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New York, New York Ed. note: Robert Lipsyte's latest book Raiders Night is a hard-hitting look at the world of competitive high school sports in a novel straight from today's headlines. Here is an excerpt: He could visualize himself shutting down, an old trick he usually saved for games, but now he used it just to get through another day. Closing doors, shutting windows, pulling drapes across the glass. Look straight ahead. Narrow the ears, too. Grandpa used to turn off his hearing aid when he didn't want to hear any more of Grandma's babbling about the neighbors, the kids, the other members of the church choir. If it's not about football, don't see it, don't hear it, don't touch it. Delete it. If it's not about football, it's spam. Smile and keep moving. He looked right through Sarah in the cafeteria. She stood frozen, eyes wide, mouth open. He ripped through Friday's practice. They were supposed to be tapering off for Saturday's game against Southwood, sure to be a physical game against one of the toughest teams in the conference, but they were psyched, hitting hard, following Matt's lead. The coaches were afraid someone would get hurt, but they didn't want to turn off the energy. Chris didn't show up for practice again, although he dressed for the game and sat on the bench again. What's his game? Nobody talked to him. Matt was so wired, he remembered the Southwood game only as a personal highlight reel. He'd never been in the zone so long and so completely. Might as well have been playing himself in a video game. Dad must have been screaming his lungs out. But Matt never heard him. Or anyone else in the crowd.  Raiders Night is the latest book from Robert Lipsyte, one of America's most accomplished journalists and authors. His 70-yard touchdown run came on the third play of the game. Hunkies go long. His over-the-head one-handed catch in the end zone came toward the end of the second quarter. By that time they were up 21-3, and he was heading toward the school single-game yardage record. At the start of the second half, he persuaded Coach Mac to let him shift to cornerback on defense. He said he'd seen a way to beat their top wide receiver. He picked the ball out of his hands on the Nearmont 42 and went all the way behind Ramps' big number 47. Ramp blocked like a tank. For a moment in the end zone, as they hugged, he felt something like love for Ramp, for what they had done together. Then he saw the smirk on the big face and clicked back into his icy focus. The coaches gave Matt the game ball, and he trotted to the stands to give it to Junie, who hugged it like a baby. Matt thought he should be feeling something after a game like that, but he was so calm inside, he felt hollow. While he was dressing, the froggy reporter came over. "Great game, Matt. Were you like inspired today?" "I had terrific blocking. And Brody put the ball right in my hands." Something Jerry Rice might have said after a game, he thought. "It was like you had to prove something. You were playing out of your skull." The kid looked very serious. No dummy. Better be careful around him. "I was in the zone." The reporter brought his face close up under Matt's. "You know, like sometimes athletes play better when they're blocking out their personal lives." What's he know? "What's the question?" "Is what happened at camp still on everybody's mind?" One of the managers came over. "Coach doesn't want you in here, Barry. You don't have athletic department credentials." "We could do this by e-mail, Matt." As the manager started to push him out of the locker room, he handed Matt his card. "The Nearmont Eye is independent. Our motto is 'Uncensored news you can trust.'" This time, Matt put the card in his pocket. Tricky sonuvabitch. Check out the Nearmont Eye sometime. He popped Vics and slugged down beers that night as he made the rounds of the parties. Pete volunteered to drive so he could celebrate. A junior girl he had danced with at the second party showed up at the fourth. They went upstairs. She was as drunk as he was. It was quick. No problem. I'm okay. He slept into late Sunday afternoon. Dad woke him for dinner. When he said he wasn't hungry, Dad said, "A Rutgers coach is coming by for dessert and coffee." "I don't want to go there." Way too close. You'd be on my case twenty-four/seven. "Don't want you to. Might be leverage to sweeten a Big Ten deal." When Junie took his dinner downstairs to the rec room to watch a CyberPup movie, Dad said, "What's with Tyrell?" "What do you mean?" Tyrell had a good game, Matt remembered dimly, but hadn't showed up at any of the parties, which was not like him. "Is he bringing dope from the city?" "Who says that?" "Cops talked to him. If he's busted, that's not good for us." "Larry!" Mom shook her head. "What about good for him?" "You need a strong runner to keep the secondary guessing so they can't key in on Matt," said Dad. "Too bad the Marin kid punked." "The gay boy?" said Mom. "He's not gay, not a punk," Matt blurted. "He's running some kind of number," said Dad. "Claims he's sick." "He got hurt." Mom and Dad exchanged glances. What did they know? Mom said, "Vikki heard that his mother's angry at the world and wants Nearmont to pay for her pain." "It's called blackmail," said Dad. "What if he did get hurt?" said Matt.
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