The Walk On

by John Feinstein

  “Everyone calm down,” he said, realizing he was giving orders to ten players—Jonas was out of the game again—who were all two or three years older than he was. It didn’t matter. He was the quarterback. As Matt had told him repeatedly, it had to be his huddle. Clearly, it was just that. Everyone quieted as he called the play.

  Twice in a row they ran options where Alex had to decide as he got to the corner whether to turn upfield or pitch to Josephs. Both times he kept it himself because the defense was keying on Josephs—which made sense. Alex picked up fifteen yards on the two plays to a first down at the six. From there, Josephs did the rest behind the offensive line, bulling to the 2-yard line on first down and then into the end zone.

  The quarter ended as he scored. The extra point made it 14–14.

  The sideline was alive as the offense came off the field.

  “Good job, Myers, very good job,” Coach Gordon said. “Stay ready.”

  That meant Matt would be back in on the next offensive series. Alex wasn’t surprised, but he was a little disappointed. Jake, having heard what Coach Gordon said, came up and gave Alex a high five.

  “He should keep you in there,” he said.

  Alex was surprised. Jake wasn’t just Matt’s best friend; he was also Coach Gordon’s biggest supporter on the team—bigger, Alex often thought, than Matt.

  “Matt’s the quarterback—you know that.”

  Jake shook his head. “You got us down the field.”

  “I threw one pass that you or any of the JV guys would have completed too, and Jonas turned it into a big play.”

  “You’re being modest and you know it, Goldie. Jonas was covered pretty well. Matt—or any of us—might not have made the throw. And you made two good option decisions. Coach is right about one thing: you need to stay ready.” Neither offense could do much as the fourth quarter began. It was snowing again and the field was getting slippery. Once, when Matt got to the outside and looked to have a lane, his feet went out from under him. He came up screaming in frustration.

  Then, with the clock ticking under five minutes, disaster struck. The Lions had just picked up a first down at their own 46 on another Josephs run. Coach Gordon decided to go with a play-action pass on first down: something he hadn’t called all game—an element of surprise.

  Matt expertly pulled the ball out of Josephs’s stomach on the fake, dropped back, and wound up to throw. Out of the corner of his eye, Alex could see that both Jonas and Tom Revere were running behind their defenders. Matt just had to choose which receiver to throw the ball to.

  He never got the chance. As he cocked his arm, the ball slipped from his grip. Panicking, he tried to dive on it as it hit the ground, but it squirted loose. A huge pileup ensued, with much screaming and yelling in the pile. When the officials finally picked everyone off one another, the referee stood up and pointed in the wrong direction.

  It was Chester’s ball at the Chester Heights 34. The far side of the field erupted. Alex felt the kind of rush you feel when fear suddenly hits you. He looked at the clock: it was at 4:44. If Chester scored now, it would take something approaching a miracle to save the season.

  Matt looked to be near tears as he came to the sideline, tearing the helmet off his head. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry!” he said. “Two guys open and I blew it!”

  Coach Brotman was the first one to meet him. “You didn’t blow anything, Matt. The ball slipped. Stay calm. We’ll get another chance.”

  Alex wasn’t so sure about that. Chester picked up a first down at the 21 on two straight rushing plays. Alex remembered hearing the coaches say their kicker had made a forty-two-yard field goal. This might be different, though, because of the conditions. Still, the clock was slipping away. Chester was content to keep running the ball.

  The quarterback, Todd Austin, who wasn’t much of a runner, did run—twice—picking up a total of six yards.

  The clock was at 2:40 as he was brought down at the 15.

  “We’ve got to use a time-out or we’ll have almost nothing on the clock after they score,” Jake said.

  Coach Gordon read his mind and called time-out—Chester Heights’ second of the half—with 2:36 to go.

  “We have to stop them here,” Alex said. “Or they’ll run the clock all the way down. We’ve only got one time-out left.”

  Jake didn’t say anything.

  Chester’s coach, Mike Byrnes, apparently had a lot of faith in his field goal kicker, because he ran a straight dive play to get the ball to the middle of the field on third down. The ball was sitting on the 13 and the field goal team came on. Coach Gordon decided to save his last time-out. Chester let the play clock run down to two seconds before snapping the ball. The snap and the hold were perfect—the ball had been dried off by the officials before the play at the request of Chester’s center—and the kick was perfect too. It sailed through the uprights with 1:52 on the clock, making the score 17–14.

  Everyone congratulated the defense for holding the Clippers to three, but it wasn’t with much enthusiasm. The Lions would need to drive the ball a long way—barring a long kickoff return—to try to get a tying field goal.

  The one-game season was in serious jeopardy.

  As the kickoff return team took its place, Alex looked over and saw Coach Gordon with his arms crossed. Matt had his helmet on and was talking to the offense. Surprisingly, Coach Brotman wasn’t talking to the players, but to Coach Gordon.

  “Alex, he’s going to put you in,” Jake said softly. “There’s no choice. We have to throw the ball. Matt can’t do it.”

  For once, Alex didn’t answer. Jake was right. But there was Matt, helmet on, clearly ready to go back on the field. Before he could say anything, Alex heard Coach Brotman call his name—or nickname, anyway.

  “Goldie,” he said. “Over here.”

  He jogged over to where the two coaches stood.

  Coach Gordon looked at him. “Are you ready to do this?” he asked.

  Alex glanced over at Matt, who was a few yards away, hands on his hips. He knew it would break his heart to be taken out at this point. He was tempted to say, Matt’s the quarterback, Coach.

  Instead, he said very quietly, “If you want me in, Coach, I’m ready.”

  Coach Gordon nodded. “We have one time-out left. Two play calls at a time, just like in the King of Prussia game. Do not use the time-out unless I signal for it. We need to get at least to the 20.”

  “Yes sir.”

  Coach Gordon glanced at his son, who had taken his helmet off. He called two plays and sent Alex onto the field.

  The kickoff had been returned to the 33. Alex stepped into the huddle and saw all eyes locked on him. No one said a word. “Two plays at a time,” he said. “And no one calls a time-out except Coach. We’ve only got one left.”

  Alex could see Chester lying back, willing to give him anything over the middle that wasn’t deep. Twice, he took exactly that: a circle pass to Josephs that picked up nine yards, followed by a quick come-back pass to Alan Fitzgerald that picked up another nine. They were in Chester territory at the 49. But the clock was at 1:05 and ticking.

  “Spike!” Alex heard Coach Gordon scream. He ran to the line, took the snap from Will Allison, and spiked the ball. Exactly a minute to go.

  In came Jonas with two more plays. The first was a draw, which scared Alex. Even if it picked up yardage, it would keep the clock running. But he wasn’t going to argue at this point. The hole was huge—everyone on defense was dropping back for a pass—and Josephs picked up thirteen yards to the 36.

  “Spike!” Coach Gordon yelled again.

  Alex complied. There were thirty-nine seconds left.

  Coach Gordon sent in a second play call to add to the one already called. Alex thought for a second he saw Crenshaw open over the middle but then saw the safety creeping up and looked away. He saw Jonas, who had been running a deep route, running back in his direction, hand up. He rifled a pass, which Jonas dove for and caught at the 25.
/>   First down.

  “Spike!”

  Alex spiked the ball and looked up. There were twenty-two seconds left, twenty-five yards to go. But they were almost in field goal range.

  The next call was for Josephs, the circle play that had worked so well. But he slipped coming out of the backfield. Alex scrambled quickly to his right and aimed a pass at Fitzgerald near the sideline. It sailed just over his hands. That stopped the clock at sixteen seconds.

  Third down. They needed to pick up at least five yards—ten would be a lot better—and then use their time-out to get Pete Ross on the field for the field goal. Coach Gordon was thinking just that and called a double-slant route for Jonas and Revere. Each player was to try to go downfield five yards and slant to the middle, and—with luck—one would open up at about the 15 at either the left or the right hash mark. It wouldn’t be a perfect angle, but Ross was deadly accurate within his range.

  As soon as Alex took the snap, he was in trouble. Knowing he wasn’t going to throw deep, the Chester defensive coordinator had blitzed both safeties. Alex saw them coming before he even had a chance to look downfield. He tried to step up between them, but one of them got to him. Alex pulled his arm down so he wouldn’t fumble and went down in a heap at the twenty-nine-yard line.

  Even though he knew he was supposed to let Coach Gordon call the last time-out, he didn’t wait to hear anything from the sideline because he knew if he didn’t call time-out the clock would run to zero.

  “TIME-OUT!” he screamed.

  The referee waved his arms to signal a time-out.

  The clock stopped at six seconds. They were outside of Ross’s range by a good fifteen yards. It was fourth and fourteen.

  When Alex trotted to the sideline to consult with the coaches, he was greeted by three people: Coach Gordon, Coach Brotman, and Matt Gordon. Pete Ross was standing a couple steps away in case the coaches decided their best chance was a very long field goal.

  “Any chance you can get it there, Pete?” Coach Gordon was saying as Alex arrived.

  “If I hit it exactly right,” Pete answered—without a lot of confidence in his tone.

  That did not appear to be the answer Coach Gordon was looking for. He turned to Coach Brotman, Matt, and Alex.

  “What do you think?”

  “Dad, scramble 5 is our only chance,” Matt said. “Alex has to make a fast choice—throw one to the sideline quickly and hope we get out of bounds in time, or go for it all.”

  Coach Gordon was nodding; so was Coach Brotman. Alex too. Scramble 5 was one step short of the old Hail Mary in terms of desperation. The Hail Mary meant you threw the ball into the end zone and hoped against hope one of your guys came down with it. Scramble 5 meant you sent five wide receivers down the field. Two would run short routes to the sideline. If Alex thought he could get the ball to either of them and be close enough for a field goal and the receiver could get out of bounds before the clock hit zero, he would throw the ball there. The other three receivers would run deeper, to the end zone. Two went down and out, and the third ran a straight post pattern, literally running down the middle toward the goalpost. If Alex decided the short receivers were not open, he would have to go long. But if he did that, the clock would run out by the time the play was complete. There’d be no second chance. When they ran the play in practice, it took anywhere from five to six seconds to complete … when it worked.

  “Okay,” Coach Gordon said after what felt like an eternity. “Scramble 5.”

  Coach Brotman was waving the extra wide receivers over, saying to each, “Scramble 5, let’s go.”

  Coach Gordon put his hand on Alex’s shoulder. “They won’t rush more than three, maybe only two. That will give you time to go deep, but you must decide right away if you want to go short. You know that, right?”

  Alex nodded. He knew. Boy, did he know.

  The official was telling them to get back on the field. “Starting the play clock now, Coach,” he said.

  The play clock was no longer an issue. The play was already called. They just had to make it work.

  Matt, who hadn’t said a word to Alex throughout the fourth quarter, grabbed him as he started back.

  “You can do this, Goldie,” he said. “No one else—you.”

  Alex thought his eyes looked wet, but it might have been the snow, which had started again. He ran to the huddle. “You heard,” he said, stepping in. “Scramble 5. Fitzgerald, Revere, run those short cuts tight. On three.”

  Calling for the snap on the third sound didn’t matter one way or the other with the clock stopped. Alex just wanted one extra deep breath once he was standing in the shotgun behind Allison.

  They came to the line and Alex heard nothing—even though he knew everyone in the stadium was on their feet.

  “Red!” he shouted—the first sound. Then, “White!” He was in a patriotic mood. Finally: “Blue!”

  The ball came back to him as if on a string. He took a quick step back and looked for Fitzgerald and Revere. The safeties and an extra linebacker were all over them. He would have to force the ball to get it to one of them.

  No, he thought, can’t do it. He dropped another step. As Coach Gordon had predicted, he had time—Chester had only rushed two players. He could almost hear his heart pounding as he looked down the field.

  All he could see for a moment was a crush of bodies in red tops and white tops going in all different directions. Then, suddenly, he saw Jonas running straight for the goal line, his arm in the air.

  He saw a white uniform right in front of Jonas and two waiting for him on the goal line. Still, Alex had no choice. He stepped up and threw the ball as hard as he could, hoping to hit Jonas in stride just behind the first defender and—somehow—just in front of the two waiting at the goal line.

  He knew he had thrown it as well as he could as he stepped into it, and he saw the ball speeding at Jonas. Then, one of the Chester defenders got a hand on his legs and the two of them went down in a heap.

  Alex heard a roar, but he couldn’t really tell what direction it was coming from. He and the Chester defender untangled and sat up. Alex heard a profanity come from the defender’s mouth. Squinting down the field, he saw Jonas rising from the ground, the football in his hands. The official had his arms in the air, signaling a touchdown.

  OH MY GOD, Alex thought, scrambling to his feet. A split second later, he was buried again—this time by a red wall of his teammates screaming his name. A moment later, he was on their shoulders. Jonas was getting the same ride in the end zone.

  He looked down and saw Matt Gordon right there, holding his left leg. There were tears streaming down Matt’s face. Alex knew they had nothing to do with the snow.

  It wasn’t until the next morning that Alex got to see what had happened on the last play. As he had thought when he released the pass, he had thrown the ball as well as he possibly could. It had just cleared the grasping hand of a defender at about the four-yard line and had whistled into Jonas’s hands as he reached the two-yard line going full speed. Even though the two defenders who were no more than a half step from him were right in front of him, his momentum had forced them backward just enough to get him across the goal line.

  Alex was watching Comcast SportsNet–Philadelphia, which always repeated its late-night sports show in the morning. “Watch this remarkable throw by freshman quarterback Alex Myers,” the anchor said as the replay came up for a second time. “If the Eagles had a quarterback who could throw with that kind of accuracy, they wouldn’t be three and five!”

  Alex laughed, but he loved the line. The anchor then said, “Let’s go now to our Lisa Hillary, who spoke to the man with the golden arm after the game.”

  Alex had talked to a lot of people after the game, but he remembered Lisa Hillary, in part because of whom she worked for but also because she seemed both pretty and smart. The latter of which, as his dad often pointed out, wasn’t always a criterion for getting a job in TV.

  “I’m with
Alex Myers, who will be forever remembered at Chester Heights for what happened here tonight,” she said in her opening. Then, turning to Alex, she said, “Were you surprised when Coach Gordon sent you in to take Matt Gordon’s spot for the last series?”

  Alex’s answer was honest. “Yeah, a little bit,” he said. “Matt got us to the point where we had a chance to win the conference tonight. I think it was just a matter of time on the clock and our need to throw the ball.”

  “What kind of nerves come into play when you’re put into a situation like that?”

  Alex smiled. “Honestly, none. You don’t have time to be nervous. You just have to do it.”

  “Coach Gordon told us that it was up to you whom to throw to and whether to go deep or short and try for the field goal. Why did you decide to throw the ball to Jonas Ellington? Your coach said it was probably the toughest throw of the options open to you.”

  Alex nodded. “Well, the short throws just weren’t open,” he said. “When I looked downfield, Jonas had his arm up and I saw a little seam in the defense. He’s made tough catches all season. I just thought it was our best chance.” He paused. “I haven’t seen the catch because I got knocked down, but I’m pretty sure the real hero is Jonas.”

  Hillary thanked him, then turned back to the camera. “Neil, as you can tell, being a hero has not gone to Alex Myers’s head. Back to you.”

  Alex replayed the final play and the interview three times before his mother walked into the room. She was holding the phone.

  “It’s your dad,” she said.

  Alex had seen a text—one among what seemed like hundreds—from his dad the night before and hadn’t answered, not because he was angry but because he’d had so much to do in the aftermath, including the entire team going back on the field in uniform to take a picture in front of the scoreboard.

  He took the phone from his mom.

  “Congratulations,” his dad said. “I texted you last night.”

  “I know, Dad, sorry. There was just so much going on.”