by Carl Deuker
On Tuesday, in the main entrance, there was a big picture of an X’ed-out Pope Francis with the words BEAT THE CATHOLICS! written in red across his face. Everybody who saw it laughed, but it came down before lunch.
On Wednesday, a warm front came in from Hawaii. On Friday—game day—the temperature was going to be around sixty, and there was no chance of rain. Perfect football weather.
I thought at Thursday’s practice we’d watch film and walk through plays, but instead we played five-on-five touch football. “Football is fun,” Lever said as he passed out a bunch of Nerf footballs. “Don’t forget that.”
Colton Sparks was finally back from his injury. “Touch is perfect for you, Brock,” he mocked when we were making up teams. “Just the right amount of contact. Besides, you like boys touching you, don’t you?”
Some of the guys around me laughed, but there was tension, too. Was I going to let him get away with that? My hands balled into fists. I had to take him on.
And then, suddenly, I didn’t have to.
“He did fine while you were injured,” Skeeter said in his slow, quiet way.
“He flopped to the ground every time he caught a pass,” Colton snapped. “He’s a wuss.”
“That’s not how I remember it,” Skeeter said. “I remember him fighting for extra yards in the cold against Blanchet while you were on the sidelines in a nice warm parka with your little sore foot wrapped up in a heating pad. So stick a sock in it, Sparks.”
Everyone went dead quiet. Nobody had ever seen Skeeter angry before. Finally, Colton motioned toward the other side of the field. “I think I’ll play over there,” he said. “If you think so much of Ripley, then you can have him on your team.”
“I will,” Skeeter said, the words somehow menacingly soft.
Colton turned and walked over to another group. Skeeter looked at me for a second. I gave him a nod, and he gave the same back. He didn’t have to stick up for me, but he did. And I’ll never forget it.
For the next hour, we threw Nerf balls around, playing on short fields in small groups and scoring a million touchdowns. Then Coach Lever sounded the bullhorn and we circled around. “We’re going to the game tomorrow as a team, and we’re coming back as a team. No driving yourself or going with your parents. Win or lose, we stay together. We’re family.”
I liked Coach Lever more than any coach I’d had in any sport. He wanted the “family” stuff to be true, but it just wasn’t. When the season ended, what would happen to Richie? Would Hunter and those guys leave him alone? That was the best Richie could hope for, and that’s not “family.”
“You know how much I’d like to go to the game, but—” That’s what my dad said to me Thursday night at dinner.
I pushed my mashed potatoes around. “It’s okay. You don’t have to explain.”
“I’ll be listening on the radio. I’ll be seeing you that way.”
The radio was news to me. “Our game is on the radio?”
“Yeah. KHSS does the top prep game every Friday night, and this week it’s yours. The winner will make the state tournament; the loser is out. What game could be bigger than that?”
“I’d listen,” my mom said, “but my nerves can’t take it.”
“There’s nothing to worry about,” I said. “Colton Sparks is back. They’ll send him over the middle. I’ll run long and hope Hunter throws to me a couple of times.”
“Well, I hope he doesn’t. I want you to win because I know how hard you’ve worked, but it would be okay with me if you lost and didn’t make the playoffs.”
School dragged on Friday. When it ended, I went home, ate a small meal, and played video games until it was time to head back to catch the school bus to Seattle Center.
I’d arranged with Richie to walk with him. He came out before I knocked, but I could see past him into the living room. A woman who looked like a nurse was sitting across from Richie’s father. She had some papers out, and she was pointing to something on the page.
As we headed toward school, it seemed wrong to ask Richie about his mom, but it seemed wrong to talk about anything else, so I stayed silent. We’d gone a block when he spoke. “I just wish it would end.”
I swallowed. “Should you stay home? I mean . . .” My voice trailed off.
“To be with her when she dies?” Richie shook his head. “It’s not her anymore. She’s on morphine. My dad gives her way more than he’s supposed to, but the nurse says it’s fine, so I guess it is. She’s asleep most of the time, but when she is awake and talking, it’s all crazy stuff. Last week, she told me not to let them chop my head off. I hate being with her when she’s like that, and my dad doesn’t want me to hear it either.” He stopped, then laughed a little. “The last time I really talked to her was Wednesday morning. She told me to win the kickball game on Friday. I’ve told her a thousand times it’s called football, but she can never remember.” He paused. “I like that conversation. I can live with that one being the last one.”
“You’ll still go to Pittsburgh, won’t you? I mean, even if . . .”
“Yeah, I’ll still go. My dad wants me to win—that’s just how he is. But he’s hyperfocused on getting back to Nanjing. I’ll be living in China by the New Year.”
We’d reached the school parking lot. About fifty yards away, guys were clumped together in small groups. Coach Lever’s bullhorn blared, and his voice followed. “All right, gentleman. Time to get on the bus.”
Friday traffic made the ride to the Seattle Center Coliseum slow. Coach Lever kept looking at his watch and then at the road, but we’d left early, so we arrived in plenty of time. Once we were suited and ready to go, Coach Lever called us to attention. He gave his normal pep talk about never quitting and being a band of brothers, but he talked faster and louder than usual.
When he finished, Skeeter—who was usually superquiet—had us form a circle. He screamed: “Who let the dogs out?” And we all shouted back: “Woof, woof, woof, woof, woof!”
We did it three times, and then Skeeter let out a howl and we ran through the dirty old runway that led onto the field. After that, it was stretches . . . warm-ups . . . the national anthem . . . game time.
O’Dea’s head coach knew Coach Lever liked to get Skeeter going with the run in the first quarter, so on our first few drives O’Dea brought seven guys up close. With the box full of defenders, Skeeter was stuffed at the line. Colton ran a few quick curls to try to soften the defense, but he dropped one and fell to his knees controlling the other. Our first two possessions were three-and-outs.
O’Dea put together two decent drives, but twice on fourth down our defense held. When we got the ball for a third time, the score was still 0–0.
The first-down call was for a run, but O’Dea again brought their linebackers up close. At the line of scrimmage, Hunter changed the play, dumping the run in favor of a play-action pass.
The ball was supposed to go to Colton on a crossing pattern, but Colton slipped on his first step and went down. I looked back, knowing I was Hunter’s second option. Their cornerback had me in single coverage, but the guy was fast, so I hadn’t created much separation. Hunter threw to me anyway, counting on me to win the fight for the ball.
The throw hung in the air, so the O’Dea guy had a shot at an interception. The pass hit him in the hands, but he couldn’t hang on. The ball tumbled end over end in the air. I watched it and watched it, and then it was in my hands, the O’Dea cornerback was sprawled on the ground, and I was off to the races.
Touchdown!
One of the strangest things about football is that a game can be a defensive struggle for a quarter or even a half, and then one team scores, and after that first touchdown the offenses come to life.
After my TD, O’Dea came at our defense with everything in their playbook. They ran a reverse for twenty-five yards on first down, followed that with a couple of counter plays for another first down, and then finished the drive with a thirty-yard halfback pass for the game-tying TD.
Hunter returned full of confidence. He hit two passes to Colton over the middle and a bubble screen to Ty Erdman, and then—when O’Dea was thinking pass—Skeeter ripped off thirty yards on a draw. Two plays later, Colton caught a fade in the corner of the end zone, putting us back on top.
Our lead didn’t last. Back and forth both teams went, rolling over the defenses. Hunter was having his best game at the absolute most important moment—putting up eye-popping numbers. His passes were like guided missiles. I had three catches, and Ty and Colton had more. And at the very moment Hunter was playing lights out, our defense was having its worst game.
The score was 21–21 at the half.
Coach Lever jumped up on a bench in the locker room during halftime. “Isn’t this great?” he shouted, clapping his hands. “Soak it in. Make the plays, be a winner.” Then he paused. “Only how about we play some damn defense!”
The defensive guys huddled. They pounded on one another’s shoulder pads, screamed about how they were not only going to stop O’Dea but stomp on them. And then O’Dea took the second-half kickoff, drove the length of the field in a half-dozen plays, and scored.
Hunter didn’t flinch. Skeeter was forgotten as Coach Lever called pass play after pass play. Ty and Colton handled the short and medium stuff; I hauled in a couple more long bombs. There was no stopping us . . . but there was no stopping them, either.
28–28.
35–28.
35–35.
Midway through the fourth quarter, O’Dea had the ball on their own thirty-seven. On our sidelines, Coach Lever kicked at the fake grass. Our defense hadn’t held them in nearly three quarters; why would we be able to stop them now?
And we didn’t, but they stopped themselves. The mistake came on a bubble screen to the left side. The receiver caught the pass but started to run before tucking the ball away. One of our linebackers put his helmet right on the football as he made the tackle. The ball popped loose, and another one of our guys fell on it.
Turnover!
I raced onto the field, expecting we’d march down and take the lead with another touchdown. Hunter was in the zone, and all of us were in the zone with him. I caught a first-down pass for fifteen yards to the twenty. Skeeter ran a sweep for eight, setting up second-and-two. Ty caught a little curl for another first down on the six. We were unstoppable, a big tank rolling across an empty field.
Then came an offside penalty, pushing us back to the eleven. Colton dropped a pass; Skeeter was strung out for no gain. On third-and-goal, Hunter tried to hit me on a fade to the corner, but his pass carried me out-of-bounds.
That made it fourth down—it was up to Richie.
As he ran onto the field, my heart wasn’t thumping; it was trying to come completely out of my chest. It was a twenty-eight-yard field goal—no wind and no rain. But could he handle the pressure? Fans were screaming from both sides. I couldn’t watch, but I couldn’t not watch.
The snap was good; the hold was good; the kick was pure. Right down the middle with twenty yards to spare.
Crown Hill 38, O’Dea 35.
On the sidelines, everybody went berserk, pounding Richie so hard, he covered his head. One defensive stop and we’d make the state playoffs.
I give it to the O’Dea guys—there was no panic in that final drive. They came out as if it were the first quarter, mixing up passes and runs, working their way methodically down the field, chewing up the clock. They wanted to score with as little time left as possible, leaving Hunter no time to work magic.
A screen pass, a run, another run—first down on their forty-two. Five minutes left.
A run, a pass—first down on our forty-three. Four minutes left.
A screen pass, a run, a run—first down on our twenty-eight. Two thirty left.
A QB draw, a flanker reverse—first down on our thirteen. One-twenty left.
And then we got lucky.
On a play-action pass, the O’Dea quarterback delivered a strike into the end zone. Their tight end had the ball hit his hands and then pop up in front of his eyes. He reached for it, and then he had it for a second time, and then he bobbled it again, and it slipped away, and we were still in the game.
Two fullback runs followed: smash-mouth football, right up the gut, pushing the ball to our four, setting up fourth down and a yard with twenty seconds on the clock.
“Time out!” Coach Lever called.
He had all of us gather around him, offense and defense. “Okay,” he shouted, “get low, drive hard. One play. Win this mother-sucker!”
Those of us who weren’t on the field hooked our arms and screamed across the grass, urging our defense to hold them. There'd be no field goal try.
This was it—do or die.
O’Dea came out in a power formation. Our lineman pawed at the ground, ready to drive forward, like horses in the starting gate. The O’Dea QB took the snap, turned, and handed it to their fullback. He hit the pile . . . pushed . . . pushed . . . and was pushed back.
The ref blew his whistle and waved his arms. The line judge laid the ball down, looked toward the first-down markers, turned, and signaled that it was our ball, first and ten.
We’d stopped them.
We’d won!
Only we hadn’t. Not yet. We still had to run out the clock, and they had all their time-outs left.
Coach Lever sent out his short-yardage team, leaving me on the sidelines standing next to Richie.
On first down, Hunter took a knee on the three-yard line.
O’Dea called time. Eleven seconds left.
Another knee; another O’Dea time-out. Seven seconds left.
A third knee; the final O’Dea time out. Three seconds left.
Coach Lever called us all around him, but he was yelling only at Richie, hollering over the deafening crowd noise, explaining the strategy. “Go into punt formation, but don’t punt it. Just let the clock run out, and then kneel down. Understand? Whatever you do, don’t punt it. A safety won’t hurt us. Understand? Wait until you see zeroes, and then kneel.”
Richie nodded and raced onto the field. The O’Dea guys were up on the line, ready to charge like wild bulls.
The snap was a good one. Richie caught it; he moved a step to his left, but there was no strong rush. Our line was holding. The scoreboard clock counted down the numbers.
00:02
00:01
00:00.
I heard the horn, and then I saw Richie throw the ball high in the air and run to join the mob of guys jumping crazily along the sideline.
We’d won!
Our fans roared in delight as O’Dea’s crowd sank into silence. Then, as we celebrated, the head referee started blowing on his whistle and wildly waving his arms.
What was going on?
The officials all huddled, and suddenly the O’Dea side was cheering. Their roar started slowly, but then it grew steadily louder and louder. Finally, the O’Dea players started hugging each other. I looked at the scoreboard and it read O’Dea 41, Crown Hill 38.
All of us were looking around, mouths open and eyes wide, totally confused. What had happened?
But I knew.
In my mind, I saw that final play, only this time in slow motion.
The clock had wound down to 00:00, but that didn’t mean the game was over. Not in football. The game isn’t over in football until the player goes down or out-of-bounds.
Richie did neither. He threw the ball up in the air like you do in a soccer or basketball game, and an O’Dea lineman, standing in the end zone, caught it. The O’Dea guy didn’t know it was an interception. He didn’t know he’d scored a game-winning touchdown. He just caught the football because it was coming down and he was standing there.
I looked onto the field. Coach Lever, his face bright red, his eyes almost coming out of his head, was facing the referee, begging for an explanation. The ref pointed to the end zone. He pantomimed Richie throwing the ball in the air and the O’Dea player catching it. Lever’s shou
lders sank; and I knew I was right.
It was over.
Only it wasn’t.
“Was it me?” Richie asked as we headed off the field. “Did I do something?”
“It wasn’t your fault,” I said, my voice low.
“But what did I do? I don’t get it.”
“It’s a weird football rule. I’ll explain later.”
We trailed off to the locker room, moving like zombies. Once we were there, everyone sat stunned, including Coach Lever. Finally he snapped out of it, at least a little. “We win as a team and we lose as a team,” he said, his voice flat. “I don’t want anyone blaming anybody. Understand?”
As he talked, eyes peered over at Richie.
We sat together on the bus and I explained the rule, my voice just audible over the hum of the engine. “But you shouldn’t blame yourself. Half the guys on the team don’t know that rule.”
“Yeah? Well, who do you think Hunter is going to blame?”
My head was throbbing. One minute we were headed to the playoffs, and Hunter was going to get his chance to shine under the big lights. The next minute, we weren’t in the playoffs, and all the lights were out.
All because of Richie.
That’s how he’d see it.
What would he do? And how could I stop him from doing it?
As the bus bumped along Aurora Avenue, I caught glimpses of Lake Union through the gaps between apartment buildings, the darkness of the water outlined by the light from houses and businesses.
I didn’t want the bus ride to end. I wanted us to keep going and going, up into Shoreline and then Edmonds and Lynnwood and Bellingham and British Columbia and Alaska. I wanted it to bump along until everyone had forgotten everything. But the driver exited on Sixty-Fifth, by Woodland Park, drove up and over Phinney Ridge, braked at the stop sign by the violin shop, rolled past the Goodwill store, and turned into the Crown Hill High parking lot.
“Stay clear of Hunter,” I said as the bus hissed to a stop.