Victor Cruz - Out of The Blue, Young Readers Edition

PROLOGUE

T HIRD AND TEN.

Two minutes, twenty-seven seconds left in the first half.

The ball was on our own one yard line. We were down 73 to the Jets.

Antonio Cromartie, the Jets cornerback, was staring me right in the eye. Cromarties a talker. He told me I was a no name. He said that I didnt belong on the field.

Cromartie had every right to be jawing.

So far Id done nothing the whole game. Earlier in the week, Mario Manningham and I had said a few things about Cros Jets teammate Darrelle Revis. The quotes had ended up on the back pages of the citys major newspapers. One headline read C RUZ S AYS T EAMS A RENT S CARED OF R EVIS A NYMORE .

That wasnt quite what I had said, but thats what was printed and pasted up on the Jets bulletin board. Welcome to New York.

But it was Cromartie who had answered back, not Revis. When a reporter had asked him about Marios comments, he said, Well have to see on Saturday. Thats even if he touches the field. He let a guy named Victor Cruz come in and take his job.

A guy named Victor Cruz.

Like it was some shameful thing.

It was Christmas Eve. We were playing the Jets at MetLife Stadium. In East Rutherford, New Jersey. Its our home building, but its the Jets home building too. On the NFL schedule this was a Jets home game. At every other game wed played at MetLife, we had lined up on the sideline to the east of the field. For this one, we were the visiting team. So we were standing on the west sideline. You wouldnt think that would matter, but it was throwing us off.

Before kickoff, I scanned the standsour standsand it was just a sea of Jets green. That Fireman Ed dude was on his buddys shoulders leading the J-e-t-s, Jets, Jets, Jets! chant.

There was a bloodlust in the air.

It had been an ugly, sloppy game. Our defense had bailed us out all afternoon, and we were lucky to be down just four points.

THIRTEEN YEARS EARLIER, about fifteen miles to the north, I was wearing double pads and a red, white, and blue mesh jersey for my Little League football team, the PAL North Firefighters.

My father was a firefighter in Paterson, New Jersey. All the other kids on the team were either sons or nephews of Paterson firefighters too. I played center on that squad. I hiked the ball to the quarterback. I blocked opposing blitzers.

I really liked playing center. I was a part of the action. Running play, passing playI was always involved.

It was cool.

I was twelve years old, and I had this weird, little-kid body with really long arms and crazy long legs. I had a big neck too, like a giraffe. I wore thickly framed glasses and there was no meat on my bones.

I was happy playing center. But my dad, an assistant coach on the squad, would constantly be in the ear of our head coach, Mr. Tolbert.

Give Victor a shot at tailback, my father would tell him. Let Victor run the ball.

One game pretty late in the season, we were up by a few touchdowns. My father had spent much of the second half pestering Mr. Tolbert. Finally, I got called off the field.

Victor, were putting you in at fullback, he told me. Were up by a lot of points. If you lose a few yards, thats okay. Just dont fumble the ball.

I lined up in the backfield for the first time of my life. Over on our sideline I spotted my father. His eyes were lit up. He was beaming.

It was as if he knew something I didnt.

Hut one, hut two, hike...

Nigel, our quarterback, handed me the ball and I remember just thinking, Dont fumble it. I shook one defender behind the line of scrimmage. Then I saw an opening over the right guard. Daylight. I shimmied left and shifted right, just like one of my idols, Emmitt Smith. I shed another tackle. I was past the line and in open space. I had just one man left to beata cornerback a foot shorter than me.

In a flash, I had to decide whether to barrel over this kid or just burn him on the outside. I went with option one.

Then I was gone. Sixty-four yards. Touchdown.

My father had sprinted down the sideline, running stride for stride with me, for the entire run. He was in the end zone, right there next to me, jumping up and down.

I gave him a big hug. On our way back to the sideline, my father skipped over to Coach Tolbert. I told you so! he shouted. I told you so!

Id never play center another down in my life.

WE WERE 7-7 going into the Christmas Eve game. The Jets were 8-6. This was a must-win game for both teams if either wanted to make the playoffs.

As Cromartie and I stared at each other, I remembered the down and distance.

Third and ten.

The play called in from the sideline was a double hook route for Hakeem Nicks and me. A third receiver, Ramses Barden, was also lined up outside me. Both Hakeem and I were supposed to fight off coverage at the line of scrimmage, run about ten yards, and pivot to the outsideHakeem going left, me going right.