, he saw that he’d been tackled a yard short of a first down. Tiki grabbed his face guard and groaned. Now the Eagles would have to kick the ball away again. Their third punt already, and it was still the first quarter!

  Tiki jogged back to the bench and sat down next to John Berra, his partner in the backfield. They watched as Adam Costa nailed the punt high and long, pinning the Rockets inside their own ten yard line.

  “Way to go, Adam!” Tiki screamed. “You’re the man!”

  “Nice kick!” Berra called weakly.

  “Yo, what happened on that last play?” Tiki asked, rubbing his sore left side.

  “Huh? Sorry, what’d you say, Tiki?”

  “The block, man. You’re supposed to pick up the middle linebacker before he gets to me.”

  “Oh. Yeah, right. Sorry,” said Berra, sounding too tired to care.

  John was usually a reliable blocker. But today was the first game of the play-offs—and suddenly, he was two steps slower. That was a big reason why the Eagles’ ground game was going nowhere.

  On first down, the Rockets threw a screen pass. Ronde got wiped out by a block, and the runner advanced the ball all the way to the thirty-seven yard line.

  On the bench, Tiki groaned, then winced as he saw his twin get up slowly. “Shake it off, Ronde!” he yelled, and sure enough, Ronde did.

  Tiki turned back to Berra. “What’s wrong with you today? Were you up all night or something?”

  Berra shook his head. “I dunno. I feel kind of weird for some reason.”

  “Since when?”

  “I don’t know . . . yesterday?”

  “Well, go tell Coach about it.”

  “No way! Are you kidding me? I’ve waited all year to get here. I’m not
sitting out now.”

  As if to make his point, John stood up and stretched. “I’m gonna get some water. Maybe that’ll help.” Raising a warning finger at Tiki, he added, “And don’t you say anything either.”

  Tiki understood how John felt. Last year, and the year before that, the Eagles had made the play-offs only to fall short. For Berra, and for all the other ninth graders on the team, this was their last shot at a State Championship.

  The Rockets were running now, ripping holes in the Eagle line and racking up the yards. Already they were in Eagle territory, and Tiki was starting to get a bad feeling in his stomach.

  The Eagles had barely squeaked into the play-offs this season. They’d beaten these same Rockets in their final game to get there—but that had been a real slushfest. A lot of balls had bounced the Eagles’ way in that final game. But were they really better than the Rockets? It sure didn’t look that way so far today.

  This past week had been a nonstop carnival at Hidden Valley Junior High. Tiki smiled and shook his head as he remembered what it had been like—everyone at school bragging about their “Team of Destiny,” saying how the Eagles were definitely going all the way this year. Tiki had let himself revel in the dream, and he knew his teammates had done the same.

  But now the time for dreaming was over. To become state champions, they would have to win their own district first. This was their opening play-off game, and already they were in trouble, down 6–0 with the Rockets looking for more. If the Eagles’ play-off run ended today, it would be a gigantic, humongous comedown!

  Tiki told himself to keep the faith. So many times this season, they’d faced elimination, yet somehow they’d survived. Could they do it one more time?

  The Rockets threw a long pass, but Ronde batted it away. “Attaway, Ronde! Whoo-hoo!”

  Turning, Tiki saw Berra wobbling slightly on his way back from the water cooler. Something was definitely wrong with him—but what? He looked back just in time to see the Rockets run around end for a big gainer, all the way into the Eagles’ red zone!

  Uh-oh.

  Adam Costa sat down next to him. “What’s wrong, Tiki?” he asked. “You guys look totally lost out there on offense.”

  “I don’t know,” Tiki admitted. “Coach keeps yelling for us to pick up our blocks. But it’s not happening.”

  “Yeah, what’s with Berra? He’s, like, in a daze.”

  Tiki looked down the bench to the far end, where Berra was sitting with his head between his knees. “Hmm. I’m gonna go talk to him.”

  Just then, the Rockets completed a short pass play over Ronde’s outstretched arm for a touchdown.

  “NOOOO!” Tiki cried, throwing back his head.

  “Dang!” Adam said. “If only Ronde was a couple inches taller . . .” Then he caught his breath. “Oh. Sorry, Tiki.”

  Tiki and Ronde were identical twins, so their height was exactly the same. “It doesn’t matter as much for a running back as for a corner,” Adam added lamely.

  Tiki sighed. What could he say? It was the truth. He and Ronde were two of the smallest guys on the team. If they didn’t start growing soon, they might never get big enough to achieve their dream and play in the NFL.

  But that was a problem for another day. Right now, he had a pep talk to give.

  “Hey, John,” he said, sitting down next to the fullback, “it’s not just you. Cody’s way off, I haven’t found my rhythm—it’s all of us, dude.”

  “Mostly me,” Berra insisted. “I feel like a loser. I don’t know what it is.”

  As he and Berra watched the extra point go through the uprights, the queasy feeling grabbed Tiki’s stomach again. Sure, there was still plenty of time to turn things around and save their play-off run. But at 13–0, this game had all the signs of a terrible, final defeat.

  The kickoff went up. Ronde grabbed it in the end zone and knelt down for a touchback.

  Tiki gritted his teeth, jammed his helmet back on, and forced down the lump in his throat. It can’t end like this, he told himself. I won’t let it.

  “Come on, dude,” he said, grabbing Berra by the arm and lifting him to his feet. “Let’s get back out there.”

  In the huddle, Tiki could see the hollow look in his teammates’ eyes. He knew they were all scared—and why shouldn’t they be? “Come on now!” he suddenly yelled, surprising himself as well as the rest of them. Tiki was not the type to yell at anybody. “Let’s get some points here!”

  “Okay, Texas Tech, on two,” said Cody. That meant a screen pass for Tiki, with Berra as his lead blocker.

  Tiki looked over at Johnnie B. Was he even listening? He looked dazed, and even more scared than the rest of them.

  “Twenty-six . . . twenty-eight . . . hut! Hut!” Cody took the snap and dropped back. Paco and the rest of the line let the defense get past them, luring them in. Then, at the last moment, Cody threw the ball to Tiki, who was waiting by the sideline.

  He took the pass and turned, just in time to see Berra go down to make a block. But the defender easily jumped over him and made straight for Tiki!

  Tiki dodged him, but before he could get up a head of steam, he was brought down by two other Rockets.

  “Berra!”

  As Tiki dragged himself to his feet, he heard Coach Wheeler calling John, motioning for him to come to the bench. Berra trudged off, while Luke Frazier, the seventh grader who backed up both Berra and Tiki, ran onto the field, hopping up and down with excitement. It wasn’t often he got a chance to play, especially in a big game.

  I guess Coach finally noticed, Tiki thought. About time, too. Much as he liked Johnnie B., it was the game that mattered. Even Berra would agree with that.

  Without their big fullback in the lineup to block—Luke was at least three inches shorter and thirty pounds lighter than Berra—Coach Wheeler directed Cody to go to the passing game.

  It seemed to work at first. Cody connected on three passes in a row, the last one a long bomb to Fred Soule—another ninth grader playing for his legacy—for the Eagles’ first touchdown.

  One extra point later, the score was a respectable 13-7. Tiki began to get his hopes up. Six points wasn’t that much to overcome—if only their defense could keep the Rockets from scoring again. . . .

  The first quarter ended, and the second began. The Eagles’ defense, led by Ronde and defensive end Sam Scarfone, now started to find its game. North Side managed three long field goal attempts, but only one went through the uprights, giving the Rockets a 16–7 lead.

  The Eagles were still in the game, but their offense seemed dead in the water. Every time he tried to run, Tiki was met by a solid defensive wall. His blocking just wasn’t there. Luke Frazier was a good athlete, but he was small and fast, like Tiki.

  John Berra was big, strong, and usually a solid blocker. All season long, he’d been the one Tiki ran behind. Without Berra, against a huge defensive line like North Side’s, Tiki was being stonewalled, and it was just getting worse as the half wore on.

  When they tried to pass again, the Rockets were ready. They batted down three of Cody’s tosses and intercepted two more, setting up two of those field goal tries. The Rockets were driving again when the half mercifully ended—not a moment too soon for the exhausted and discouraged Eagles.

  Tiki ran for the locker room. It was the first time all day he’d run free of interference, and he wanted to be the first one in there. He banged open the door, and let out a scream of frustration that echoed in the empty room.

  Except it wasn’t empty. John Berra was already there, lying on one of the benches with a wet towel over his face.

  Tiki went over and lifted the towel. Berra’s eyes were closed, and his face was white as a sheet. “Whoa,” Tiki said. “You look like crud, man.”

  “I feel like crud.”

  The door banged open, and the whole team filed in. One after the other, the Eagles dropped down onto benches, looking discouraged and beaten.

  The last to enter was Coach Wheeler. H
e made one of his classic “entrances,” slamming the door behind him on purpose so that everybody jumped. “Okay, that’s enough of that! We just got our heads handed to us, am I right?”

  A murmur of “yes” went around the room. Players stared at the floor or at their lockers. No one looked at one another, or at the coach. No one except Tiki, who knew Wheeler better than any of them.

  Way back in seventh grade, he’d watched Mr. Wheeler in science class. Tiki had admired how he got kids’ attention and motivated them to do better. And then, when Wheeler became their coach, Tiki had watched him establish his leadership over the team.

  Tiki knew that this moment, right now, was one of those critical times when a coach can bring a team back from the edge of defeat. He believed in Wheeler, and he hoped the rest of the team did too.

  “We were lousy out there. Every one of us—you might think you played better than somebody else, but believe me, you didn’t. ’Cause we’re a TEAM, get it? We lose together, and we win TOGETHER.”

  He let the room go silent, so they would all think about it. Then he said, “But we don’t have to play that way in the second half. That was not the Eagle team I know. That was not the Eagle team that fought tooth and nail to get here today!”

  A few of the kids said, “Yeah!” Others nodded, beginning to get their spirit back.

  “Now, we get the ball first in the second half. If we can score—even a field goal—we can change the momentum of this game. But we cannot—we CANNOT—let ourselves be outplayed, or outworked.”

  He turned and said, “Berra, get that towel off your head.”

  John removed the towel. He looked awful. His skin was a pale gray-greenish, and his eyes were red.

  Coach Wheeler went over to him and put a hand on his forehead. “How long have you been sitting here?”

  “Ten, fifteen minutes.”

  “You’ve got a fever, son,” said Wheeler. “I’m going to find someone to take you home.”

  “NO!! Coach, no, I—”

  “Don’t mess with me, John. You’ve got a fever for sure. I want you to get home and get some rest.”

  “But the team! I can play, Coach. I’m fine, really!”

  “Berra—”

  “I’m NOT sitting out, Coach!” Berra said, standing up and grabbing Wheeler by the arm. “I’m playing! I am!”