by Tim Tharp
The Kennisaw Sun wasn't the only one interested neither. Rumor was that writers from the big papers up in Oklahoma City and Tulsa, maybe even Dallas, would be in the stands this Friday night. Blaine said that meant there'd probably be scouts from OU and OSU coming around too. He said he hoped they did, 'cause he planned on putting on a show they'd still be talking about on signing day.
Now, I know his head told him that was true. His head told him he was still the best damn runner on the best damn team in the hill country. But the gut don't always believe what the head wants it to.
We won the coin toss and took the opening kick. Seven downs later Sawyer stopped us cold and we had to punt. Then our defense come on the field and we stopped them dead, and that's the way it went for most of the first half. A defensive battle. Anton Mack might've had every move in the book, but I'll tell you what, once I got a good look, I felt like I'd done read that book cover to cover and back again. Just watch his hips. Don't get fooled by all that flashy foot-work. Watch them hips and they'll tell you where he's fixing to go every time. Play after play I was right there to stop him, and when I did, them stands would bust into their chant of “Hampton! Hampton! Hampton!”
Only thing was, them newspaper stories wasn't wrong about James Thunderhorse. When our offense took the field, he ate us up. If we tried to pass, half the time he'd bust through and smush Darnell about as flat as the jack of diamonds, and the rest of the time he'd put so much pressure on, Darnell had to throw the ball away. And there just wasn't no running to his side at all. Blaine was getting off faster than I seen him all season, but he didn't have nowhere to go. Once he grabbed me as I was jogging onto the field and said, “Damn, it's like I'm a Ferrari running head-on into a concrete wall at eighty miles an hour.”
And then it got worse.
With about twenty seconds left in the first half, old James Thunderhorse turned into more than a hunk of concrete. Now he was the Ferrari. If Ferrari made semi trucks. It was a pass play from the shotgun. We had our guard and tackle both teamed up on Thunderhorse, but even the two of them wasn't no match for him, and he come barreling through with no one to stop him but Blaine.
Right here, I want to say that something Blaine never got enough credit for was his blocking. That boy always could block with the best of them. And I should know 'cause he took me out more than a few times in practice. Sure, he set him a bunch of running records last season, so you might figure he wouldn't fool with the nuts-and-bolts stuff that don't have no glory in it, but when it come to football, Blaine was one hundred percent serious about everything he done.
So it was just Blaine between Thunderhorse and Darnell. Fifteen yards downfield, Jake Sweet was trying to shake loose and get in the open. Blaine put his head down and drove straight into Thunderhorse's gut. His technique was perfect. He done everything a blocker could do, except hit his man over the head with a monkey wrench. But it wasn't enough. The next thing he knew he was flat on his back with that big old tackle's cleats pushing off his chest.
After that, Thunderhorse slammed into Darnell so hard you would've thought from the sound of it someone fired off a twelve-gauge shotgun. And then, there it was, the ball spinning through the air. Fumble. Once the durn thing hit the ground and took off bouncing, it was way out of Blaine's reach. Darnell was about half knocked out, so Thunderhorse didn't have no competition and dove on top of it just before Sweetpea and three of our other guys jumped on top of him.
Sawyer's ball on the twenty-yard line.
Boy howdy. From the moan that come out of the crowd right then you would've thought they just found out the end of the world was coming a week from Sunday.
Time was running out in the first half, and I did what I could to block the field-goal attempt, but their kicker got the ball up high and fast, and it popped through the uprights sure as a poke in the eye. Sawyer had three points to our zip.
Thunderhorse done it. He set up the go-ahead score.
As we was running off the field at halftime, Blaine bumped his shoulder pad into me and said, “Looks like you're gonna be sharing headlines from now on.”
I just looked at him and said, “The only headline I care about is the one that says 'Kennisaw Wins.'”
“That's all right,” he said. “I'll take care of that one.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
The second half, defense ruled again. Once Anton Mack did get loose around left end for a twenty-five-yarder, but other than that one, we made good and sure he wasn't anywheres near beating Blaine's record, at least not tonight. Course, on the other hand, old James Thunderhorse made good and sure our offense didn't get down the road any farther than a pickup truck with three flat tires, so we was about even.
Except for that three-pointer Sawyer picked up in the first half.
I know Blaine had to be thinking about that too. If something didn't change real quick, folks was bound to forget just about everything but how James Thunderhorse knocked him back on his butt on the way to setting up that field goal. The one puny little field goal that busted our fifth undefeated season slick as lightning through a dead oak.
By the fourth quarter things was starting to look pretty dark. Then, with only about six minutes left in the game, Coach Huff pulled a flea-flicker out of his bag of tricks. We hadn't run this play no more than two or three times in practice, but we sure needed something, and this was about our last chance. Darnell took the snap in the shotgun, faked like he was fixing to roll out on Thunderhorse's side, but then stopped and pitched the ball to Blaine. Blaine charged up like he was taking it around left end, and then when Sawyer's secondary darted in to plug up the run, he screeched to a stop and launched off a long bomb. He threw it a little too far, but old Jake stretched out and pulled it in with one hand, crashing down right on Sawyer's forty-yard line.
The crowd went crazy and so did I. And you should've seen Jake. He popped up from the ground and scampered around in a circle, holding the ball up like he just found out it was made out of gold or something. He wasn't always the best receiver in the world, but no one was ever going to call him Skillethands again after that play.
The whole offense was charged up now. This was huge. Nobody could stop Kennisaw if we got inside the forty. That's what we all thought, anyways, but we hadn't come up against James Thunderhorse before. Three plays later, Coach Huff was calling for another punt.
There wasn't nothing wrong with that strategy. Kick it down inside the ten and let the defense take over. We'd done held Sawyer all night, and there was plenty of time left for our offense to get the ball back and score. Blaine didn't like it, though. He ripped off his helmet and charged right up to Coach and started yelling, “What are you doing? We can't punt. Give me the ball. You gotta give me the ball. I can make it!”
Coach wouldn't have none of it, though. He told Blaine to get back in there in punt formation or he'd yank him clean out of the game.
“That's chicken shit,” Blaine said. He kind of muttered it as he turned around, but I heard him plain as day.
Coach grabbed his jersey and got right in his face then. “What'd you say, Keller?”
From the look on Blaine's face, I thought sure he was fixing to come out with it again. That would've been it too. You can bet Coach would've benched him right on the spot. Blaine knew it too. He didn't really swallow his pride, though. That'd be too much to expect out of a proud guy like Blaine, but he didn't say “chicken shit” again neither. He just stared into Coach's eyes and said, “All I want's a chance, Coach. That's all. Just a chance.”
Coach let go of his jersey. “You'll get it,” he said, “when the defense takes the ball back for us. Now get out there in punt formation.”
Blaine went ahead and run back out there, and it's a good thing too. That punt turned out better than even Coach could've predicted when Tommy Nguyen downed it on the two-yard line. You got to know Blaine was still thinking it wasn't the true Kennisaw way to play, but even he couldn't argue with the fact that Sawyer had their backs u
p against it. They was going to have to run plays right out of their own end zone, and even the littlest piddling mistake could turn the tide now.
It was Sawyer's turn to come up with a surprise play, and that's just what they done. And I'll tell you what, if the crowd wasn't already up on their feet, they would've sure got there when old James Thunderhorse run out onto the field to play offensive tackle.
Truth be told, it really didn't surprise me that much. It was the smart thing to do. A lot of guys played both ways in 4A football. And they hadn't been able to keep me out of their backfield all night, so there wasn't no other choice but to stick the big man out there and bull it out of the shadow of the goalpost. Thing was, though, that meant we knew exactly what to expect.
Sure enough, they run it off-tackle, but Thunderhorse wasn't as used to blocking as he was to tackling and got his posture too erect. You just can't do that. I seen it right off and knocked that big old boy clean back on his butt and hauled Anton Mack down on the half-yard line. That got the crowd going all over again with “Hampton! Hampton! Hampton!”
Thunderhorse was a quick learner, though. He wasn't about to make that mistake again. Second down, the center snapped the ball, the quarterback turned, faked a handoff to Mack, and then followed him into the line right behind their big giant tackle. Both Mack and Thunderhorse was gunning for me, and this time Thunderhorse stayed low. There wasn't going to be no knocking him on his butt now, so what I done was, I jumped up as high above that line as I could, knowing full well his shoulder pad was fixing to blast into my thigh like a runaway train.
There I was, up in the air, my feet spinning up to where my head ought to have been, and that's when I done it. I stopped time. The Sawyer quarterback froze in the little bitty pocket of space behind Mack, who was driving into Thunderhorse, helping him drive into me. Everything was clear as sunup in June. The QB tilting his head down, tucking his shoulder, planting his left foot, ready to push off for a cut back to the right, the ball cradled in his right arm. I could make out the laces in the leather, each one of them, and even spinning end over end like I was, it was the easiest thing in the world to hammer down and punch the ball loose. Then at the same time, I jackknifed my body right into that quarterback's chest so he couldn't get the recovery neither.
Time flashed back to full speed and I slammed into the ground, the quarterback and Mack both crashing down with me. And there the ball was, spinning like a top right in front of my face.
Now, if you never been in a dog pile, let me tell you, you don't want to get in one if you can any way avoid it. It's the cussingest, gougingest, spittingest, pullingest, pokingest, pinchingest, punchingest place there ever was. And from the feel of it, I had everybody on both teams squirming around on top of me too. I think I could've recited “Gunga Din” a hundred times forwards and backwards before them officials finally got all them boys sorted out and pulled off, but when I finally rose up with the football squeezed against my gut, the crowd whooped so loud it sounded about like an A-bomb going off.
Kennisaw's ball on the one-yard line. Blaine was fixing to get his chance just like Coach told him.
CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
Blaine always was one of them guys that liked pressure when it come to football. Whuther it was fourth and three or third and goal with a second left on the clock, he wanted his number called. Jevon Woolsey, our quarterback last season, used to call Blaine “Money,” short for “Money in the Bank,” 'cause it was a sure thing Blaine'd pick up a first down or a touchdown when you had to have it. This one time against Kiowa Bluff, we needed us five yards for a score, but Blaine didn't just run five yards. With all the cuts and dodges and whirls and twirls, going towards one sideline then back towards the other, he must've run a solid mile before he finally slammed it over the goal line. Old Money Keller. That was the perfect nickname.
But, like I say, that was last season.
Tonight we had us one yard to score and take the lead, and instead of calling Blaine's number right off, Coach called for a quarterback sneak. On first and second down. I expected Blaine to blow up, but he didn't say nothing. You can always tell when he's pissed off on the football field, though, the way he jams his hands on his hips and stamps around with them little short, sharp steps. And you couldn't blame him neither. Coach had pretty much promised he'd get his chance, and now two downs went by, and no matter how strong and shifty Darnell was, we hadn't pushed the ball a single inch closer to pay dirt.
I never was one to go to coaching the coach, but this time I had to say something. Coach Huff had just signaled in for a time-out, and I stepped up and told him straight-out that we needed to put the ball in Blaine's hands. Coach looked me up and down kind of squint-eyed like some bug had lit down beside him and he was wondering how come it could talk. “You think so, do you, Green?” he said, turning back towards the field. “Well, I'll take that into consideration.”
That was that. But when our offense gathered up around him, the first thing out of his mouth was, “Keller, do you still think you can make it?”
Blaine matched his stare and then some. “Just give me the ball,” he said.
Coach banged the side of his helmet. “You got it.”
It was a running play off left tackle, away from James Thunderhorse. Problem was, all night Thunderhorse had done pulled over and dragged Blaine down no matter where he tried to go. There just wasn't enough speed left in that knee of his for Blaine to bust away. If he wanted to score this time, he'd have to grind in there on nothing but raw guts.
Our boys lined up in the I, and Darnell started his count. On the other side of the line of scrimmage, a Sawyer line-backer darted up behind left tackle, getting ready for a run to come that way. Too late for any audible now. Sweetpea snapped the ball, and Blaine charged off and took it from Darnell with perfect timing. Our line was doing everything they could up front, but that durn linebacker already sealed the gap, and Thunderhorse was pulling around. If Blaine kept charging, he'd run smack into that same concrete wall he'd run into all night. If he tried to cut back, them slow feet of his wouldn't never get him around the end in time. It looked like every possible route into the end zone was blocked off.
So he done the impossible. He flew.
At the very last second before hitting that sealed-up line, he launched off like a fighter jet and ripped over our tackle and the Sawyer linebacker, ricocheted off James Thunder-horse, and finally skidded shoulder-first into the grass on the far side of the goal line.
Touchdown.
Another A-bomb exploded in the stands.
Officially, the game still had almost three minutes left, but unofficially, it was over and ready for the history books. You could see in the way them Sawyer boys carried themselves they was deflated. Their offense hadn't done much against us all night and they sure didn't get no first downs once they got the ball back. The only thing we had to do then was run out the clock. The crowd counted it down at the very end: “Five, four, three, two, one.” The bomb that went off then nearly brung that old stadium to the ground.
Our whole team tumbled over each other in a pile that was just about as rough as the one I was under when I recovered that fumble, but it was a kind of rough that felt a whole lot better. Once we got up and shook hands with them poor old Sawyer boys, Blaine ripped his helmet off and led us over to the sidelines to salute the fans, and more than that—to just stand there and soak up all the love pouring down. You should've seen the smile on his face. It was about as big as the bottom end of a tractor wheel. He done it. He scored the winning touchdown. His old man couldn't come up with no lectures to ruin that.
He slammed me a hard one on the shoulder pad. “How about it, Hamp,” he yelled in my ear. “Do you see any of 'em?”
“Any of who?” I yelled back. For a second I thought he meant girls, like Sara Reynolds, maybe, but course that wasn't what he had in mind at all.
“College scouts!” he hollered. “College scouts and big-city sports writers.”
&n
bsp; I scanned the crowd, but what I seen was even stranger than spotting college scouts or sports writers or even Sara Reynolds. It was my mom.
There she was, right on the front row, smiling and waving to get my attention, calling my name out.
“Well, what do you know,” Blaine said. “Your mom's up there.”
“Yep,” I said. “First time in two years.”
“Who's she with?”
I checked next to her, expecting to see Jim Houck from Lowery, but instead of him there was a big tall guy with gray hair combed back and curling down long behind his ears.
“I don't know,” I said, my voice mostly drowned out by the cheers. “I never seen that one before.”
Right about that time, the rest of the boys on our team and a bunch of fans swarmed over and lifted me up on their shoulders, parading me around and chanting that old “Hampton, Hampton, Hampton” chant of theirs. I felt about like the king of Oklahoma up there. I figured I ought to grab ahold of Blaine and haul him up with me, but when I looked around, he was traipsing away from the parade off towards the locker room. He wasn't smiling no more.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
That night after we showered and drove around town and relived that Sawyer game about as much as we could stand, I headed on back to the house, even though I'd have ruther done just about anything than walk in there and see my mom with her latest man. Funny thing, though, soon as I stepped up on the porch I got a different feeling than usual. Instead of one of them prehistoric old Fleetwood Mac songs leaking out the door, one of my favorite songs was playing, and then when I opened the door, the strangest thing yet happened. Before I even got a foot inside, my mom sung out with, “Welcome home, hero!” and went to hopping up and down like her shoes was on fire. I tell you what, it about knocked me right back off the porch into the bushes.
She was over there behind the coffee table next to that same man I seen her at the game with, but they wasn't in the middle of slow dancing or nothing. And she wasn't waving around no whiskey glass or playing cards or Scrabble or any of the other hundred and fifteen ways she usually had of ignoring me when I come in from someplace. The coffee table was laid out with a big old platter of chicken wings and then there was some tortilla chips and bean dip and a whole big bottle of orange pop. All my favorites.