Scott Sigler: The Rookie

This book is dedicated to Coach Irv Sigler, my father, the greatest football coach and greatest man I have ever known.

This book is dedicated to the Junkies, the most rabid fans a writer could ever ask for. Let’s go tailgatin’!

A team of talented friends made this book happen. Y’all are a world-class offensive line that make this journeyman quarterback look like an All-Pro:

Kevin “The Franchise” Capizziat Kevin Capizzi CGI for the GameDay program layout and 3D modeling

A “Future Hall-of-Famer” Kovacsand the team at Audacity for overall project management

Donna “Chalkboard” Mugaveroat Sheer Brick Studio for interior book design

Greg “The Bomb” Poloynisfor the killer alien designs and art

Jerry “SI Coverboy” Scullionfor team logos and a book cover that will become a cultural icon

Special Thanks

Carol Sigler,who never missed a game. Go Chiefs! Go Redskins!

Jody Sigler,always subject to the first draft. Go Pack!

Scott Christian,for reading with a critical eye. Go Bama!

Shannon Fairlamb,for solid proofreading. Go Bears!

Rob Otto,talented commentator with a knack for stats. Go Titans (and Vikings, and Colts whoever else you’ve decided to root for this year because they happen to be winning this season)!

Irv Sigler III:The second-best football player among the Sigler Brothers (okay, that’s a dirty lie, but it’s my book, so I can say whatever the heck I want).

Looking forward to watching these guys play football

Tyler “Redneck” Sigler

Caden “The Crusher” Sigler

Semifinals of the Purist Nation Football League (PNFL)

Outland Fleet Corsairs (7–2) at Mining Colony VI Raiders (9–0)

Micovi Memorial Stadium

7:25 pm PNST

Coverage:

Holocast: Channel 15 Promised Land Sports Network

Translight Radio: 645.6 TL “The Fan”

Third and 7 on the defense’s 41.

Micovi’s three tiny moons hung in the evening sky like pitted purple grapes. Their reflected light diffused into the night’s mist, making them glow with a fuzzy magnificence.

Smells of Human sweat, iron-rich mud and the saltwater-like odor of Carsengi Grass filled the frigid air. The endless hum of the atmosphere processor echoed through packed stands, but the players — and the crowd — had long since tuned out its ever-present droning.

Quentin Barnes slowly walked up behind the center, head sweeping from left to right as he took in every detail of the defense. Well, some would call it a “walk,” most would call it a “swagger.” A step left, a half bounce left, a step right, a half bounce right. He stood behind the center, his hands tapping out a quick left-right-left “ba-da-bap” on the center’s ample behind.

From his crouch, the center smiled — the ba-da-bap was the kind of thing other players would tease you for — that is, unless your quarterback was Quentin Barnes. The center smiled because Quentin only did that, did the ba-da-bap , when he saw a hole in the defense. And what Quentin saw, Quentin took.

Behind Quentin, the tailback and the fullback lined up an I-formation. Two wide receivers lined up on the left side, with a tight end on the right.

“Red, fifteen! Red, fifteeeeeen!” Quentin’s gravel and sandpaper voice barked out the audible. His breath shot out in a growing white cloud, which seemed to break into slow motion as the crystallized vapor rose almost imperceptibly into the windless night. Across the offensive and defensive lines, similar start-stop breaths filled the air like a thin fog of war, each puff illuminated by the powerful field lights.

“Watch that shucker!” the Corsairs’ outside linebacker called as he pointed to the tight end. The tight end had caught six passes on the day, four of them in third-down situations, racking up 52 yards and a touchdown. And it wasn’t even halfway through the third quarter. The linebacker’s jersey, once blazing white with royal blue numbers, was now a torn mess of brown streaks, green smears and splotches of red fading to pink. The linebacker moved to line up directly over the tight end.

From his stance, the tight end smiled. Now he saw it, now he saw the same thing Quentin had seen almost the second they broke from the huddle.

“Huuut… hut!”

The center snapped the ball into Quentin’s wide hands. The linemen launched into their endless battle, huge cleated shoes kicking up clods of tortured grass and well-worked mud. Quentin dropped straight back as the fullback and tailback moved to the left and to the right, respectively, ready to block. The tight end shot off the line, big legs pumping and big arms swinging. The linebacker backpedaled, eyes wide and angry — he wasn’t going to let the tight end beat him this time.

The linebacker watched Quentin’s eyes as they locked onto the tight end. The tight end stepped to the right, like he was breaking outside, his head looking up and his shoulders turning out in an exaggerated move before he cut sharply left, to the inside, and curled up at eight yards from the line of scrimmage. Quentin’s left arm reared back — the linebacker snarled as he jumped the route: it was payback time, an easy interception.

Quentin’s arm came forward as the linebacker closed on the tight end — but the ball never left the tall quarterback’s hand. Pump fake. Quentin reared back again, lightning fast, and lofted a smooth, arching pass. The linebacker leapt, but the ball sailed just a few inches over his outstretched fingers to fall perfectly into the arms of the sprinting tailback, who had come out of the backfield on a delayed pattern. The tailback turned upfield, never breaking stride.

The tailback threw a head-and-shoulders juke on the free safety, who couldn’t change direction quickly enough to catch the streaking runner. The tailback cut to the right, towards the sidelines, and turned on the jets — the strong safety had a good angle of pursuit, but there just wasn’t enough field to catch up. The tailback strode into the dirty end zone standing up. The record crowd of 15,162 roared its approval.

Micovi Raiders 34, Purist Nation Outland Fleet Corsairs 3.

Quentin Barnes reached down and plucked a few blades of the tough Carsengi Grass from the muddy, cleat-torn field, then held them to his nose. He breathed deeply, smiled, then rolled his fingers, feeling the grass’ rough texture before the blades scattered to the ground.

SMILES SEEMED LIMITLESS that day, particularly to players and fans of the black-and-silver Mining Colony Six Raiders. And for Stedmar Osborne, the Raiders’ owner, the smile was so big it looked almost painful. He sat behind the smoked glass of his luxury box, enjoying an illegal Jack Daniels on the rocks and smoking an illegal Tower Republic cigar. Normally he was down on the field, as any young owner should be, but this week he was entertaining a visitor — a Quyth Leader, forbidden both because of his rap sheet and his species. Not that it was legal for any species other than Humans to stand on Purist Nation soil. But out here on the fringe colonies, such things were often ignored if you had enough influence.

“What did I tell you, Shamakath ,” Stedmar said, respectfully using the Quyth word for ‘leader.’