When I left the science lab after school on Friday, I had two problems. The first was what I had discovered in the lab. The second was that spending extra time there had made me fifteen minutes late for football practice.

Because of that, I didn't reach the locker room until most of my teammates on the Johnstown Striking Cobras had already changed and gone into the gym. And because I was the last one out of the locker room, I was the only one to see Glenn Pitt, our assistant coach, grab the wrong can of Pepsi. He had mistakenly reached for one filled with the dark brown juice of chewing tobacco spit.

But I should probably back up a bit to tell the whole story

When I walked out of the locker room, the high school gym was filled with guys in sweats sprinting back and forth. Between me and those guys, our two football coaches stood in front of a table covered with papers of team plays. The men stood with their backs toward me. Each coach carried a clipboard. Each had a stopwatch. Each was timing the short sprints of the guys in sweats and making notes on his clipboard.

Normally, we practiced outside on the football field. But today rain pounded so hard that the skylights of the gym rumbled like gravel in a clothes dryer. Not even our coaches-who thought cold and pain and torture were the keys to turning us into men-had the heart to make us churn through the cold mud in this rain.

Or maybe they just wanted a better, upclose look at all the players-this was the last afternoon of tryouts. Old Coach Donaldson wore glasses so thick that they made his eyes look like little brown peas floating somewhere deep in an aquarium. If rain streaked those glasses, he became as blind as he was already deaf.

But our assistant coach, Glenn Pitt, had perfect eyesight and hearing. He was young, just out of college. He had won bodybuilding competitions, and with his short, dark hair and bullet-shaped skull, he could have been a poster boy for the marines.

Coach Pitt was the complete opposite of Coach Donaldson, who some people joked had started coaching high school football teams before college teams were even invented. Coach Donaldson was certainly no marine. He looked like a giant pear, with a gray bowling ball-shaped head plunked on top and stiltlike legs sticking out below.

I watched them for a few seconds, wishing I could somehow sneak past Coach Pitt's eagle eyes. Once he noticed I was late, he would yell at me. He liked to yell, especially at me, because I had a hard time defending myself.

Worse, I would have to tell him why I was late on the last day of tryouts. I knew he'd yell even louder when he learned I'd put science ahead of football. But that part I could handle. The part I couldn't handle was saying the words Pitt and science. Which would give Coach Pitt even more opportunity to yell at me.

So I waited, hoping some miracle would happen to let me get past him unnoticed.

The squeaks of running shoes on the gym floor mixed with grunts and shouts. If only I were already out there with the other guys. .

Clipboard in his left hand, Coach Donaldson used his right hand to bring a Pepsi can to his mouth. He squirted a stream of tobacco juice into the can. He almost always had a golf ball-sized wad of chewing tobacco bulging his cheek out. Outdoors, he just fired tobacco juice onto the grass, and if a player was unlucky enough to slide into it during a tackie, it stuck and smeared across his jersey like grasshopper guts. Here, indoors, Coach Donaldson had no choice but to spit into a Pepsi can, which was only slightly less gross; it was hard to aim into the can, and much of the juice dribbled down his chin.

A football came wobbling across the floor toward Coach Donaldson's feet. Jim Schenley our quarterback, He turned away from me for a second and shouted to the rest of the team.

"Listen up guys, L-l-linden is about to explain to everyone why he's l-l-late."

The last squeaks of rubber soles against the gym floor stopped. As did all other noise. Most of the guys hate it when Coach teases me, almost as much as I do. But few would dare to make noise now and bring his wrath on themselves. It was just me and the huge echoing space of the gym-with the entire team listening.

My throat got tighter. I hate attention. The great thing about football is that when you play you can hide your face inside a helmet. And you don't have to talk.

With all eyes on me, I again heard my words clearly in my head. Coach Pitt, you grabbed the wrong Pepsi can.

"C-c-c-c-c . . ." I almost stomped my foot in the effort to get it out. "C-c-c-c-c."

I stopped. With everyone staring, I couldn't force the word out.

"Coach," he said, grinning with delight. "Spit it out, Mr. B-baby Talk. Coach."

"C-c-c-c-c-oach P-p-p-p.."

"Coach Pitt..." he said, nodding. I knew some of the guys on the team were squirming for me. Just like most people did whenever I had to talk to them.

"K-k-keep g-g-oing," he said. "You c-c-can do it." His eyes gleamed. I was his favorite target. "Y-y-you gr-gr-gr-gr-gr-gr . . . " I said. Most of the time, when I get stuck on a word, I search for a differ- ent one that's easier to say But with his big mean grin on me, I felt frozen like a frog in a flashlight beam.

He laughed again. And waved me quiet.

"We d-d-d-on't have all n-n-night," Coach Pitt said loudly so everyone could hear. "Hit the floor and g-g-give me a hundred p-p-p-ush-ups."

I pointed at the can of Pepsi in his hand.

"The wr-r-r-r .

"Down, Linden!" he yelled with sudden rage. "Now!"

With a nasty grin of triumph, he tilted his head back and sucked in a big gulp from the Pepsi can. And instead of cool, refreshing Pepsi, he swallowed warm horrible slime.

I saw it first in his eyes. They instantly popped wide in disbelief.

He dropped the can and clutched his throat. "L-like I was tr-rying to say," I explained. Words came out easier now that I didn't feel the pressure. "You gr-r-rabbed the c-can with t-t-obacco juice."

His eyes crossed.

He slapped both hands across his mouth.

He dashed past me to the locker room.

Even before the doors banged shut, we all heard it.

Loud, anguished retching as he threw up.

He didn't make it back to practice. And I never did my hundred push-ups.