Second, athletes are presented before their own final home game, whether it's a football game or cross country meet. Otherwise, it wouldn’t be giving proper respect to sports besides football.
Finally, the school allows for players to bring whomever they’d like on the field with them. Sometimes players brought along grandparents, once a dog had even been accompanied an owner.
At the end of pregame warm-ups, the team jogged to the edge of the field as a whole unit. From there the underclassmen and coaches departed for the locker room and the seniors waited for the long procession of parents and cheerleaders under the scoreboard to walk along the home sideline towards them. As they walked, the band played ceremonial music and many in the crowd stood and applauded.
On the opposite side of the field, Sentinel completed the rest of their warm-up.
“What do you think?” Matt asked.
“About what?” Rich asked.
Matt nodded with his chin to the opposite side of the field and said, “Sentinel. They don’t look so big to me.”
“What do you care how big they are?” Lyle asked. “You’re a receiver, you know what you’re getting every week.”
Clay chuckled as he watched Sentinel run through plays, their own quarterback a lot like himself as he rolled out to the left and threw a spiral into the arms of a crossing receiver.
“Why the hell they line up way down there?” Goldie asked, pacing back and forth and watching the line grow closer.
“Beats the hell out of me,” Marksy said, shifting his weight from one foot to the other.
Halfway down the sideline the procession paused, a huddle of Sentinel players standing off across from them. A few pointed fingers were exchanged before the players jogged away, off to join the rest of their team. A moment later, the line continued its march down the sideline and Sentinel departed for the locker room.
“What was that all about?” Goldie asked.
“Two-to-one says it involved my family,” Clay said.
The others laughed as the front of the procession reached them. The cheerleaders were the first in line, flanked on either side by their parents. A few siblings, a grandmother and an aunt were mixed in as well. Chelsie smiled and waved and her father told the guys good luck as he and the others made the corner around the end zone and headed for the goal post.
Behind them came the football player’s families, led by the Little’s and followed closely by the Pritchard’s, Marks’s and Golden's. Bringing up the rear were Beth Anne, Pop and Colt.
“Alright, what happened down there?” Clay asked as way of a greeting.
Colt boomed a deep laugh. “Pop just about took care of the Sentinel secondary for you.”
Clay’s eyebrows raised and he cracked a smile. “Oh yeah?”
“You know how I get at game time,” Pop said, still visibly scowling. “Little bastards smarted off to us...”
Clay and Colt both laughed as Pop looked at Clay. “Number 35. Down, first play.”
“Got it,” Clay said, unable to hide the smile still on his face.
Clay took his place between his parents with Colt alongside Beth Anne as they walked in line towards the goal post. On the field, the band had formed two columns in the shape of an L and as each senior was announced they walked through it to the sideline in front of the stands. There they posed for a picture before stepping to the side and allowing the next senior to come along.
“Next, being escorted by his parents Ned and Suzanne, tight end and defensive end, number 85, Jon Marks,” the announcer called out as Marksy and his family stepped forward. As they did so the flag girls twirled their blue and gold flags from high above to their sides, the band playing solemnly as they passed through.
Once they reached the twenty-five yard line, the announcer continued, “Escorted by his parents James and Lisa, running back and linebacker, number 23, Jason Golden.”
On cue, Goldie and his family stepped through the line of twirling flags and forward between the playing lines of the band.
Behind him Clay and the Hendricks stepped in front of the goal post, standing four across. “And finally, being escorted by parents Austin and Beth Anne Hendricks and his brother Colt, quarterback and linebacker, number 8, Clay Hendricks.”
Goose bumps shot down Clay’s arms as his mother looped her arm through his and the four of them stepped in sync through the line of twirling flags and band members playing. They walked towards mid-field and turned just after the forty yard line toward the sideline. They paused along the heavy white sideline stripe as many in the crowd stood and applauded and a photographer took a group shot of them.
“Please join me in applauding the senior class for all they have done,” the announcer said and the crowd again cheered, punctuated by loud yelling from the student section.
Clay glanced over and saw the student body bedecked in blue and gold, many wearing face paint or the white away jerseys of their favorite player. Tucked in the middle of the front row was Natalie, wearing his white number 8 jersey with blue paint smeared across her face.
Beth Anne spotted it at the same time and said, “Chelsie’s not going to like that too much.”
“Chelsie’s the one that had the jersey,” Clay said. “She must have given it to Natalie to wear.”
“Aw, you can worry about that later. Right now it’s time to kick some ass!” Pop said, and clapped him hard on the shoulder pads.
Clay looked down the line to the other seniors and nodded and as a group they began to move back towards the locker room. Beside him Colt walked along for just a moment and said, “I have to take off as soon as this is over, but remember what I told you. Tonight is your night. Go out the way you want to.”
Clay nodded once, then he and the other seniors jogged down the sideline and towards the locker room.
Chapter Thirty-Six
The locker room was quiet when the seniors returned. Players were seated on benches strewn around the room, many of them leaning forward with their elbows on their knees staring straight ahead.
Goldie was the first one through the door, shattering the silence. “What do you say, boys?!”
Player's heads instantly shot up and several stood. A moment later Matt entered, clapping and bobbing his head. Behind him Marksy shot through the door and yelled, “Whoo-hoo!”
The room snapped to life as the Little’s burst through, followed by Clay. Players were yelling and slapping each other on the shoulder pads, a few even slammed their helmets into the metal lockers behind them.
As if on cue the door to the coach’s office opened and each of them filed out, dressed in matching khaki pants with blue pullovers and ball caps. The last one out was Stanson, who stepped forward into the room and raised a hand into the air. The room quieted down and he yelled, “Father!”
The players all found a spot nearby and a hit a knee, grasping the hands of the player on either side of them. The front door to the locker room opened and Pastor Waverly stepped in, bedecked in Huntsville blue and gold. He stepped just a foot or two inside the door and waited a moment for the room to settle, then launched right into the prayer.
“Father God, we thank you so much for this opportunity to stand united before you tonight. To know that there are times in life where no matter how different we may appear, we can come together in a common cause and work not only towards a goal but also for the people beside us. We thank you for the people in this room and the bonds that you have forged that allow us to be a part of something so much greater than any one of us could ever be alone.
“We pray tonight Lord that you protect each one of these young men as they take the field. That you keep them safe from injury. That you allow them to perform up to the potential you’ve so richly bestowed upon them. And most of all, we ask that in everything we do, we perform in a way that brings glory to your name. We pray these things in your son Jesus’ name, who taught us how to pray...”
At that, the team proceeded forth with the Lord’s Prayer,
each player and coach reciting the words in an even rhythm, their voices forming a steady cadence throughout the room. At its completion, each player released the hands around them but remained on a knee.
Stanson stood, replaced the ball cap on his head and stared out over the room. “Earlier tonight, I thought about what I might say to you guys right now. I thought about giving you the usual pre-game-type speech, full of piss and vinegar. But I decided against it. I decided against it because I realized there wasn’t a damn thing I could tell you that the six seniors in this room didn’t already say last night. You know everything this game means. To the people in this room, to this school, to this town.”
He paused a moment and said, “I won’t lie to you, I’m hurting as much as anyone right now about the fact that we aren’t going to the playoffs. But the more I rolled it around this week, the more one absolute truth became apparent to me.
“And that truth is, we go out there tonight knowing there is no tomorrow. We go out there knowing we have forty-eight more minutes, ever, as a team. There’s no win-and-advance here. So what that says to me is we can go out there and roll over quietly. We can let Sentinel, the bigger school, waltz in here and take it to us on our field, then move on to the playoffs with a conference title in hand.
“Or, we go out there tonight and we draw a line in the sand. We say, ‘Yeah, we’re a tiny school. Yeah, we’ve only got six seniors, and yeah, we know this is our last game. But by God we’re taking you down with us.’ We walk out there, right now and we finish this with guns blazing.”
He paused for a moment and looked around the silent room and said, “So, what’s it going to be?”
The room sprang to its feet, a loud cheer erupting from the players.
“Let’s line ‘em up!” Coach Bellick yelled and the coaches all filed from the locker room. Clay found his way to the door and lined up first, followed by Goldie and the other seniors. He paused and waited for a moment as the underclassmen formed a loose line behind them, then turned to face forward.
He stared straight ahead at the Hornet mascot stenciled on the door and bounced a few times on the balls of his feet, the weight of his shoulder pads lifting and falling against his chest with each movement. Behind him, several heavy hands slapped his shoulders and helmet. Without turning around he nodded his head several times.
“Let’s do this boys,” Goldie said behind him.
“We got this,” Rich muttered.
Clay looked back over his shoulder and said, “You damn right we do,” shoved open the locker room door and slapped the top of the frame. He stepped out into the brisk night air as behind him more loud slaps could be heard.
In the parking lot several handfuls of fans cheered, many shaking cowbells and milk jugs filled with coins or rocks. Clay walked straight down the stairs and across the parking lot, his eyes blazing and his jaw set as he marched forward. His cleats clanked against the asphalt underneath him as he strode forward, trusting that his team was behind him without looking back.
At the edge of the parking lot the asphalt turned to gravel, the open path closing into a narrow corridor with flags and fans lining both sides. Clay barely noticed them as he walked forward despite hands slapping at his shoulder pads, helmet and jersey.
The tunnel widened a bit at the edge of the grass and Clay paused, waiting for the others to fill in around him. He kept his eyes trained straight ahead, his body rigid and poised. A few seconds later the band began to play the alma mater and Clay turned back to face the team.
“Day by day!” he roared.
“Day by day!”
“We get better and better!”
“We get better and better!”
“Team that can’t be beat!”
“Team that can’t be beat!”
“Team that won’t be beat!”
“Team that won’t be beat!”
“Hornets on three...one, two, three!”
“Hornets!” the team called in unison as Clay turned and strode through the tunnel of fans that melted into the marching band. People yelled and clapped and the band played, it all blending into a blur as Clay jogged through the middle with dozens of players on his heels.
The team reached the sideline as the fans in the stands cheered and the fans from the tunnel moved fast for their seats. After a few moments the sideline quieted down and Clay and the other seniors met at mid-field. They stood six across and watched as a small handful of Spartans did the same across from them.
Three officials stood atop the blue and yellow Hornet painted at mid-field and the Umpire motioned to both sidelines for the captains to converge. The Huntsville captains kept their helmets on, walking with their eyes fixed across from them.
Opposite them Witten, Ziemann and two other Sentinel Lions walked forward with their helmets tucked under one arm. Two of them had their entire face painted, another wore a purple bandana atop his head.
“Man I hate that crap,” Clay muttered.
Beside him a thin smile spread on Goldie’s face. “I know you do.”
The two sides met at mid-field, a few yards separating them as they stared daggers at one another. Behind the Sentinel captains Clay noticed a team with almost twice the players as Huntsville, though before him he saw nobody that really impressed him.
“Alright captains, I’ll be your referee tonight,” the official in the middle said. “Let’s have a good, clean game. If there are any problems I don’t want to hear from anybody but the guys here right now.
“Here I have a plain ordinary quarter for the toss. Sentinel, you’re the visiting team, you will call it in the air.”
He flipped the quarter high into the air as Witten said, “Tails.”
The referee caught it and turned it on his wrist. “Visiting captain has called tails, and it is tails. Would you like to kick, receive, defer or choose which end to defend?”
“We'll receive,” Witten said, his gaze sliding over to Clay.
“Home captain, which end zone will you defend?”
Clay smirked back at Witten and nodded his head towards the far end zone.
The two sides turned and positioned themselves towards their respective end zones as the referee motioned that Sentinel would be receiving. The Sentinel crowd cheered as Clay and the others bounded back off the field, excitement boiling down from the stands around them.
“Kickoff team!” Coach Stanson called, as eleven players grouped around him. He checked to make sure everyone was present and said, “Alright, let’s do this!”
The team jogged out onto the field and positioned itself from sideline to sideline as Timms placed the ball down on the tee. On either side of him were Clay and Goldie.
Timms counted back five yards from the ball and two to the left and nodded to Clay, who stepped forward and peered down to his right. “Ready on my right?!”
“Ready!”
“Ready on my left?!”
“Ready!”
He stepped back into line and paused for a moment as he and Goldie slowly started to jog towards each other. They raised their fists high into the air and bumped them against one another, then turned and sprinted forward. Between them Timms moved for the ball.
All ten Hornets crossed the line at the same time, just as Timms’ foot connected with the ball with a loud thud. It sailed end over end into the night sky, hurtling forward until those watching from behind lost it in the bright stadium lights.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
The old wooden bleachers gave just the slightest bit beneath Clay’s feet as he trudged up the stairs. The sound of his Nike sandals slapped at the back of his heels with each step, muted by the thick socks on his feet.
“There he is! Bout damn time Superstar!” Goldie said as Clay reached the third step.
Clay smiled. "You know, some of us actually get tired out there. Takes a little longer to get showered and changed after a game.”
“That just means some of you aren’t in as good of shape as I am,” Goldie ret
orted.
“Yeah, that’s it,” Marksy snorted.
“If you’re in so good of shape, tell me how Ziemann tracked you down from behind on that run?” Clay asked.
“Ah hell, here we go,” Goldie said.
“Beat down by a kicker and caught from behind by a linebacker. Tough week, eh Goldie?” Matt chimed in.
Clay laughed with the others as he found his seat a few rows from the top and sat down. He pulled two hot dogs and a Gatorade out of the oversized pouch in the front of his hooded sweatshirt and placed them on the bench beside him.
For a moment he paused and stared out at the field before him. The lights blazed over it, illuminating the green grass and the vibrancy of the Hornets emblem painted at midfield.
The scoreboard to his left announced that the home team had won 30-27. In the corner, under the heading marked QTR stood the number five.
Overtime.
After a moment Clay blinked hard, snapped himself out of the moment and attacked the first hot dog beside him.
“So I guess we all owe you a Gatorade or something, huh?” Rich said, turning to look at Clay.
“How’s that?” Clay asked.
Rich tossed the crown of his head back towards the scoreboard and said, “Nailed the score and the overtime part. Impressive.”
“You know that’s the first thing that went through my head after we scored the game-winner?” Matt added. “Sumbitch, Clay called it exactly.”
Clay gave a non-committal twist of his head. “What can I say? I just had a feeling.”
“Feeling my ass,” Goldie said. “If I didn’t know better, and if you hadn’t carried us the second half, I might have thought we had a point shaving scandal on our hands.”
Clay finished the first hotdog and dead-panned, “Yes. The most competitive person you know would throw a game to win a couple of Gatorades. How did you figure it out?”
“I said if I didn’t know better!” Goldie said.
Clay opened the Gatorade and took a long pull as the phone on his hip vibrated against it. He pulled it out and looked down to find three new messages waiting for him.
Just A Game Page 17