Crackback (12 page)

“Yellow is the color of vomit. A puke color, a weak color. Blue and white are strong colors. They should beat yellow every time.” Stahl's pacing back and forth in our locker room. “A win and we're in the playoffs. A loss and our season's over. It's that simple, men. We can beat these guys.” Considering we've lost our last two and Lincoln is undefeated and ranked sixth in the state, this seems delusional.

“Remember, men, don't be intimidated,” Stahl says. “Those guys put their pants on the same way you do—one leg at a time.”

“Not quite,” Sam whispers. I cover my mouth so Stahl won't see me laughing, but he's concentrating on the starters.

“Remember, men, there's no
I
in
team
.” Stahl writes it on the board.

“There isn't one in
dumb-ass
either,” Sam says under his breath.

Even though it's a chilly night, lots of fans have come over from Lincoln. It's Parents' Night for us, and the stadium's packed. The Confluence pep band blasts out “Come Together,” and Sam sings during hamstring
stretches. He's the only guy who knows
all
the words to the song. “Geniuses, Beyond, geniuses, those lads from Liverpool. ‘One thing I can tell you is you got to be free.' Fairly subversive song for Confluence, but absolutely perfect.”

We switch to quad stretches and Sam keeps talking. “Got to soak it all in, Beyond. Last high school game for me. Never quite like this again.”

Sam and I watch the panther mascot prowl the Lincoln sideline. “How about Panthers as a team name for Lincoln?”

“Hopeless,” Sam says. “They don't have a single panther in town. They probably never have, unless some circus came through.” He shakes his head at the mascot. “Pick a new one, Miles.”

I pause. “Navigators.”

“Lincoln Navigators, that's better than Panthers.” Sam nods. “Sponsorship possibilities, as well.”

“Wait,” I say. “I've got another one. Monument. The Lincoln Monument.”

“Perfect. I love the strength, the singular nature of it. Lincoln Monument. That's solid, Beyond. You're showing signs of scrub leadership.”

“How about Eagles, Sam? What do you think of Eagles for Confluence?”

“It's not bad. We've got lots of eagles because of the river. And the symbol fits the town.”

“Proud, independent, all that.”

“No, scavenger qualities.”

“Eagles aren't scavengers.”

“Yeah, they are. Eagles don't just glide around majestically. They eat roadkill and sit back and let ospreys fish and then swoop in and steal the catch. That fits fine as a symbol of Confluence.”

How different the season has become. I used to focus on zone coverages and the opponents' tendencies. Now it's birds and team names.

Before the game, we line up facing the crowd for Parents' Night. Mom and Dad come onto the field and stand on either side of me. Mom wears my blue road jersey and Dad wears a Confluence sweatshirt.

“Number 42, Miles Manning, and his parents, Michael and Liz Manning.” Mom beams at me and Dad looks at the ground. I check down the line to see Sam's folks. His dad's got a beard like Santa Claus and his mom is short and pretty. Sam waves to the crowd when he's announced.

After all the introductions, Mom hugs me. “I'm so proud of you, Miles. I love you.”

I turn to Dad and he shakes my hand. “Have a good game,” he says. What does that mean? I don't even play.

“Let's concentrate, men.” Coach Stahl gathers us together. “This is the game of your life. It's what you were born to do. A victory over Lincoln would prove the experts wrong. Remember, just win, Eagles. Just win.”

In the bleachers, Mom, Dad, and Martha look small in the crowd. I picture Dad as that young father giving mouth-to-mouth to his dead son. I don't even know the baby's name.

Lincoln's big and fast. Word spreads that college scouts are here to check out their running back, Number 44. On the first play, he hits Dawson, our linebacker, so hard that he gives him a concussion. On the next play, he smashes into Baker and knocks the wind out of him. When Baker staggers off, I hope for the call.

“Hedberg,” Stahl shouts, and sends out another sophomore. I'm way better than Hedberg.

No score after the first quarter. The offense is doing nothing, but the defense has gotten a couple of breaks, a fumble recovery by Brooksy and another interception by Zach. Zach's having a great year—the kind of year I thought I'd have.

At halftime the score is 0-0 and Coach is pumped.

“Terrific first half, men. Lincoln came in here talking trash, acting like big shots, expecting a cakewalk. Now they realize it's a street fight. Men, you're giving 110 percent. Keep it up.” Stahl claps his hands. “Remember, defense, if they don't score, they can't win. Offense, hold on to the ball. Keep blasting away. We've got 'em on their heels, men. Take it to 'em.”

The crunch of helmets against shoulder pads carries across the field in the second half. Two more of our linebackers get hurt, and I'm stunned when Coach calls Sam's name.

“Hunter, get out there at middle linebacker and don't screw around.”

Sam grabs his helmet and rushes onto the field. Last game of his senior year and he gets in. I'm thrilled for him, but envious, too.

On Sam's first play, they run up the middle. Sam stands up the blocker and collides with Number 44. Sam hangs on and wrestles him to the ground.

“Way to go, Gatherer.” I knew he could play. Sam jumps up and hurries to the huddle.

With 2:14 left in the third quarter, the clock stops for an injury time-out. Brooksy is holding his ankle. He's been all over the field. Now he can barely walk. The trainers help him hobble to the bench.

Stahl calls Morriarty to replace him. Morriarty hasn't played much, and he'll have his hands full with 44. Immediately Lincoln runs the option, and Morriarty lunges for the quarterback, rather than staying with the tailback. The quarterback pitches and 44 runs fifteen yards before Zach pushes him out-of-bounds.

“Contain, Morriarty, contain,” Stahl yells. “You've got the pitch. Don't get sucked in.”

The next play Lincoln sweeps the other way. Our defense pursues. “Reverse,” Stahl hollers as the wideout comes back. Morriarty's been caught inside, and the receiver has plenty of room. He gains twenty yards before Zach makes a touchdown-saving tackle.

“Morriarty, what are you doing? Get over here.” Stahl throws off his headset. “Manning, get in for Morriarty at strong-side backer.” I can't believe I heard right. I jump up from the bench. “Make sure you contain. You've got the pitch. You can do that, right?” Stahl slaps me on the helmet.

“Yes, Coach.” I snap my chin strap and run onto the field. I'm thrilled to be out here but nervous about playing linebacker. I'm also worried about how hard 44 hits.

“Play it straight,” Zach says in the huddle. He glances at me. “Five-three, cover three. Watch the pitch. Ready?”

“Break,” we all shout. I'm back with the starters. I put my mouth guard in and tighten my gloves.

“Strong left,” Zach shouts. Lincoln's huge. I set up outside the end. My job is to not let anyone get outside. Don't fall for the fake and then get burned on a pitch or a reverse.

“Hut one, hut two,” the Lincoln quarterback calls. He takes the snap and runs at me. Number 44's behind him so I know it's an option. I stay wide with 44 and the quarterback pitches. I smash my shoulder into 44's legs and hang on as he falls down on my head. No gain.

My head's spinning from the hit as I untangle with 44. He's got a goatee that's familiar. I check his hand. T I M E on the right fingers holding on to the ball. The guy from Oxbow Lake. Next time, I'll hit him as hard as I can.

Quick pitch my way. I rush forward to contain. I turn to see something out of the side of my eye.
Bammm.
I'm leveled by the crackback. I lie on the ground struggling for breath.
Get up. Don't let them see you hurt.

I stagger to Zach and jam my finger in his face. “Don't let me get blindsided. Give me a warning on the crackback.”

Zach turns away. “Huddle up.”

I gasp for breath in the huddle. “Four-three, cover two,” Zach says. “Call out the crackbacks. Ready?”

“Break.”

With four minutes left in the game, Sam strips the quarterback on a keeper.

“Fumble.” The ball's in front of me. I dive and wrap my body around it. Offensive players grab and pull, but I hold on tight.

“Way to go, Man.” Sam pulls me up.

“Great play, Gatherer.” I slap him on the shoulder as we run off the field.

Three plays later, Monson breaks off tackle and hammers in for a score. We all go crazy. We're ahead of Lincoln. We haven't been ahead of anybody in three weeks. The band plays and the Confluence crowd keeps cheering. A group of girls sings and dances behind the bench.

“Say what?”

“That's the way we like it.”

“Say what?”

“That's the way we like it.”

“Say what?”

“That's the way, that's the way, that's the way we like it.”

“Smash the Monument,” I shout at Sam, who makes karate gestures.

“Get serious,” Zach yells. He's right. We have to hold them again.

Sam, Zach, and I are playing the option on our side so well that Lincoln starts running the other way. This is the time when it's easy to slide too far.
Stay home,
I remind myself.

On second and six from our twenty-four, the Lincoln quarterback fakes left and drops back. Goatee's my responsibility, so I stick with him. The quarterback sets and throws. I close quickly and hammer Goatee while his arms are outstretched. He falls to the ground and the pass is incomplete.

“Payback!” I shout at him as teammates rush over. Goatee looks at me. I don't think he recognizes me. “Oxbow.” I rub my nose.

It's third and three with 1:02 left in the game. Two more plays and we've pulled off the upset of the year.

“Strong left.” I check the wideout as Lincoln lines up. His toes are turned in.

“Hut one.” The quarterback pitches.

From the side, the wideout charges.

“Crackback,” Zach hollers late, but it's better than nothing.

I pivot and hammer the receiver with a forearm to the head. I rush outside and meet Goatee one-on-one. He fakes inside, but I keep my eye on his waist the way Dad
taught me. I lower my shoulder and smash him into the down marker. All the frustration of the past month is channeled into that hit.

“Time-out.” He hops up. He's a tough guy.

“Final time-out, Lincoln,” the referee calls.

Zach runs over to talk with Stahl.

“They've got to throw to the end zone here. How about a blitz?” Sam says.

“Smart call.” I squirt water into my mouth and hand the bottle to Sam. I rinse my mouth and spit on the grass.

Zach runs back to the huddle. “Coach says four-three, cover one, straight up, no blitz. Line, get some pressure. Secondary, man-to-man. Play deep. Watch 44. Ready?”

“Break.”

Lincoln lines up with Goatee on my side of the backfield. He's my guy on a pass.

“Hut one.” Goatee swings out. He fakes in and cuts outside. I give him a cushion. The quarterback pump fakes, but I don't bite. Goatee breaks his pattern long. I bump him and run stride for stride down the sideline.

A roar rises from the Lincoln side of the field. I turn to see a receiver running into the end zone. Stahl smashes his clipboard to the ground. “Hedberg, how the hell could you let him get behind you?”

That's my old spot. If I'd been there, I wouldn't have gone for a pump fake to the other side of the field. I wouldn't have let him get behind me.

“Extra point, defense,” Coach yells. “Manning, you're a safety.”

As safety, I'm supposed to stay back and protect against the fake kick. Lincoln only needs the extra point to tie. I'm sure the way they drove down the field, they're confident they can win in overtime.

In the huddle, Zach says, “Let's get some penetration. Ready?”

“Break.” As I walk to my end, I know Lincoln will kick. They won't risk losing the game on a fake. Why not gamble on the block to win? I grab Sam. “Can you take the guy on the end?”

“Sure.”

Goatee lines up across from me. He looks like he's blocking all the way. So does everybody else. Sam slides over in front of Goatee and I move outside. I take a deep breath and visualize getting a hand on the ball.

“Hut one.” Sam smashes into Goatee and I fly around the corner. Time slows and everything's clear. I dive at the spot in front of the kicker. The ball hits my arm. I got it. There's a scramble for the ball and Zach comes up with it.

Confluence fans explode with cheers. 0:00 on the clock. The referee blows his whistle. “We won. We won 7-6. We beat Lincoln.” Teammates swarm, knock me to the grass, and pile on. I can barely breathe, but I don't care. We won. We won. We're going to the play-offs.

“Spectacular.” Sam pulls me to my feet. “You're Miles Beyond.”

“You're a star, Gatherer.” I give him a bear hug. “We've got another game.”

“Yeah, and I've got a date tonight with Julia, that hot cellist.”

“Way to go.”

Eagles fans of all shapes and sizes stream onto the field. People I don't know pound me on the pads. “Good game. Good game.”

As we run off the field, I see Coach Sepolski standing with Halloran. Coach, who's lost weight, gives me a thumbs-up. I give him two back and run to see him.

“Way to go, Miles,” he says. “Great players make great plays at crucial times.”

“Thanks, Coach.” We shake hands.

“Congratulations, Miles.” Halloran slaps my back. “Beautiful block.”