Sea Change

By Bruce Leaf

Chris Bowen is the star quarterback at his high school and is attracting interest from college scouts. He dreams of playing in the NFL but can be indecisive in crucial moments during a game. After taking a vicious hit to his head, he begins to have hallucinations of a 19th century whaling ship and thinks he's going crazy. Afraid of losing scouting interest and jeopardizing his future, he doesn't tell anyone. His mental state worsens when a ghost, an old mariner named York, arrives. York struggles to convince Chris that he did indeed have a past life and it is affecting what he does now. Chris's disbelief finally dissolves after a tragedy occurs. Then he begins to trust York and ultimately learns why he sometimes hesitates during a pivotal play. Once he overcomes that hesitation, he's ready to move on to college and adulthood.

"Sea Change" is a gripping novel that consists of intertwined parallel stories, one an adventure that takes place 160 years ago, the other a tale of modern high school student life. Themes of friendship, the call of the sea, academic and athletic excellence, being on the cusp of adulthood, and preparing for the future run throughout the book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: BookBaby
• Release date: Dec 15, 2021
• ISBN: 9781667808994

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SEA CHANGE

© 2020 Bruce Leaf

All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems—except in the case of brief quotations or excerpts for the purpose of critical reviews or articles—without permission in writing from Bruce Leaf, author and publisher of the book.

ISBN: 978-1-66780-898-7

ISBN eBook: 978-1-66780-899-4

Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 1

Coaches are all control freaks, take-charge guys who don’t do the work but tell those who do what to do.

That thought flashed through Chris Bowen’s mind as he watched Coach Cahill shout the next play into the earhole of Tom Sword’s helmet. Chris glanced at the other sideline and noticed that team’s coach was doing the same thing to one of his players. Mirror images, opposing sides. He shook his head, tried to focus, and mentally chewed himself out for letting his mind wander, but he couldn’t help it. His brain just did that sometimes when there was a lull in the action.

He looked up. Fans were stomping their feet on the stands, the drummers driving them into a frenzy. Cheerleaders bounced and waved pompons. He turned his gaze back to Sword, who nodded and then hopped like a jackrabbit a step or two onto the field before Cahill caught his arm and shouted something else into his ear.

Chris’s mind wandered again. Why did coaches get so much credit? The players were the ones who made the game. No matter how strong or well-coached they were, things always happened that made it go out of control, which was what made it all so exciting and crazy. Just like life.

Cahill slapped Sword on the back, then resumed prowling the sideline, back and forth, tapping his leg with a rolled-up play sheet. Players got out of his way.

Sword ran in. Chris glanced at the scoreboard. Visitors 24, Wolves 22. A minute left. Plenty of time. Okay, he was focusing now.

Teammates huddled around him. The linemen stood with their hands on their hips, exhaling clouds of silvery breath through their face masks. They were always the dirtiest from wrestling with the defense on every play, and the grunge was their badge of honor because it meant they’d been in the thick of the fight.

Chris knelt in the center and felt his pulse quicken. He loved it when the game was on the line and whatever happened next was the players’ doing, not the coach’s.

He pointed at the defense. They don’t know it yet but they’re gonna lose in the next sixty seconds.

His teammates grinned and eyed the other team.

Chris looked at Sword. Tom’s got the play.

X red, wide right, on three, he said, slightly out of breath.

You heard the man, Chris said and stood, about to leave the huddle.

Tom stopped him. And one more thing. Cahill says and I quote, ‘If Bowen screws this up, he’ll be running stairs all week in his jock.’

Players snickered.

Chris shot a glance at Cahill. I’d like to see his bony ass out here.

A big, overweight lineman, Paul Cruickshank, clapped his gloved hand on Chris’s shoulder. It’d get stomped on.

The players headed to the line.

Chris nudged Paul’s arm and pointed at a linebacker. Watch him.

Paul eyed number fifty-five, who was hopping from one foot to the other as if he were stepping on hot coals.

The players set in their stances, Chris under center.

X red one, he called, looking both ways along the line. X red two, X red three.

The center snapped the ball and the lines collided. Chris backpedaled, looked for a receiver, but his vision was partially obscured by the blitzing linebacker. Paul missed his block, Chris thought. The guy made a grab for his throwing arm, trying to knock the ball loose, but Chris sidestepped him like a matador slipping away at the last second from a charging bull. He heard the guy grunt as his momentum carried him by.

Chris saw Tom break for the sideline twenty yards downfield, a step ahead of the cornerback. He cocked his arm back, about to pass, when, out of the corner of his eye, he glimpsed the linebacker coming at him a second time, arms raised high to block the throw. This time there was no escape. Questions blew through his mind. Should he throw and hope the guy didn’t swipe his arm and cause a fumble? Or should he tuck and run? No, it was a pass play. He had to throw. Then it was too late. Hesitating for a fraction of a second had cost him. Instinctively, he ducked away, but the ’backer grabbed his shoulders and he felt himself go weightless as he was lifted off the ground, whirled around, and then slammed headfirst into the turf, a pile driver hit.

Dazed, he lay motionless on the field. He looked up and saw fog drifting under the stadium lights. Then an image of an old sailing ship floated through his head. Men were shouting and pointing at something in the water. But before he could make sense of it, it winked out, like the light of a firefly. That was weird, he thought. He saw shoes running toward him. Somebody’s laces were untied. Somebody should tell him so he doesn’t trip and fall. A muffled voice, like a faint echo, said something he couldn’t make out. Then louder.

Chris?

He flicked his eyes side to side but couldn’t see who was talking. Movement on the sideline caught his attention. Cahill was pointing and yelling at a ref.

Now somebody else was talking. This time the words were clearer, closer.

Chris? Can you hear me?

He turned his head. Tom was bending over him. A circle of faces stared down at him, and he felt like he was at the bottom of a barrel looking up. He realized the stadium had gone quiet because he could hear his heart beating and the blood pounding in his head.

The ref hustled over. Are you hurt?

Chris sat up and shook his head.

Let me hear you say it, the ref said.

No, Chris croaked. Then louder, I’m okay.

The ref stepped back and waved at the sideline, indicating he didn’t need help. Then he was gone.

Paul extended a hand and pulled Chris to his feet. Sorry, man, he was too quick. Next time.

Chris took a deep breath and exhaled slowly, then nodded and adjusted his helmet. He patted Paul’s back. Yeah, sure, next time.

He looked at a brown-haired girl halfway up the stands who was covering her mouth with her hand in alarm. He raised his hands in a what-can-you-do-gesture before heading to the huddle. The fans, who’d been on their feet and holding their breath, applauded and sat back down.

The other team was slapping and high-fiving the linebacker, who grinned and wagged his forefinger at Chris, a warning not to throw again.

Even the announcer, who’d been silent, got back in the action. Sack on the play, his voice boomed through the speakers. Ball on the forty-five. Second down.

Chris glanced at Cahill who tapped his right arm with the play sheet, signaling pass.

Chris leaned forward into the huddle. Ball’s coming to you, Tom. Let’s get it right this time so we can go home with a win.

The Wolves clapped in unison and dogtrotted toward the line. As they were getting set in their stances, Chris dropped to one knee, gasping for air.

Hey, you okay? Tom asked. You want take a break?

Players stood up and looked uncertainly at Chris.

Yeah, I’m okay. His chest heaved as he took a couple of deep breaths.

You don’t look it.

Chris got to his feet. No, I’m fine. Just got the wind knocked out of me and needed to catch my breath. Let’s get this done.

He turned to Paul. Keep that ’backer off me. Whatever it takes. You understand what I’m saying?

Paul nudged another big lineman and chinned at fifty-five. The lineman nodded.

Players from both teams lined up.

Chris, in the shotgun, shouted, Ready, set, hut one, hut two.

The center snapped the ball and the lines smashed into each other. Bodies sprawled. Chris backpedaled, faked a throw left, and then fired a bullet to Tom, who raced down the right sideline before being shoved out of bounds near the twenty-yard line.

At the line of scrimmage, Paul and the other big lineman sprawled on top of the linebacker. Paul leaned his forearm across the guy’s throat until he choked and flopped like a gaffed salmon.

Paul stood up and pointed his finger at him. That’s for my QB. Stay off him.

The linebacker staggered to his feet but remained bent over holding his throat. Two of his teammates glared at Paul and then put their arms around the linebacker’s back and escorted him off the field.

Chris slapped Paul’s shoulder. He got the message.

Paul grinned. Yeah, he’s done.

Bowen! Cahill waved him toward the sideline.

Chris trotted off the field as a tall, gangly kid ran on. Chris patted him on the back. You got this.

Chris slumped onto a bench, slipped off his helmet, and ran his fingers across his scalp, feeling for bumps. None there. He smoothed his sweaty brown hair backward and tucked long strands behind his ears. Players swung by to shake his hand and pat his back. Somebody offered him a cup of water, which he downed in one gulp. He looked over his shoulder, caught the brown-haired girl’s eye, and pointed at a gate. She smiled and nodded.

Then, as one, the fans roared and threw their arms up to signal field goal just as time ran out. The Wolves won.

They jogged off the field, hooting and hollering, into the locker room, their cleats clattering on the cement floor.

Chris slumped onto a bench and pulled off his jersey, pads, and sweat-stained undershirt, revealing a powerfully built upper body. He massaged his shoulders and neck and rubbed his head again.

Tom dropped in next to him and ran his hand over his sandy blond hair to keep it out of his eyes. They tapped fists.

Good grab, Sword. Sweet hands, Chris said.

Tom spread his grass-stained fingers, the knuckles scraped raw and bloody.

Good thing I don’t play piano. He turned his hands over. They look like my old man’s after a bad day at the mill.

Chris knew