Once again, as he approached another corner, he found himself looking around to see if any other boys were playing football in the street. He was still a little surprised how accurate and strong his arm was when he threw the deep pass to that boy a few minutes ago and was curious if he could do it again. Maybe he shouldn’t have been surprised, not after all the hours he spent, as a kid, throwing a football through the treadless snow tire his father hung from a limb of the oak tree in their backyard. “Throw your shoulders when you throw,” he remembered his father telling him time and again, “otherwise the ball will wobble like a wounded duck.” He might not be very consistent when it came to making successful bets but he still could throw a decent pass. It was really the only thing he was accomplished at, as a youngster, and, maybe, even as an adult. His release was a tad slow at times but his accuracy was spot on, his throwing hand following through as if he were trying to shake the hand of his receiver. * “Hey, watch where you’re walking!” a bicyclist barked as he churned past Stokes. “You watch it!” he shouted back, amazed his left elbow wasn’t hit by the reckless cyclist. Instantly he raised his arm as if still holding a football and threw it toward the cyclist, sure the imaginary ball would strike him in the back of his neck. He smiled, remembering once in high school drilling a bully in the ear who was picking on a kid half his size. The jerk dropped to his knees as if whacked with a two-by-four.
* Without question, Stokes was the most accurate passer on his high school team and often won bets with teammates on all the different targets he was able to hit. Once he even knocked a seagull out of the sky to the horror of his coach. There was never a surer bet he ever made than when he bet on the accuracy of his throwing arm. Despite his skill as a passer, he started only a couple of games in high school because the kid ahead of him, Butch Reese, was overall a better leader. He could read defensive coverages as well as any of the coaches and, if necessary, didn’t hesitate to shift into a new formation. At times, he acted like a carnival barker when he called an audible. Frantically waving his arms above his helmet, he strode up and down the line of scrimmage, stomping his feet and barking signals. “You ever have any doubts when you decide to call an audible?” he asked him one day after practice. “Doubts?” “Yeah. You ever think maybe you should’ve run the play that was called from the sidelines when the one you called didn’t work out?” Frowning, he shook his head, seemingly insulted by the question. “Never?” “So far, a lot more often than not, my audibles have worked out. Which is a pretty good average so I’ll continue to call them until the percentages turn against me.” “So far so good, in other words.” “Believe me, I don’t ever call an audible to show off and draw attention to myself. I do it to win. That’s why anyone does
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