Pop
Pop
Gordon's
first title with a new publisher, Pop was released in 2010 from HarperCollins. Pop is Gordon's latest young adult
title, and focuses on the unusual friendship between a past pro football player
and a recently transplanted high school student trying out for the school team.
Marcus
is happy to have somebody to practice with, and has a ball interacting with
his new friend, Charlie Popovich, but as time goes on, he can't help but noticing
that Charlie really seems to be a little strange. As time goes on, Marcus realizes
Charlie is suffering from Early Onset Alzheimer's, a fact which his family is
struggling to keep hidden.
Marcus
means no harm, but his friendship with Charlie is bringing Marcus into conflict
with the ex-ball player's family, the football team, a grumpy exterminator,
and even the law. Marcus may have to make some considered choices in regards
to his own future, if he wants to keep up his friendship with Charlie!
From the Book:
CHAPTER ONE
Marcus
Jordan killed the motor on his Vespa and surveyed the flowering shrubs and tall
maples surrounding him. Nice. Picturesque, even.
More
like the Twilight Zone.
For
starters, the name – Three Alarm Park, after some chili cook-off that
used to be held here in the sixties or something.
He
jumped down, pulling the gym bag off his shoulders. From it, he produced the
items that would turn Three Alarm Park into a practice facility – a regulation
football, a length of rope, and a round plastic picture frame with the glass
knocked out.
He
looked around, noting that the only other living creature was a squirrel. This
was the fourth straight day he’d trained here, and he’d yet to exchange
a word of conversation with anybody but himself. Dead summer – great time
to move to a new state. Thanks, Mom.
He
tossed the rope over a high branch and strung up the picture frame hoop. Then
he started the target swinging gently and retreated about ten yards.
Hike!
Just
like a million times before, he took three steps back and let fly.
The
ball sizzled, a perfect spiral, missing the hoop by at least four feet.
Marcus
snorted. Lonely and lousy. A one-two punch. With the added insult of
having to chase down your own pass so you could mess it up all over again.
He
worked his way up to 4-for-10, and then 11-for-20, and broke out the water bottle
to give himself a party. Here in the middle of the open field, the only protection
from the August sun was a large granite modern art statue titled Remembrance,
which looked like a titanic paper airplane had fallen from the sky and buried
its nose in the grass at a forty-five-degree angle. A river of perspiration
streamed down the middle of his back. So he did what any self-respecting football
player would do. He cranked it up a notch. Football was the only sport where
adverse weather conditions made you go harder instead of quitting. He’d
still be out here if it was ten degrees, and he was slogging through knee-deep
snow and blizzard conditions.
Intermission
– a dozen laps of the field to really feel the pain. Then he
was throwing again, from different angles and further away. His completion percentage
went down, but his determination never wavered. There was something about launching
a football thirty-five or forty yards and having it go exactly where you aimed
it. To a quarterback, it was as basic as breathing.
Sucking
in a lungful of moist heavy air, Marcus pumped once and unleashed the longest
pass of the day, a loose spiral that nevertheless seemed to have a lot of power
behind it. It sailed high over the apex of the Paper Airplane before beginning
its downward trajectory toward the hoop.
For
the first time in four days, he spied another human being in the park. The figure
was just a blur across his field of vision. It leaped into the air, picked off
the pass, and kept on going.
The
receiver made a wide U-turn, and, grinning triumphantly, jogged up to Marcus.
Marcus
smiled too. “Nice catch, bro –” His voice trailed off.
He
was looking at a middle-aged man, probably around fifty years old.But the guy
ran like a gazelle and caught with sure hands, tucking the ball in tight as
he ran. He was also tall and built like an redwood. He had definitely played
this game before.
“Sorry,”
Marcus added, embarrassed.
“For
what?” The man flipped him the ball. “Making you look bad?”
“I
just thought – never mind. My name’s Marcus. Marcus Jordan.”
With
lightning hands, the man knocked the ball loose, scooped it up on the bounce,
and bellowed, “Go deep!”
Starved
for company, Marcus did not have to be asked twice. He took off downfield, glancing
over his shoulder.
“No
– deep!”
“I’m
running out of park!” Marcus shouted, but kept on going, his breath growing
short. Another backward glance. The ball was on its way. Marcus broke into a
full sprint. The old guy had an arm like a cannon!
He
left his feet in a desperation dive. For an instant, the ball was right there
on his fingertips. He had it –
The
ground swung up and slammed him, and the pass bounced away. He lay there for
a moment, hyperventilating and spitting out turf. The next thing he saw was
the fifty-year-old, beaming and pulling him back to his feet.
“Way
to miss everything.”
“You
overthrew me a little,” Marcus defended himself.
The
man plucked the ball off the grass. “You couldn’t catch a cold,
Mac.”
“It’s
Marcus,” he amended. “And you are …”
The
old guy scowled. “Your worst nightmare if you don’t quit pulling
my chain.”
Marcus
flushed. “What should I call you?”
“Try
Charlie, stupid. Heads!” He punted the ball straight up in the
air.
The
kick was very high, silhouetted against the cobalt blue sky, tiny and soaring.
Marcus
was instantly on board, shuffling first one way and then the other as he tried
to predict where it would come down. For some reason, it was very important
to make this catch, especially since he’d screwed up the other one. It
was his natural competitiveness, but there was something more. This Charlie
character might have been weird, but his enthusiasm sucked you in.
The
ball plunged down and Marcus gathered it into his arms.
The
impact was so jarring, so unexpected, that there wasn’t even time to register
what was happening to him. Charlie rammed a rock-hard shoulder into his sternum
and dropped him where he stood. The ball squirted loose, but Marcus wasn’t
even aware of it. He lay like a stone on the grass, ears roaring, trying to
keep from throwing up his breakfast.
Gasping,
he scrambled to his feet, squaring off against his companion. “What was
that for?”
“I
love the pop! Sometimes you actually hear it go pop!”
“That
was the sound of my head coming off,” Marcus muttered.
“Come
on, you here to play, or what?” Charlie tucked the ball under one arm
and charged forward like a freight train, picking up speed.
Marcus
was stunned. He’s crazy! Followed by another thought: He’s
an old man. What am I afraid of?
Marcus
held his ground, bouncing lightly on the balls of his feet, ready to strike.
As a quarterback, tackling had never been at the top of his resume, but he’d
gone through the drills like everybody else. He focused on his opponent’s
hips, hesitating at the sheer size of the guy, and the power and athleticism
of his stride. This was going to hurt, probably more than a little. Swallowing
his nervousness, he sprang, catching Charlie just above the knees.
Hard
contact resonated up and down Marcus’s body. The man was a strong runner
with a surprisingly low center of gravity. In the end, though, physics was on
Marcus’s side. The textbook hit knocked Charlie’s legs right out
from under him.
As
they crunched to the ground, Marcus’s pain mingled with remorse. What
if he’d hurt the man?
But
Charlie was cackling with glee. “That’s more like it!”
Relieved,
Marcus grabbed the ball away and barked, “Now, you go deep!”
It never once crossed his mind that this fifty-something wouldn’t comply.
Charlie
didn’t disappoint. He was off and galloping. Not only was he going along
with it, but he seemed to be running an elaborate pass pattern. He bumped an
imaginary defender at five yards, then faked an “out” before breaking
down the middle, running full bore.
Marcus got so involved in watching that he almost forgot to throw. But he did
– a terrible pass that was sure to sail ten feet over Charlie’s
head.
“Sorry
–” His breath caught in his throat as he realized that his companion
wasn’t stopping.
Adjusting
his route, Charlie scampered right up one of the granite flukes on the Remembrance
sculpture. Close to the top, he leaped, snatching the ball out of thin air as
it sailed over the Paper Airplane. Marcus waited for the old guy to come crashing
to the ground, twenty feet below. Instead, the toes of his sneakers somehow
found the narrow ledge in the stone, and he landed, swaying as he struggled
to maintain balance.
The
cry of triumph was ripped from Marcus’s throat before the event had even
fully registered. It had to be the greatest individual effort he’d seen
since taking up football. Quarterback and receiver celebrated like this was
the winning touchdown in the Super Bowl.
Nor
did Charlie feel any need to come down from his tenuous perch on the statue.
He began a victory-dance right where he was.
“I’m
not calling the ambulance when you slip!” warned Marcus, laughing.
It
only made the old guy show off even more. He was as sure-footed as a mountain
goat, soft-shoeing as he waved to an imaginary crowd.
Time-tested
football strategy held that, when the passing game is working, you launch an
air war. They ran slants, curls, posts and flags, making acrobatic catches and
spectacular wipeouts. After a week of only his mother and his own thoughts for
company, Marcus wasn’t inclined to ask too many questions, like how come
this middle-aged guy had nothing better to do than toss a ball around with a
teenager?
“Over
the middle!” Charlie commanded, waving Marcus into a crossing pattern
about fifteen yards deep.
Charlie’s
muscular arm snapped forward. The pass was on its way, drilling through the
air at bullet speed. Marcus reached for it, but he misjudged the angle. It sizzled
through his hands, leaving a trail of smoke behind it. Frozen in their tracks,
he and Charlie watched it leave the park.
Crash!
They
didn’t see it happen, but the sound was unmistakable. When they got to
the fence, there sat the football, in the passenger seat of a Toyota Camry,
clearly visible through the shattered side window.
“Great,”
groaned Marcus. This definitely wasn’t the introduction to the community
he’d had in mind. “I guess we have to leave a note and offer to
pay –”
Nothing
could have prepared him for his companion’s reaction to the crisis. Charlie
took one look at the broken car window, vaulted the gate, and pounded down the
street at an astonishing rate of speed. He never looked back. In fifteen seconds,
he was simply a retreating dot.
Of
all the strange things about a strange person, this one had to take the prize.
Here was the teenager, ready to own up and make restitution. And here was the
mature adult, fleeing the scene like an irresponsible kid.
CHAPTER TWO
RAIDERS LOOK TO REPEAT PERFECTION
Last
week, when the movers had unloaded the truck, Marcus’s first act of unpacking
had been to tape that clipping to his mirror. It was the one consolation for
pulling up roots in the only place he’d known in sixteen years of life,
and laying them down on the opposite side of the country – he’d
be going to a school with a first-class football program.
Mom
had made that article from the Kennesaw Advocate the keystone of her
sales pitch. By that time, she’d already known that the Advocate
would be her new employer. Of course, her job as staff photographer was just
how Barbara Jordan paid the bills. She had little interest in the inevitable
prize-winning turnips and golf-ball-sized hailstones that dominated local news.
She was putting together a book on the megalithic boulders scattered across
upstate New York by the receding glaciers of the Ice Age. That was the reason
behind their move to Kennesaw in the first place – pictures of rocks.
The fact that it put fifteen hundred miles between them and Comrade Stalin –
well, that was just gravy. When your ex was a control freak, distance was a
good thing.
The
good Comrade, Marcus’s father, had responded to the divorce with his usual
flexibility. No joint custody, no weekend visits – Just a laundry list
of all the material advantages Marcus would enjoy if he forgot he ever had a
mother. The Vespa had been the primo goodie on an irresistible menu. Stalin
had even tried to demand it back when Marcus had opted to stay with Mom. Classy.
The
purr of its engine had become a bittersweet sound. Bitter because of the bike’s
role in the family breakup, and sweet because – well, it was
pretty sweet. A Vespa was technically a scooter, but it could move.
Back in Olathe, Marcus had earned himself three tickets. Now he was speeding
again, far from Kansas, his bulky equipment bag balanced on his shoulders, streaking
through town to Aldrich High School.
The
sight of players on the field threw him. He’d called the athletic office
three times to confirm the eleven o’clock start. Yet here it was, only
ten-thirty, and a workout was already in progress.
He
ditched the Vespa in the parking lot and took off at a run, heavy pads bouncing
against his shoulders. Students were scattered around the sidelines and bleachers.
On the field, coaches and trainers were leading the players through stretches
and calisthenics. Good news. He hadn’t missed much.
He
turned to the first spectator he saw, a girl in a tank top and jean shorts.
“Tryouts?”
He
might as well have been asking about the nuclear launch codes. Her expression
was completely blank.
Undaunted,
Marcus pulled aside a tall kid in pads and a scrimmage shirt. “Where’s
the sign-up table?”
The
kid looked him over. “Don’t know what you’re talking about,
man,” he said blandly and jogged away.
Marcus
stood frowning by the entrance to the locker room hut, when a brunette in a
cheerleading outfit strode up to him, her very pretty features hardened into
an all-business expression.
“How
long does it take to get a bag of footballs?” she demanded. In a single
motion, she wrenched the duffel off his shoulder and unzipped. A sweat and bleach-stained
jockstrap tumbled out and fell at her feet.
She
glared at Marcus. “Cute.”
“I
think you’ve got me confused with somebody else,” Marcus told her.
“I just came here to try out.”
A freckle-faced player who seemed like endless shoulders turned around. “You
sure you’re in the right place, man?”
“Let
me guess – you’re just field-testing your Halloween costume then?”
Marcus returned, a little annoyed.
Another
Raider stepped forward, his helmet under his arm in a classic all-American pose.
It was obvious from the deference shown by the other students that the newcomer
was a big man on campus. His scrimmage jersey bore the number seven, which,
coupled with the respect he commanded, almost certainly designated him the Quarterback.
Self-consciously,
Marcus plucked his cup off the turf and stuffed it back in the bag.
“Is
that how you win friends and influence people?” the QB asked Marcus.
Marcus
took a deep breath. “I don’t want a fight. I’m just looking
for the tryouts.”
“You
found them – sort of.”
“Well,
where do I sort of check in?”
“We
went eleven-and-oh last season,” number seven told him.
“I
heard about that.”
“We
only lost four seniors and replaced them with backups who were just as strong.”
“You’re
good,” Marcus concluded.
“If
you were us, would you be making changes?”
“That
depends,” Marcus said. “If you’ve got somebody better, why
not?”
Number
seven’s eyes flashed. “And that’s supposed to be you?”
Marcus
shrugged. “That’s why you have tryouts. To pick the best.”
“You’re
looking at the best,” number seven stated flatly.
“You’ll
have to forgive Troy,” the cheerleader put in sarcastically. “He’s
overcome with the wonderfulness of himself.”
Troy
cast her a warning glare, and she smiled back sweetly. Marcus upgraded his first
impression. Pretty was an understatement. She was a knockout.
With
effort, he tore his eyes off her. “I’m not saying you’re no
good,” he told Troy. “I’m just saying I should have a shot.”
The
freckle-faced shoulders got in Marcus’s face. “That eleven-and-oh
last year was thanks to Troy! His old man –”
“Shut
up, Kevin.” Troy interrupted.
Kevin
backed off, but he didn’t back down. “We’ve got a chance at
another perfect season! We’re not risking that because of some newbie.”
“What’s
going on here?” bawled a voice with the tone and timbre of a buzz saw.
Coach Barker muscled into the group. “Football is played with hands, feet,
and body. The only time your mouth is open is so you can stick your guard in!”
“Got
a wannabe here, coach,” Troy said apologetically.
The
coach was an ordinary-size man with a massive head that resembled an Easter
Island monument. It pivoted on his slender neck until his sharp gaze was focused
on Marcus.
“What’s
your name, son?”
“Marcus
Jordan. I just moved here a couple of weeks ago. I’ll be a junior.”
The
coach sized him up. “What’s your experience?”
“I
QB-ed Junior Varsity at my old school in Kansas. Set a county record for total
yards.”
“A
JV record,” Troy pointed out.
Marcus
addressed the coach. “I know you have a tight-knit unit, and I’m
not trying to mess that up. I just want a chance to show what I can do.”
“I’m
always looking for new talent,” Barker agreed. “Tell you what. We’ll
set a time for you to work out with the JV squad. If you’re as good as
you say, you’ll play JV this season. Then next year, it’ll be wide
open for you after these guys graduate in June.”
Marcus
shook his head. “If I can hack it now, I shouldn’t have to wait.”
“It’s
a public school, coach.” The cheerleader noted.
Troy
snorted. “Yeah, you’re such a football expert from shaking your
butt!”
“You
never complained,” she shot right back.
“All
right, fair enough,” the coach decided. “Suit up, and we’ll
give you a spin.”
”But
coach—“
Barker’s
face flamed red. “Doesn’t anybody do what I say anymore? Get back
on the field! I want to see wind-sprints.” He turned to the cheerleader.
“Alyssa, show Marcus where he can change.”
“With
pleasure,” she announced, directing a pointed grin at Troy. She took Marcus
by the hand and led him into the low hut that housed the locker rooms.
Marcus
looked down at the spectacle of her fingers intertwined with his. “Sounds
like you and Troy know each other pretty well.” An over-the-shoulder glance
confirmed that the quarterback was doing more glowering than sprinting.
“We’re
kind of on again, off again,” she admitted blithely. “And on again.
And off again. You get the picture.”
He
did. “How about right now?”
“Right
now I’m staying away from stuck-up quarterbacks who think they own the
world.” She cast him a look that threatened to melt the fillings in his
teeth. “But I’m keeping an open mind.”
She
kicked loudly at a door marked HOME and yelled, “If it’s hanging
out, cover it up! I’m coming in!” She marched him into the deserted
locker room.
Marcus
tossed his bag on the bench and waited for Alyssa to leave so he could change.
Instead, she made herself at home on the bench.
“I
double as equipment manager. So if you’ve got any equipment you want me
to manage … I’m kidding!” she laughed, seeing him
blush. “A yokel like you is going to get eaten alive at DNA. What brings
you to our little moonscape?”
Marcus
shrugged his shoulder pads on over his T-shirt. “My mom’s a photographer.
This area’s important to a book she’s working on.”
“And
your dad?”
“Out
of the picture.” He studied the pockmarks on the concrete floor. “I
have to take off my pants now.”
“Buzz-kill,”
she grumbled, heading for the door.
Marcus
tried not to watch her go – and failed.
Copyright © 2009 by Gordon Korman, used by permission