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basketball, football, cycling, soccer—every sport had stories that went way beyond the games. I'd have to get lucky, but maybe Alyssa would be right. Maybe something would happen at Lincoln.

8
    T HE FIRST FOOTBALL PRACTICE was August 15. Lincoln's coach, Hal McNulty, is one of those gruff, Marine-sergeant types: crew-cut hair, bulging muscles, pants and shirt pressed, shoes shined. He's a PE teacher as well as a coach, and I had him my sophomore year. Some PE teachers ignore fat guys, and some torture them. He was a torturer. He made me attempt every gymnastic move, including cartwheels, and he snickered when I flopped on the mat like a tortoise without a shell.
    He'd had a head coaching job at some Division II college in the Midwest but had gotten himself fired for having tutors write essays for the players who didn't know their left shoe from their right ear, or at least that was the rumor. When he was first hired at Lincoln, he told Chet Jetton, the high school sports reporter for the
Seattle Times,
that his goal was to win a state title so he could get back into college coaching.
    I don't know whether it is because of McNulty's coaching or Horst's quarterbacking, but Lincoln has taken the league the past two years, though both times they lost in the first round of the playoffs. Those losses had to eat at McNulty—he'd come so close.
    I work afternoons in the summer at my parents' business, so it was early in the morning on August 14 when I headed to Lincoln High hoping to corner McNulty before practices started and get him to talk. I wanted him to respect me as a reporter, so before I left, I stood in front of the mirror and practiced sucking in my gut as I introduced myself. "
Hello, Coach, I'm Mitch True. I'll be covering the team for the
Lincoln Light
this year.
" I tried three or four different voices, but none sounded right. Besides, regardless of the voice I used, I had to breathe, and when I did, my flabby gut would hang over my belt.
    I parked my mom's Ford Focus by the gym, eased out of the front seat, and looked around. When I spotted McNulty loading tackling sleds into a school van, I tensed. To him, I'd always be a fat loser and nothing more. But a reporter has to have the courage to approach people, ask them questions, and get them to talk. "I'm Mitch True," I said as I neared him. "I'm the school sports reporter. I'd like to ask you some questions."
    "I was hoping you'd come around," he said. "Step into my office."
    I gaped, dumbfounded.
He was hoping I'd come around?
When I recovered, I nearly had to run to catch up as he strode across the field and into the coaches' office in the gym. He took a seat behind a neatly organized desk while I squeezed into a wobbly blue plastic chair across from him.
    "What's your name again?"
    I told him again.
    "You were in my gym class last year, right?"
    "Two years ago."
    "Well, Mr. True, you are now an important member of the Lincoln Mustangs football family."
    I smiled.
    "What's funny?" McNulty said, his blue-gray eyes glittering like shiny stones.
    Like an idiot, I patted my jiggly belly. "Me? An important member of the football family? How?"
    He leaned forward, pointing his pencil at me. "You are the person who sends in a game recap to the
Seattle Times.
You write exciting articles, and the
Times
will push them to the top of the high school page. That happens, and other newspapers will pick them up, which translates into publicity for the players and for me. It also means a byline for you, some cash, and a summer internship to boot. You remember last year's sports writer, Boyd Harte. He interned at the
Bellevue Journal.
"
    I hadn't thought about the connections I'd be making, but as sports stringer, I'd be dealing with editors of real newspapers, something that wouldn't have happened if I'd remained the news reporter for the
Lincoln Light—
unless the big dailies suddenly became interested in the accomplishments of Lincoln High's chess club. "Sounds great,"