Goal-Line Stand Read Free Page B

easy, okay? The man’s trying to eat.”
    It looked to Cody like Pork Chop was forming an apology when the sharp call of “Mr. Porter!” cut through the chatter and clatter of 127 dining eighth graders. It was Mrs. Studdard, the lunchroom monitor—or Lunch Nazi, as Pork Chop affectionately called her.
    “You know the rules here, Mr. Porter. Off with the cowboy hat! Now!”
    Pork Chop nodded politely at Mrs. Studdard. He removed his black Stetson, blew some imaginary dust off of it, and, as if it were made of eggshells, set it beside his lunch tray.
    Mrs. Studdard sighed heavily. “And the do-rag, too, Mr. Porter.”
    Pork Chop groaned loudly. “Aw, Missus S, can’t a brother get some love?”
    “Not in my lunchroom, Mr. Porter. I’ve no time for love. You want love? Go find a girlfriend!”
    That brought hoots and squeals from many of Pork Chop’s fellow diners.
    “But, Missus S.,” he said, rising as if he were a defense lawyer in the trial of the century, “you can’ttake my cuh-BOY hat and my do-rag. I’m the Midnight Cowboy!”
    Mrs. Studdard tilted her head toward the ceiling, as if seeking divine strength from above. “You’ll have to be the Midnight Cowboy on your own time—and somewhere other than my lunchroom. You want to wear something on your head, I’ll get you a hairnet and you can start helping us serve lunch. I bet you’d look real cute in a hairnet, Mr. Porter.”
    More hooting and a few whistles followed this proclamation. Pork Chop looked around the room, smiling. He removed his do-rag, placed it on top of his cowboy hat, bowed to Mrs. Studdard, and sat down.

Chapter 2
Living with Pain

    B lake Randall turned off his boom box and wheeled his chair from behind his desk to a spot five feet in front of the metal folding chair where Cody sat.
    Cody looked around the cramped rectangular office, which was about half the size of Pastor Taylor’s. He wondered if the youth pastor’s salary was half that of the senior pastor’s as well. One of the longer walls was lined with bookshelves, most packed with Blake’s collection of tattered paperbacks, featuring authors like Lewis, McDowell, Schaeffer, Colson, Buechner, Tozer, and Calvin. Cody recognized a few of the authors from his parents’ own literary collection. His mom had done most of the book reading, sometimes enticing hisdad to do a Bible study with her. But he hadn’t seen Luke Martin read anything but the newspaper, the Wall Street Journal, and Business Week since Mom died.
    For the past two months, Dad’s black leather Bible sat on his nightstand, usually underneath a coffee cup or reading glasses. Mom never would have stood for that. She had told him hundreds of times, “The Bible is God’s holy Word. It isn’t a coaster or a footrest. And it’s the best book there is, so nothing should ever go on top of it. Not even a book by Billy Graham or Francis Schaeffer or Max Lucado.”
    Cody noticed that Blake’s bookshelves held at least a half-dozen Bibles. They were on the top shelf. Mom would approve, he thought. The bottom shelf featured Blake’s hardcover, thick-as-a-brick Bible commentaries—on every book in the Old and New Testaments. “My doorstops,” he jokingly called them.
    The other long wall was home to Blake’s CD collection, the envy of every kid at the church. He had ordered the hundreds of CDs alphabetically, from Audio Adrenaline to ZOEgirl.
    Blake called his books and music his “soul food.” He once told Cody, “If I ever have to go live on a desert island, this is all I’m takin’ with me—my tunes and my tomes.”
    After Blake had explained to Cody that “tome” meant a book, Cody laughed with the same sportsmanship he tried to show a losing team after a game.
    Cody turned his attention from the walls to his young youth director, only two years out of college, now intently flipping through the yellow pages of a thick legal pad.
    “So,” Blake said deliberately, “how was your week?”
    Cody let