Britz Barton’s Breaks

By Dorothy Alease Phillips

Britz Barton lives and breathes football. On game day, he carries a football in his left hand while, with his right hand, he eats, finishes assignments, and drives home from high school. It is this passion and drive that has landed him the coveted quarterback position on Central High’s team—an honor he does not take for granted.

When he is not playing football, Britz, known as Super Quarterback to his childhood friends and family, loves writing, practicing his Christian faith, and hanging out with his girlfriend, Christy Sellers. When, however, Britz suffers a debilitating injury making the game- winning play against the powerful Milton Mountaineers, everything changes. Now facing dire physical and scholastic problems, the struggling athlete must rely, even more, upon his faith and Christy’s encouragement to overcome seemingly insurmountable obstacles.

In this young adult novel, a teenage quarterback faces a monumental setback after he suffers a crippling injury during a game. His struggles lead him down an inspiring path lined with love, faith, and opportunities.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Abbott Press
• Release date: Jun 26, 2020
• ISBN: 9781458222862

Dorothy Alease Phillips

Dorothy Alease Phillips, a former high school teacher, taught English and journalism for over 22 years. She was married to the late Dr. Chester Phillips, a Baptist minister, and aided in his ministry for over 40 years. As a teacher, minister’s wife, and mother of three children, Phillips has geared her writings to various age groups in short stories, teen novels, romance novels, plays, and free-lance nonfiction. She attends writers’ conferences to hone her craft and to fellowship with other authors. Phillips earned a B. S. degree from Bob Jones University in Greenville, South Carolina, and a Master’s degree from East Carolina University in Greenville, North Carolina. Now residing in North Augusta, South Carolina, she still drives, takes exercise three times a week with Silver Sneakers, attends church services regularly, leads an active social life, and writes for publication. She considers herself blessed.

Book preview

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Britz Barton faded back from the huge mirror on his dresser, poised with his football, squinting his eyes, looking for a wide receiver. He carried through with a long, 35-yard spiral that landed right in his zigzagging receiver’s hands. He heard the uproar as his teammate stiff-armed opponents and dashed across the goal line, putting Central High on the boards first!

The scene was vivid in the quarterback’s mind although the toughest-rival game was really three hours away. All day long, he had lived football as his coach had stressed. He had carried a football in his hands every minute of the day. He held the ball in his left hand while, with his right hand, he ate meals, finished written assignments, and even drove home from school. Some quirk Coach Hudson had, but it usually paid off.

Once as he scrambled with the ball, he glanced at the big, framed picture on the opposite wall. That picture of him with his leg cocked and his arm raised in the middle of a pass had sometimes caused him a little embarrassment when the guys had come into his room.

My mom did that, he had explained sheepishly. Can you believe it? She went down to the paper office and got the original and had it blown up! He had to admit, however to himself, that he was glad she had done so. He had relived that stance hundreds of times.

One more play. This time a handoff or maybe a quarterback keeper; then he would lie down and rest for an hour just as Coach Hudson had instructed. He scrambled, could not find a receiver but spotted a hole right down the center. He sprinted! He scored! He reveled in victory.

Plopping down on his queen-sized bed, Britz spread his long legs apart, his toes touching opposite corners of the footboard. He raised the football straight up over his head and then let it drop to his chest. Entwining his fingers over the ball, he muttered, Stay right here if I fall asleep.

He had barely closed his eyes when a loud crash jarred them wide open. The quarterback picture had fallen from the wall and glass shattered across the hardwood floor.

Britz sat up and stared. He heard his mother call, Britz, are you all right? What was that noise?

Yeah, Mom, I’m fine. I believe your prized picture just got tired of hanging on the wall. He laughed and lay back down, but his mind was troubled. Was this some kind of omen for him and this game against the powerful Milton Mountaineers?

With determination, he brushed the thought from his mind. Coach Hudson had insisted upon complete relaxation for at least one hour before the game. I don’t want you reporting to me all tired out, he had said in his gruff voice. Now, you guys lie down somewhere and think about pleasant things. I want you to be at your very best when you suit up tonight. I am sending you home early so that you can be in tip-top shape at kickoff time. Don’t you dare let me or the townsfolks down, do ya hear!

Britz tried to think of pleasant things. He remembered the Christmas before his sixth birthday. He always smiled with this particular remembrance. How often had he heard this story. He had unwrapped a junior-sized football. Excited, he grabbed this, his best gift, and hurled a fast, unexpected pass to his dad who, on reflex, ducked, causing the ball to crash into his mother’s favorite, antique lamp! As Mrs. Barton had swept the pieces into a dustpan, Britz heard his dad whisper, Honey, don’t be angry. You know we have a super quarterback on our hands.

Super Quarterback had become his nickname, a name that was affectionately used by all of his family. Even some of his early childhood friends followed suit.

Perhaps it was in keeping with this dubbed name that he had followed closely all quarterbacks in college and professional games. He could cite them all, much to his dad’s delight.

Those early football dreams had finally come true. He was a senior in a Triple A high school. The starting quarterback! What a lucky guy I am, he suddenly said aloud.

His mind drifted from his beloved sport to another love of his life. From the first grade, Britz had liked to write. He wrote little poems or printed short stories for his parents to read. He enjoyed their chuckles, their warm approval. In school, his writings were often read aloud and tacked on the bulletin board. As he lay there, trying to relax, he recalled the first long poem he had written. He could remember where he sat in Miss Moring’s first grade classroom and could relive the way he self-consciously laid his head on his desk as she read aloud his poem about Iggley Wiggley. Strange but he could still recite the silly thing word for word:

IGGLEY WIGGLEY

Iggley Wiggley was a snake.

He could wobble, roll, and shake.

He could roll into a ball

He could slither up a wall.

He could crawl up a pant leg

He could slide down a back

He could hide in a closet

He could hide in a sack.

He could chase little children

And make them scream and yell.

He could bite mean teachers

And ring the school bell.

Yes, Iggley Wiggle was a snake

But, for sure, he was no fake.

In the third grade, he wrote in cursive a poem that got him into trouble. In truth, Britz thought, the only real grief in his life had been caused by his two loves – writing and football. How uncanny! Memories came tumbling back.

In the third grade, the Tindale Elementary principal was named Mr. Cecil Crook; and Britz, not meaning to be disrespectful, had fun playing with the last name. Crook. Crook. Crook. It was a stupid poem written in fun; but, oh, the trouble it caused! Again, Britz found he could recite the whole thing:

THE CROOKED MAN

There once was a crooked man

And he was very, very crooked.

He had crooked eyes and a crooked nose.

He had crooked fingers and crooked toes.

In fact, crooked was ALL that shows

And even that which did not

Like his crooked snot.

He had a crooked mind

And a crooked behind.

He had a crooked school

That produced a crooked fool

Like me.

While the teacher was out of the room, Britz read his poem to the class. Boys laughed loudly; girls giggled. The poem was being passed around the room when the teacher returned. With quick thinking, Martin Smith crammed the poem in his book bag. The teacher wondered why all the laughter but the students were silent so quickly that she did not ask what was funny. She merely said primly, Open your history book to page 60 and started the class.

Martin was going through his book bag that evening when he discovered the hidden poem. He read it again and laughed heartedly. It was then that he got the idea of printing the poem so that others could have a copy. He slipped into his dad’s office. Knowing how to use the copier, he put in more papers and pressed the buttons to make 50 copies.

At school the next day, Martin gleefully distributed the crooked-man poem.

Kids from all grades were reading the poem and waving papers around. Britz was stunned to see these copies. He really had not meant for anyone but his own classmates to read what he had written, especially since his principal did have one flaw: he had one good eye and one that crooked toward the center. At heart, Britz was kind and he did not want Mr. Crook to be hurt. He regretted having written the stupid poem.

Why did I do such a thing? he asked himself. What if Mr. Crook sees this poem! His feelings will be hurt. My mom and dad will kill me!

Troubled, Britz was trying to find out who had made the copies when his teacher stormed into the room. He could tell she was angry. He took his seat quickly and lowered his head as she neared him. His name was not on the poem, but she knew his handwriting. She knew his poems.

Britz Barton, she said sternly, I could not believe you could do such a thing. I think you owe your principal an apology. I want you to go to the office this very minute to say you are sorry.

Yes, Mam, yes, Mam, Britz said, hoping he could hold back the tears until he got out of the room.

Here. Take a copy of your work. Show it to Mr. Crook. Then see how happy you are with yourself.

Britz took the crumpled copy and raced from the room, knowing he could never hand this poem to his principal. He would eat the copy before he would show it to Mr. Crook! The students sat in rigid silence, filled with fear and pity for Britz. Bill Barnes closed his eyes and the students could tell he was praying; he always prayed about everything. Mary Lou Moore cried, as usual, and someone slipped her a tissue. Other students squirmed uncomfortably in their seats while Miss Moring paced across the front of the room, saying not a word. When Britz returned to the room sometime later with a red, moist puffiness around his eyes, no one dared to ask what had happened. His closest friend later confided how the class had reacted when he was sent to the office.

After this humiliating experience, Britz did not write for a while. Perhaps he would never have written again had not his teacher given a writing assignment. Everyone was to write about a cat or a dog. He asked if he could do some arithmetic instead but his teacher said No. You have the ability to write, Britz. Use your talent. Just be careful not to use your skill to ridicule anyone. Now, get busy and write me a good Britz Barton story. She smiled and patted him on the back.

And so, Britz once again wrote something that amused his teacher and his peers. He wrote about a cat named Purley Murley, a cat who wanted to be a person. Purley Murley insisted on sitting on her haunches at the table. She placed her paws on the table and ate from her dish in front of her. When her owner put her food in a dish on the floor, she refused to eat. She would jump up on the chair, place her paws on the table, and wait for her owner to bring her food.

Purley Murley slept with her head on a pillow and pulled the cover up over her. She used the bathroom like a person, anchoring her paws on the stool; and she liked to read. She would crawl up on her owner’s lap to look at the pages. If someone sought to turn a page before she was ready, she would gently claw the person with her paw.

Britz wrote two full pages about the unusual Purley Murley; and once again, the teacher posted his story on the bulletin board.

Perhaps Britz’s most memorable story, however, was written when he was in the sixth grade. He wrote about Matt Mangum, an unusual hunter. Now Matt knew how to shoot a gun and he knew how use a bow, but he could not bring himself to kill a deer. Nevertheless, he went deer hunting. His method, however, was very different. He would seat himself in a tree and he would wait for his prey to come along. It was then that he would use his very unusual hunting skill. He would begin talking to the deer. No one knew how he learned the deer’s language, but he could hum and click and make sounds that the deer could understand. Little by little, as he talked, Matt would ease down from the tree. Sometimes the deer would seem skittish, but Matt’s whispers would keep him from running away. Sometimes it was a matter of seconds; sometimes it took longer for Matt to gain the deer’s confidence. He would slip close to the animal, look deep into the big brown eyes, and lovingly stroke his neck.

Using the special animal language and petting, he would lead the deer back to a huge pen in his backyard. There he would place the deer with all the other deer he had brought home. He would feed him and introduce him to his fellow deer.

Matt kept this practice up until the deer season ended; and then, with great joy, he would announce to all the deer that he was taking them back home. He would open the gate and the freed animals would walk beside him or behind him as he led them back into the woods.

In his own skillful way, Britz made the story come alive and the students, especially the boys, loved the deer story.

In Britz’s locality, the seventh through the ninth grade, made up the Middle School. Once in these upper grades, Britz felt older and decided to change his writing technique. He was asked to be on the newspaper staff and gladly accepted. He thought and thought and then came up with a plan. He wanted to see if he could ferret out stories from any random person in the school. He asked the newspaper sponsor if he could write all the students’ names on strips of paper. Each month he planned to draw out a name for a person to be interviewed. He hoped to find something really newsworthy about any person selected. The teacher was delighted. I think this idea will be a real challenge for you, and I am sure the students will like being a part of your plan, she said, promising him a full list of the names of all students in the school.

The first name Britz drew was a Jewish boy named Abe Swartz. Britz chose to write, not only about Abe, but about Abe’s parents and grandparents. Abe’s parents were only children when Hitler sought to kill all Jewish people in Germany. The Swartz adults on his dad’s side were brutally yanked from their jewelry store, loaded on a packed train, and later killed in a place called Dachau. Those in his grandmother’s family died in the crowded boxcars while enroute to another concentration camp. Abe’s father, who was only six years old, escaped Hitler’s extermination by hiding in a sympathetic German’s home. After the war, this kind German family sent Abe’s father, Isaac Swartz, to America to live with relatives.

Since Abe had never shared this story before, it appealed to the students. They asked him questions. In civics’ class, he was asked to speak and to bring along family pictures and keepsakes from his father’s German home.

And so began Britz’s writing career in Middle School. He was later to write about Jim Jenkins who was caught in a snowstorm and spent three days in a car with his family before being rescued

He wrote a heart-warming story about a friend, Miriam Smith, whose mother found good foster homes for her three children when she learned she was dying. The mother even picked a second wife for her husband so that later the children could stay together. When Miriam’s father later married his wife’s choice, the family stayed united as Miriam’s mother had planned.

During the year, Britz dug out stories about Kit Stover, Lucille Lang, Smitty Jones, and many, many more. His stories became so popular that he wrote two or three each month.

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The summer after being graduated from the ninth grade, three very wonderful things happened to Britz. The first happened on June l5, his sixteenth birthday. For as long as he could remember, he had dreamed of this day – the day he would get his driver’s license. For several months he had had a driver’s permit and had driven his parents crazy, wanting to back out of the garage, drive the car down their long driveway, or to drive no matter where they were going. How often had he seen his mom roll her eyes as she reluctantly handed over the car keys. How often had he felt his dad cringe when he cut a corner short or took a chance his dad would not have taken. He knew he made traveling miserable for both of his parents, but he couldn’t help himself. More than anything in the world at that time, he wanted to drive.

Sometimes he would say apologetically, I know this will slow us down, but, please, may I drive? I really want to. I’m sorry. At least, by saying this, he let his family know that he knew he was being a nuisance and hoped they would understand. On that greatest of all birthdays, the long-awaited sixteenth, his dad met him after school and took him to get his license. Strange, but on the way to the highway station, Britz did not choose to drive. He sat quietly in the passenger’s seat and flipped through the pages of the manual one more time. He had studied thoroughly, but he reasoned one last review wouldn’t hurt. Wiping his sweaty hands on his jeans, he sat back, closing his eyes, and tried to breathe deeply.

Fortunately, he took the written part of the test easily, missing only one question