by Carl Deuker
Because of my touchdown, we were almost upbeat at halftime, even though we trailed 28–7. “Bellevue isn’t beating you,” Coach Lever hollered. “You’re beating yourselves. Stay in the moment and we can win this game. Believe!” Heading out for the second half, I could sense the adrenaline surging through every player on the team.
But Hunter’s nightmare continued. His first handoff to Skeeter was chest high. Skeeter had no chance, and the ball bounced free. Bellevue recovered the fumble and scored two plays later. 35–7. Hunter threw another interception later in the third quarter, and he fumbled in the fourth. The final was 48–7, and a stadium that had been packed was nearly empty when the clock finally showed all zeroes.
On the bus ride back, I sat up front next to Richie. Behind us, we’d hear guys mumbling to one another, everything so soft that no words were distinct.
I didn’t like losing the game, but the game hadn’t been a loss for me. I’d made six catches; I’d been hit a dozen times. My uniform was ripped; my elbow was bleeding; I had another cut over the bridge of my nose. My body ached, but I felt great.
Back at school, the team filed off the bus like prisoners returning to jail. I could have texted my mom, and she’d have picked us up, but I felt like walking.
As Richie and I headed into the night, we saw Mr. Gates chewing out Hunter as they walked to his SUV. We couldn’t hear what he was saying, but we could guess.
Richie nodded toward Mr. Gates. “Hunter falling flat on his face is perfect, if you think about it. Everybody is always kissing his butt. He’s going to be a bigtime college quarterback and then play in the NFL. Blah, blah, blah. You, too, Brock. You’re that way. Well, he sure sucked tonight, didn’t he? Big stage, good team, and he sucked spectacularly.”
Most of me felt exactly the way Richie did. But part of me felt sorry for Hunter. He’d work for years to become a top quarterback. And then—in the most important game of his life—he’d failed. Richie didn’t know the sting of failure, but I did.
If winning cures everything, then losing poisons everything. On Monday, the whole school was down. Had we lost in a close game, we might have stayed in the top sixteen in the state and kept our spot in the playoffs. But getting blown out dropped us all the way to number twenty-five. We’d have to beat both Blanchet and O’Dea to have a chance for the playoffs.
At chess club, Richie was quiet. No jokes, no smiles even. He checkmated the guy he was playing and then sat next to Anya to watch our game. “Is something wrong?” Anya said.
Richie dropped his eyes. “It’s my mom. It’s going to end soon. My dad told me.”
I knew I should say something, but I didn’t know what. I felt useless. I made a chess move, though I don’t know what it was. Anya pushed a pawn forward. Richie shifted in his chair. “I knew it before he told me. She sleeps all the time, and when she’s awake there’s something different about her. It’s almost like she’s not part of the world anymore.”
Anya reached over and put her hand on top of Richie’s. “I’m sorry,” she said.
That was what I’d wanted to say. Just that.
The warning bell rang. Richie tapped the chessboard, looked at Anya, and shook his head. “You could have taken Brock’s queen with your knight. It’s been there for two moves.”
At practice on Monday, we did our normal warm-ups, but there was no life in anyone. Before sending us off to our individual groups, Coach Lever sat us down at midfield. For once, he didn’t use the bullhorn. His face was long; his voice dead. “We’ve got to face the truth, gentleman. No matter how hard it is to admit, we’ve got to face it.”
I’d never seen him look so defeated.
He paced back and forth a few times, breathing in and breathing out loudly. Finally he stopped, leaned forward toward us, and whispered as if he were sharing an incredibly important secret, his eyes looking right and left. “Those Bellevue guys—their peckers are way bigger than I thought.” There was a moment of dead silence. Then everyone laughed, a nervous is-it-okay laugh. “Not this big,” Lever went on, holding his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. “More like this!” And he threw both arms wide. We howled.
When we finally settled down, he was back to his normal self.
“Games like that happen. They just do. You’ve got to wipe it from your mind. If we win the next two games, we have the best record in Seattle, and we’re in the playoffs. So let’s have a great week of practice.”
And then it was Friday night. A rainy, windy, bone-chilling Seattle Friday night. I was sitting next to Richie in the dingy locker room at Memorial Stadium that somehow, in spite of the cold, felt just right. A parent volunteer passed out black balaclavas and all-weather gloves. They had small openings for your eyes, nose, and mouth, but otherwise they covered your entire head, giving a tough-guy gangster look to the team. Once guys pulled the balaclavas on, I couldn’t recognize anyone, not even Richie. We looked as if we were going to hijack a Brinks truck, not play a football game.
Coach Lever stood in the center of the locker room saying the things he always said. Guys around were listening or not listening, adjusting the balaclava or taking it off. Richie was humming some song, his foot tapping the ground nervously. “Beat Blanchet!” Coach Lever finally shouted. We hollered the words back at him, and then we ran down the aisle that led to the field.
In the locker room, the balaclavas and had seemed stifling. As soon as we stepped onto the field, I wished mine were warmer. A freezing wind was blowing hard throughout warm-ups. I could see Hunter tense when he saw the flags flapping wildly beyond the end zone. What stats could he put in a gale?
In the opening quarter, a first down was a big deal. I caught a couple of three-yard passes. Skeeter had to be careful with the wet ball and the slippery footing, so he wasn’t getting much push. We weren’t going to drive the length of the field and score, not against the wind and the rain and the Blanchet defense. “Don’t fumble!” Coach Lever kept reminding us after each change of possessions. “We can’t give away points.”
On fourth down on their own forty, Blanchet’s kicker dropped into punt formation. It looked like a regular kick, which was why nobody was ready. The kicker faked a punt and then streaked to the right. Our guys rushed up to tackle him. A wide receiver slipped behind our defense; the punter stopped and flung the ball as far as he could. It was an ugly pass, wobbly and blowing in the wind, but the Blanchet guy hauled it in and ran for a touchdown. They missed the extra point, but at the end of the first quarter Blanchet led 6–0.
The score held until just before the half, when Blanchet finally made a mistake. It came after they’d stopped Skeeter inches short of a first down, forcing Richie to punt. The wind was swirling as he launched the football a mile high into the stratosphere. Blanchet’s returner should have cleared out of the way, but instead he tried to catch it. The ball bounced off his shoulder pads, and one of our guys fell on it, deep in Blanchet territory.
We were back on the field, juiced by the possibility for a quick score that would give us the lead. A handoff to Skeeter picked up seven. Hunter got another seven yards on a read-option run. A quick hitch pass to Ty netted two. On second and eight, Hunter hit me with a perfect pass on a curl route. I caught the ball and went down, protecting against a fumble, two yards short of a first down. We rushed to the line and ran Skeeter on a quick hitter, trying to get the play off before Blanchet’s defense was set. The play would have worked, but Skeeter slipped in the backfield.
Fourth-and-four from the seventeen.
Coach Lever called time out, but he didn’t talk to us. He had his arm around Richie, and Richie was nodding his head up and down.
The field goal try was from thirty-five yards out. That doesn’t sound far, but in the wind and rain on a sloppy field, it was a long way. Everything had to be perfect. Perfect snap, perfect hold, perfect kick. And it was: Richie kicked a low line drive that bore through the wind like a bullet.
Blanchet 6, Crown Hill 3.
Ha
lftime was all about getting warm. The parent volunteers had space heaters going for hands and feet, and dry pants and jerseys for guys who had the energy to change. Coach Lever said a few words about ignoring the weather, and we were back on the field.
Before the kick, Hunter was pacing around by himself. He had about fifty yards passing and maybe thirty more on the ground—nowhere near what he needed to make an impression on a college coach. The rain and wind had let up a little, but the weather was still miserable.
Neither team could get going in the tough conditions. Richie was outkicking their guy, so we had better field position all through the third quarter and the first half of the fourth, but we couldn’t take advantage of it. The score was still 6–3, and as the clock ran down in the fourth quarter, so did our hopes for a playoff spot.
Blanchet was backed up on their own ten-yard line, facing third-and-four. From the shotgun, their QB clapped his hands, but the snap came low. The football slipped through his hands and started bounding toward the goal line. He turned and chased after it, but instead of falling on the ball, he booted it through the back of the end zone and into the bushes. The refs looked at each other, then made the over-the-head signal that meant safety. The scoreboard went to 6–5—a weird score for a weird football game.
Blanchet had a free kick from the twenty after the safety, and we took over at midfield. I looked at the clock: four minutes remained. This was our last chance. And right then, when we needed to put together a drive, the rain picked up, coming down in sheets, while the wind howled through the nearly empty stadium.
As I huddled up with the other guys, water ran down my helmet and onto my neck and back. My shoes squished with every step. My teeth were chattering and my body was shivering. “Eighty-eight slant on one” was the call. A pass to me.
I took my position on the line and made my break. The ball was perfectly thrown, chest high. I was wearing gloves, but the ball still stung as it hit my frozen hands. I got down before a linebacker had a chance to drill me. First down on the Blanchet thirty-nine. Clock ticking.
We ran Skeeter up the middle, and then Hunter hit him with a little swing pass, setting up third and three. This time, I ran a curl and dropped to my knees, and there was the ball, perfectly thrown again. Hunter gave me a fist pump. First down at the Blanchet twenty-seven. Two minutes and change left.
I ran the curl again, but this time Hunter’s pass was batted down at the line of scrimmage. On second and ten, with the rain pouring down, Skeeter carried four guys to the twenty. One minute thirty seconds left on the clock, two time-outs remaining, third-and-three.
My heart was racing, and I wasn’t cold—not anymore. I wanted the ball coming my way, but the play call was an option bootleg for Hunter. He took the snap under center and ran to his right, looking downfield. I ran a crossing pattern, making myself available. I was open, but he didn’t throw the ball. Instead, he stopped on a dime and cut back. The Blanchet guys had overpursued. Hunter was in the clear. I watched him race toward the end zone. Fifteen . . . ten . . . five . . . touchdown! The twenty people in the stands cheered wildly. Hunter had done it. He’d won the game.
But then I spotted the yellow flag, and I knew why Skeeter was staring at his feet. The referee clicked on his microphone. “Holding. Crown Hill. Ten-yard penalty. Repeat third down.”
Third-and-thirteen with fifty-two seconds left to play.
Coach Lever called time out; we huddled around him. “We don’t need a first down, because Richie’s going to win this game with a field goal. But that wind is right in his face, so we do need to get him closer. I want a check-down pass to Brock—and, Brock, I want you to fight for every extra inch you can get.” He put his finger on my chest. “This is the time.”
The whistle blew, ending the time-out. Hunter led us to the line, crouched under center: “Rocket!”
I came across the line and found a seam between the linebackers. Hunter’s throw was on target. I made myself watch it into my hands and then wrapped both arms around the ball and turned upfield. After one step, I got hit by a linebacker, but I stayed upright and took a second step and then a third. Finally, when I felt I was going down, I drove hard with my legs to make sure I fell forward.
I got up and looked at the yardage stripes—I’d carried the ball all the way to the twelve-yard line. Richie and the rest of the field goal team were coming on the field. “You can do it,” I yelled to him as we passed. He didn’t look up; his eyes were focused on the goalposts.
The ref blew his whistle, signaling the ball was in play. The wind was right in Richie’s face, and so was the rain. The snap was a little high, but the holder got it down. Richie moved into the ball just like it was practice. Not faster, not slower—just the way I’d seen him do it over and over.
The ball rose up into the sky. You could see it in the lights, raindrops all around it, spinning end over end. It went forward for a while, and then it seemed to balloon straight up in the wind.
Finally, it started down, down, down. The kick was straight, but was it long enough? We waited and waited. Finally, it hit the ground. Both officials threw their hands up in the air. Good! It had cleared the post by about a yard. The scoreboard changed to 8–6.
We’d beaten Blanchet!
In the locker room, we cheered and pounded on the lockers before exhaustion hit. The bus ride back to school was almost silent. My mom had told me she’d pick us up if it was raining, and I was glad to see her car in the parking lot. Richie and I piled in and my mom turned the heat up full blast. By the time she reached Richie’s house, I’d nearly fallen asleep.
I did sleep late on Saturday. When I went downstairs, my dad was waiting for me. I’d been too tired to tell him about the game the night before. Now I did my best, but when it came to it, there wasn’t much to tell. He got it, though. “That’s kind of how life is sometimes,” he said, smiling. “Just a hard slog. The winner is the one who keeps slogging.”
I ate a little—I was too sore to eat much—and then went to Richie’s. He wasn’t in the shed, so I circled back and knocked on the front door. His father opened it and led me into the kitchen. Richie was sitting at the table with a math book open, his mother across from him. She was wearing a robe that she pulled tight across her chest when she saw me. Richie’s violin case was open, the violin not quite resting properly inside it. Had he been practicing earlier?
“You go,” his mother said. “You go be with your friend.”
Richie looked to his father, who nodded. He stood, put the violin away properly, and packed his books, and then we headed outside. “What do you want to do?” he asked.
“How about Top Pot Doughnuts? I’ve got some money.”
Ten minutes later, we were drinking mochas, eating maple bars, and watching the cars go in and out of the Office Max parking lot. “That was a great kick, you know. Game on the line. Wind. Rain. That was really something.”
“I thought I had plenty of distance, and then the wind came up and I thought it was ten yards short.”
“You’re going to be the star at school. Game-winning field goal in miserable weather. Pretty impressive.”
He tilted his head and smiled. “I’m okay with being the star.”
I took a bite of my maple bar and washed it down with some mocha. “You’ve got to admit—it’s worked out. You kicking for the team, I mean.”
“Oh, sure, it’s worked. But it’s all a fraud, too.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re laying off me because I can kick. But I’m still the loud-mouthed, brainy Chinese kid with the dumb name, the funny hair, and the black glasses. What I’m really good at—music and math and design—none of it counts.”
“Most kids don’t think that,” I said. “It’s just a few. The stuff you’re good at counts to me, and it counts to other kids too. They just don’t say it out loud because—” I stopped, not sure how to explain.
Richie laughed mockingly. “Because they don’t want anyone to thin
k they’re like me.”
In the hallway Monday morning, some kid saw Richie and screamed, “Fong’s the Mon,” with a Jamaican lilt. Other kids took up the chant, and Richie went into a Bob Marley stoner shuffle that made everyone laugh.
In my classes, lots of kids lied, claiming they were at the game and had seen Richie’s kick. At chess club, Anya asked Richie to describe the kick for her. “Sure,” he said. “It was like this—” And then he went on to describe kicking into hurricane winds while monsoon rains gushed from the sky.
When he finished, Anya turned to me. “How bad was it?”
“The wind was probably fifteen miles an hour, and it was a little rainy,” I said, my voice flat.
“Fifteen!” Richie shrieked. “It was one hundred and fifteen. Bring me a Bible. Bring me the Qur’an. I’ll swear to it. I am Legend.”
There was a different vibe at practice during the O’Dea week. All games are tough, but Coach Lever knew that the wind and rain had beaten us up as much as Blanchet had, so he went easy. He locked the weight room. “Your muscles need rest, not stress,” he said. We stretched; we jogged; we stretched again. We practiced our plays, but we went at three-quarters speed.
All that week, I saw Hunter’s eyes scanning the edge of the practice field, looking for college recruiters. None showed, not even coaches from small schools. Not a single one. It was nearly the end of recruiting season, and he didn’t have an offer.
I’d looked at Hunter’s statistics in the Seattle Times. They weren’t bad—he was in the top third in almost everything, but nothing jumped out. Strictly from the numbers, he looked like a pretty good quarterback in a so-so league. He needed to make the playoffs—and play well in the playoffs—to catch a recruiter’s eye. The O’Dea game was huge for him.