by Bryan Mealer
Jaime’s punt had pinned Cocoa on their own five-yard line. With Lee lining up deep in the end zone behind Campbell, the Tigers went to work. The fullback had a head of steam as he hit the Raider line and moved them four yards into safer territory. Campbell then faked a toss and set up a trap. The defense parted as running back Devonte Jones raced through the middle gap for the first down. The next play, the Tigers’ parade of hardware was finally complete as Tarean Folston introduced himself with a four-yard hammerstep to move the ball to the twenty-five.
The Raider defense received their new callers by slamming the door in their faces and forcing them to punt. But Robert Way, his nerves firing in overdrive, overshot his block attempt and tackled the punter, Cody White. Way cursed himself as he got up and saw the yellow flag glowing on the turf beside him. The penalty gave the Tigers the first down and sent memories of the previous year rushing like an ominous wind through the stands. But, luckily for the Raiders, the Tigers had yet to settle down themselves. A pair of penalties erased two commanding runs by Folston and Jones, stranding the offense in their own territory and forcing them to punt again.
Two of the best defenses in the state quickly found their groove and managed the tempo into the second quarter, each denying the other mere inches of ground on fourth-down attempts. With seven minutes left in the half, Mario found a crack in the Dark Side.
The drive started out in shambles. The Raider defense had once again forced the punt, and White’s kick had put Glades Central back at their own sixteen. On the first play, no Raider receivers bothered to block on a screen pass to Jaime, leaving a wide-open lane for a surging Tra Cadore. The linebacker wrapped Jaime at the line of scrimmage and deposited his body on the Raider ten. The next snap, Jeffery Philibert could not hold his man, and the Tigers swarmed the hole and buried Mario on the three.
It was third down and twenty-three when Mario waded halfway into his own end zone and called for the snap. A fevered howl rose from the stands and lifted into the dark night. One half of the stadium cried for two points and his blood; the other just hoped to shoo the ghosts that caused their boy to scramble and be cut down in the weeds.
But instead of running scared, the quarterback hung in the pocket. He fingered the ball and let his eyes roll over the gaps. Calm. Breathing. Alone. Everything seemed to fall away, and for the first time, the middle revealed itself.
For months he’d been listening to Hester shout “Check down! Check down!,” reminding him of the underneath receiver running the hot route across the middle. Mario had never been comfortable with the middle, partly because he’d always had trouble seeing over the line. And without fail, Monday film would find Hester pointing out the receivers running free in the shallows, usually while Mario scrambled and launched it deep.
“All you have to do is find the defender,” Hester would say. “And if you can find him, the middle is yours. The receiver will be there. Just trust yourself.” Instead, Mario had always played it safe and looked for the outside man.
“It’s just a confidence thing,” Hester said. “As soon as he finds his confidence, he’ll see the field.”
Now on third and long, wading in the lake of fire of his own end zone, the quarterback saw the middle. And cutting right across it was Burgess. He fired the ball with such velocity that it jerked the six-foot receiver backward, as if he’d latched hold of a rocket. The pass was good for thirty yards, the hardest he’d thrown all season. Two plays later, he found the middle again and hit Jaime for another first down.
But as Mario had stepped back to throw, Redding pounded through an open crease and rounded his right side. The quarterback had seen him coming, but it was too late. As he released the ball, the linebacker speared him in the ribs just below the shoulder blade and knocked him off his feet. Blood rushed to his ears as he landed on his stomach, clawing the turf and gasping for breath. He flopped onto his back, ripping at the flak vest that squeezed his lungs with the terrible weight of the blue-black sky above.
No air! No air!
Several coaches rushed out and lifted the vest, just as Mario’s lungs filled enough to gag—then came … short … stuttered … life-sustaining breaths. After a minute, the coaches pulled Mario to his feet and the stadium erupted. The Jumbotron had shown it all.
The quarterback sat out for one play—a handoff to Baker from Davis that went two yards—before toeing the white line, wanting back in. As he trotted to the huddle, he looked toward Redding and smiled. The Raiders lined up at midfield, four receivers loaded on the wings.
“We ’bout to turn this shit up,” the quarterback said, and took the snap.
The play call was “sally,” in which all four receivers run a quick slant. Mario aimed for Davonte. Ten yards upfield, the receiver planted and twirled to make the catch—just as Rick Rivers flew into its path. The ball zipped right through the cornerback’s glove, missing by an inch, and into Davonte’s hands. Rivers fell as Davonte tore down the sideline, dodging one, then two defenders who dove for his legs. He was finally knocked out of bounds, but not before stretching his body like a piece of putty to get the ball over the pylon.
“Let’s ride, baby!” he screamed, as Jaime lifted him into the air. “Let’s ride!”
But the officials blew the whistle and ruled him out of bounds at the one-yard line—even as Fox’s instant replay, broadcast on the Jumbotron above, clearly showed him catching the corner.
A handoff to Baker then got nowhere. A pass to Burgess was tipped and nearly intercepted. So Mario, after driving ninety-seven yards and taking the hardest hit of his life, hiked the ball from the shotgun, lowered his shoulder, and ran it through himself.
Touchdown!
Marvin’s extra point gave the Raiders a 7–0 lead, which they took into the half.
• • •
THE BOYS HURRIED into the locker room, feeling high and buzzing all over. They could feel it: they had them. The defense had held the Tigers to just fifty-seven yards, denied the open field, and, just before the whistle, even forced a rare turnover when Boobie broadsided Lee like a train. Still, the Tigers were the best, most dangerous team any of them had ever seen—even without Chevelle Buie.
But so were the Raiders, especially right now, grooving in the tailwind of their captain. They would follow him anywhere.
“This is our last twenty-four minutes,” Mario said, pacing the room. “Make it our best. Make the last twenty-four minutes our best!”
“Defense, if they don’t score, we win. Plain and simple,” Hester said. “Offense, we got to keep going, baby. We got to finish those blocks and keep making plays. Let’s go clean this up right now. Right now. This is our half. We got to shut these people down.”
“Be smart,” he warned as the clock pulled them out the door. “ ’Cause it’s gonna be hard for these guys to get something big on us, and they know this. It’ll have to be some kind of trick.”
The team pressed around their quarterback, raised their hands, and said it on three:
“FINISH! FINISH! FINISH!”
• • •
IF THERE WAS one thing the Tigers had in spades, it was tricks. Lethal combinations of simple plays they could employ with devastating precision. But as they lined up to receive the kickoff, there were no tricks in their bag. They didn’t need them.
Boobie’s squib kick tumbled across midfield to the thirty-two, forcing Antwan Lee to spin and give chase as a pack of Raiders closed in. From the middle lane, Boobie watched the fullback grab hold of the ball and followed the momentum of his body, cutting right to meet him when he turned back around. The teammate to Boobie’s left abandoned his lane and followed his lead. A split second later, Lee—playing only in his second start of the season, all of 145 yards to his name—fooled everyone by reversing course and wheeling the other way. There in front of him was a gaping path straight to glory. Sixty-nine yards. No one even came close to catching him.
As Lee zipped past and pranced into the end zone, Hester was dumbfounded.
He’d seen Boobie misjudge the takeoff, but who was that running next to him, the kid who left his lane? He turned to Sam, the special teams coach, and together they said the same thing: “Where is Jaja?”
“Where the fuck is Jaja?”
They both spun around to find Jaja, the all-star linebacker, second-leading tackler, special teams enforcer who’d never allowed a breakaway, sitting by himself on the bench—a look of pure horror across his face.
Besides being the most disciplined player on the team, Jaja was also a really nice guy. So nice that during halftime, one of his buddies—a kid fresh up from JV—had bemoaned not getting any click-clack during the biggest game of the season. So, without informing Hester or Sam, Jaja pulled himself from the game and gave the kid his lane, and it was that kid who had missed the tackle to give the Tigers the tie. In their most critical hour, it was Jaja who’d gone rogue, who’d put himself above the program. And for Hester, it was a confounding, almost heartbreaking twist of irony.
• • •
HALFWAY DOWN THE SIDELINE, Jonteria couldn’t breathe.
She was allergic to dyes, and without thinking, she’d let one of the cheerleaders paint her face with a glitter pen. Toward the end of the half, she’d felt her throat begin to close, then panicked. Luckily, one of the mothers had reached into her purse and pulled out a packet of Benadryl, which stopped the reaction. Except now, just before kickoff, the medicine had gone straight to her head. She felt groggy as she faced the crowd. The sea of bodies rippled under the lights, which themselves kept bouncing when she tried to jump. Jonteria let her mind wander.
Not surprisingly, her attention drifted toward the many things on her to-do list. Right now at the very top was the Gates Millennium Scholars application, which was due in three weeks. It was by far her biggest pursuit, her number in the Academic Jackpot million. If she was among the lucky one thousand scholars—chosen nationwide from a pool of tens of thousands of applicants—it would pay for every day of school until she began a residency. Everything. No worries no more. But it also required eight separate essay questions.
She’d hoped to write some of them before Vincent’s arrival, now just several days away. It had been seven long months since they’d last seen one another, and Jonteria wanted nothing to keep them apart. No homework, no club meetings or practice, no obsessing over her career. She wanted him to know she was capable of letting go. She could chill.
Today was also Vincent’s birthday. Jonteria had texted him before the game but didn’t tell him about her surprise. She was taking him out to Applebee’s, since that’s where he liked to eat. She was excited. But wouldn’t it be better, she thought, if Vincent came home and they dressed up and drove to The Breakers? She wanted him to see the ocean from that dining room, hear the clatter of silverware and the murmur of pleasant conversation. She wanted Vincent to notice how the waves broke against the beach behind her, how the soft light kissed her skin and made her eyes dance. This is why I work so hard, she would say. Vincent, this is where I belong.
She was about to say something else when the crowd jolted her awake. Women seated in the front seats suddenly threw their hands to their faces and men began to curse. Jonteria turned to see Antwan Lee racing past for the score. Oh dear. She turned to her squad and shouted, “Get ’em up.” It was time to calm the crowd. Jonteria shook off her grogginess and swung into the routine.
“We got spirit … deep down inside.… We roll up, we fold out, and call it Raider pride.…”
• • •
ON THEIR NEXT possession, Mario and the offense answered Lee’s touchdown with an eighty-five-yard push downfield. Using a combination of chipping runs and short pass plays, they thwarted the Tigers’ relentless rush attack and found themselves perched at the Cocoa five. But the Dark Side held.
Facing fourth down and four, Hester had to make a critical decision: whether or not to kick a field goal. He knew that Marvin was not strong under heavy pressure, the line was chronically weak, and he felt Cocoa’s special teams had come dangerously close to blocking the extra point after the touchdown. After discussing with his coaches, Hester made the call: The Raiders would go for six instead. If they didn’t make it, at least the defense would have Campbell digging out of his own end zone.
After hearing the call, Mario dropped back and slung it to Oliver on a slant, only to have Tiger safety DeMario Gilmore swat the pass incomplete. The Raiders lost the ball and the three points. But when the Tigers took over, Boobie and the defense managed to hold them to nine yards and force the punt. The gamble had paid off for now.
The Raiders took over at midfield with the momentum firmly on their side. The defending champs were thrashing in their cage. With only fourteen minutes left to play, the Raiders needed the kill shot.
Just one more touchdown, thought Mario. And fast.
But two plays later, the Glades Central drive came to a terrifying halt. Once again, the Tigers blitzed and flushed Mario from the pocket. He took off running down the middle of the field, and just inches from the first down, he felt his leg seize with pain. As he dove to the turf to protect himself, all he could think was, My hamstring. I just tore my hamstring.
The pain was diamond-sharp and took his breath away. He quickly realized it was only a cramp, but he’d never experienced one like this. With Oliver’s help, the quarterback hobbled to the bench, then collapsed in frantic breaths. The muscle in his leg was clenched up and angry, pulling off the bone. His whole body was in revolt.
The quarterback choked down a mouthful of salt and cursed the food the ADs had been serving them all trip. No lean meats, no pastas, no fruits or vegetables. Just greasy chicken and gravy mashed potatoes that hardened in his veins now like sabotage. He tried to walk but fell. Looking up, Mario saw Davis trotting out to take his place.
The power of his moment was slipping from his grasp.
Desperate, he began screaming at his leg.
COME ON! TIGHTEN UP! TIGHTEN UP! COME ON! COMEOOOOON!
Soon he was punching it with all his strength, pounding his battered fist into his calf, begging it—COMEOOON!!—to awaken and realize the magnitude of 1:14 in the third quarter in a game that could, if only, work to fill that impossible hole in his heart.
Come on. Yeah. Straight. The muscle finally let go, began to give like an old rusty spring. The salts got him on his feet. He winced through the pain and limped back onto the field.
While Mario was writhing on the bench, Baker had given him a gift. On a third-down-and-one handoff from Davis, he’d rifled through a hole created by Boobie and Corey Graham, juked right, then beat two defenders for twenty-two yards.
Save for three quick offensive snaps that went nowhere, the Cocoa defense had been dragged up and down the field the entire third quarter. They were looking tired, less invincible. By the time Mario returned, the Raiders were at their twelve and going for the knockout. Again, Hester sent Baker straight into their face, headfirst through a wall of black jerseys for a gain of nine. Once at the five, Hester brought out the wrecking ball. Mario took the snap and handed off to Boobie, who leaped over the pile and bounded into the end zone.
Touchdown Raiders!
But if the Cocoa defense had to go down, they were going down swinging. As Marvin booted the extra point, the Raider line separated, allowing Rick Rivers to jump the open gap and bat the ball to the ground. A gasp rose from the Raider stands. Not because Cocoa blocked the point and now had the ball. But because Cocoa had the ball—and life!
Raiders 13, Cocoa 7.
• • •
WE NEED A FUMBLE. We need a fumble.
As the fourth quarter began ticking down, this was the plea uttered softly along the Glades Central sidelines, invoked like silent prayer.
Come on, get us a fumble!
Praying for fumbles only seemed reasonable, especially since the Cocoa offense had only sixty-six total yards and one turnover already. But perhaps three titles in a row for one coach was in fact the prayer too big to
ask. Two was a respectable number. In Brevard County, two had made Gerald Odom a legend, and two was certainly enough for Johnny Wilkinson.
Hester wanted just one. Just one championship for his twenty-five years in the game, and especially one as a Glades Central Raider. The fact that he’d never won a ring was the little-talked-about disappointment of his life, his lingering sadness. Throughout college and a decade in the league, he’d never been with a team that contained “those perfect pieces” and, at the same time, that precise chemistry between players and coaches that rendered them unstoppable. The closest he’d ever come was his junior year as a Raider, when he’d stood alone in the end zone waiting for the ball.
As a pro, his biggest window for a Super Bowl had been the Colts. The years in Indianapolis were Hester’s prime, when all of his own pieces had come together and he could flow. It was where he’d also built lasting friendships and enjoyed the love of a town, one where fans still remembered the minutiae of his career nearly twenty years after he was gone.
But the Colts had never possessed the right pieces to win. And before long, Jessie’s body started giving out. He began slowing down and getting caught, started taking hits to the head. Lena still shuddered at the memory of him lying unconscious in the end zone after being flattened by the Chiefs’ Kevin Ross (whom Hester had juked for a touchdown five years earlier as a Raider). Or the call she got from teammate Clarence Verdin after a Monday-night game saying Jessie was in the hospital. He’d started convulsing on the team plane, so dehydrated that every muscle in his body, even his tongue, had locked up and dropped him in the aisle.
After being waived by Indy in 1994, Hester signed with the Rams. By then, his body had grown tired and football had become more of a job. Monday mornings hurt worse than ever, and Wednesday practice filled him with dread. In November 1995, while playing in New Orleans, Hester’s catching streak finally ended at eighty-six games, the third-longest streak of active NFL receivers behind Art Monk, Jerry Rice, and Keith Byars.