First & Long

by Jesse Jordan

  “No Bill, you didn't. As usual, your organization did things totally professionally and I commend whoever you had put this together. No, this is about something on the Knights side. I'm calling to inform you that I'm sorry, but there won't be any trade for Lincoln Watson. I understand you might be upset, but I just don't feel like Lincoln's the sort of player the Knights are able to give up. I hope you understand.”

  “Well, I'll say there's a few people here who might put your name on the dart board come tomorrow,” Bill says, “but I won't say boo. Good luck with the rest of the season, hope to see you guys in the playoffs.”

  That's what I like about Bill. His teams have beaten us up for years, but at the same time they're always professional about it, on and off the field. “Us too, Bill. You mind having some chowder ready for when we come to play?”

  “Sounds good. Goodnight, Miss Porter.”

  “Goodnight, Bill.” I hang up the phone, and look at Red, who's face has matched his nickname, which hasn't fit in about twenty years since his once famous hair's gone gray. “You have something to say, Coach Hallifax?”

  “Am I, or am I not the general manager of this team?” Red explodes. “I busted my ass all week getting things lined up for this trade, and you just on a fucking whim decide to veto me. What the fuck is the matter with you?”

  “Hold on right there,” I reply, keeping my voice level and holding a hand up. “Take a look at the trade.”

  “I did! After all, I'm the one who put the fucking thing together!” Red yells.

  “Will you lower your voice, please? You're acting like a jilted girlfriend,” I growl, pointing at the chair across the desk from me. “And sit down, you look like you're about to have a coronary.”

  “Fuck that,” Red rasps. “Seriously, tell me... is it just because he's your boyfriend?”

  I shake my head, tenting my hands in front of me on the desk. “Try that I know what you're doing, and this trade hurts the team. Yes, you got three players and an upgrade in draft stock. But one, New England's draft picks are always in bad places, they trade them up and down to keep that roster of theirs stocked. I checked, the second round pick we'd get wouldn't be until at least fifty other players have come off the board. The holes we might have to fill won't be filled with the fifty second pick in the draft next April. Second, I looked over each of the players you have listed here. Their running back... he's a guy who's only good coming out of the backfield to catch passes. He might be their leading rusher, but not in the system the Knights have. What our team's lacking is a power runner who can grind and take pressure off the passing game. This guy doesn't do that, and his pass blocking is subpar too.”

  “Who cares? The prime thing was the defensive help. Two good players for one!”

  “Yes, let's look at that defensive help. An outside linebacker from a three four scheme who hasn't played in a four three since college. He's too small for the scheme we run. His main role for New England was as an edge rusher, but Lincoln Watson's better than him at that by about eleven sacks so far this season. His coverage in the flat is only so-so. The d-back you have listed is good on coverage... but he's soft. He's got a rep, he won't make hits. Again, a non-fit for the Knights defense, where the main thing Coach Petersen needs in the secondary is the reincarnation of Ronnie Lott.”

  “So you think you're a player evaluator now? Well let me tell you something, I've been around this sport-”

  “Since before I was born,” I finish for Red, cutting him off. “I know that, you gave me the same speech a few weeks ago, remember?”

  “I remember seeing an overly emotional girl who doesn't want to give up her boyfriend,” Red growls. “I remember a spoiled princess who is hurt over the way her ex talks to her, even though he's the reason this team's tied for the division lead.”

  I laugh, shaking my head. “Take a look in the mirror, Red. You're so fucking blind it's not even funny. You know what I see, looking at these papers? I see Joe Crenshaw's whining in your ear, filling you with bullshit about Lincoln. The reality is, the reason the Knights are even in line for a playoff spot is because of Lincoln. I see a team that's spent a greater percentage each year on so-called offensive talent, spending draft pick after draft pick on pass blocking linemen and high-profile receivers until Joe's so surrounded by talent that I think Roger Staubach could come out of forty years' retirement and lead this team to the championship... but each year it's failed. Sure, Joe puts up good numbers, but he's not a leader. You don't see that though, because you're so stuck in a mentality that might work in college... hell, it might have worked twenty years ago with the Greatest Show on Turf... but it's not working now. The simple fact is Red, your offensive schemes are dated, you're not getting the most out of the talent you do have, and you've screwed the defense for years to pay for Joe Crenshaw to have playthings to play with. For what? Cellar dweller results.”

  “How dare you-”

  “How dare I?” I ask, getting used to cutting Red off. Part of me loves the surge of power inside, it seems Lincoln isn't the only person with an inner caged monster in our relationship. “Simple. I love this team. You might have been in pro football longer than I've been alive, but I've been part of the Knights far, far longer than you've ever thought of. I know this team because the pulse of the stadium runs through my blood. I know this team because I study this game just as hard as any player, and just as hard as any coach. And what I know is this: if this team is going to get to the playoffs, it's not going to be on Joe Crenshaw's arm. It's going to be on Lincoln Watson's shoulders.”

  Red stares at me, open hate in his eyes, and gets to his feet. “For the first time perhaps, I hope we don't get to the fucking playoffs. Thankfully for you, I'm professional enough to still coach hard regardless of if I'm being hamstrung by the ownership. But this offseason, your father and I are going to have a very serious talk about how... or if, I come back. I won't be stabbed in the back too often before I strike back, Miss Porter.”

  “I suggest you focus on this Sunday, and leave offseason talk for the offseason,” I reply evenly. “Get some sleep, and goodnight, Coach.”

  Red looks like he wants to say more, but turns and storms out, slamming my door behind him. I sigh, shaking my head. That could have gone a lot better, but I think I did things right. Sure, Lincoln and I have an emotional bond... but the simple fact is, I was right, too. The players New England offered weren't going to make the Knights better. If Red had looked at it even half-reasonably, he'd have understood that. Instead, he looked at it like he always has, as a former quarterbacks coach who's only main concern is making his franchise quarterback happy.

  “That's not the way the Knights are going to work any more,” I murmur to myself. “Starting today, the Knights are going to be a real football team, not a quarterback show off stage show.”

  My phone rings, and I look down, seeing I've got a text from Lincoln. So... do I still have a job?

  U should be asleep. And yes, you've still got a job with the Knights.

  Good... now, let's talk about next year's contract, Lincoln sends back, before a moment later sending me a laughing emoji. I chuckle, and send back the same emoji... this time with a hand whipping out to give him the finger.

  Lincoln replies quickly. Giving me ideas.

  Keep 'em... until tomorrow night at least. I love you.

  Love you too. Gonna get some sleep. G'nite.

  It is time to get some sleep, and I send him a kiss emoji before packing my bag. I wait until midnight, just in case Red tries something really stupid, then leave my office, locking everything behind me. As I walk through the empty stadium, giving the security guard a nod and a wave as I head out to my car... for the first time I feel like the owner of the team.

  It's a feeling I can get used to.

  Chapter 24

  Lincoln

  Running off the field, I rip my chinstrap off of my helmet, only a lifetime's worth of restraint and respect for my equipment keeping me from throwing
the damn thing into the bench. “Son of a fucking bitch!”

  “Chill, Linc,” Nick says. “Remember, the guys are looking at you.”

  I turn my head, seeing the other nine guys on the starting defense all looking at me, fear in their eyes. Part of it is they're scared of me... but the bigger part is that they feel lost. I understand how they feel. Through all but two minutes of the first half, the Houston offense has owned us left and right.

  We've thrown everything in this week's playbook at them, but they seem to be able to read us easily. We play tight, they go up top for big gains. We play off, they pound the middle with the run. Even when Nick shifted to calling audibles based off of what he was reading, the Houston quarterback's just countered with his own audible... and we're back on our heels again. Somehow, each of Houston's audibles has been exactly what they needed to counter what we've been throwing at them.

  Nick's right. I'm supposed to be the leader, the co-captain of this defense, I can't let them see me afraid too. “Okay, okay... we need to think, quickly. What the hell's going on out there?”

  “I swear Linc, these guys are in our damn helmets,” Nick says. “They know our defensive playbook like they were the ones who wrote it. They must have spent two damn weeks studying tape on us.”

  “Nah, it can't be just that,” I reply, shaking my head. “We changed the audible signals this week, remember? It was one of the things Coach pushed on us hard.”

  Nick nods, looking across the field where we can see the Houston quarterback talking with their offensive coordinator, going over things on a tablet computer. “I just got a weird damn feeling about this, Linc.”

  “Me too... if I didn't know better, I'd say they know our signals. Listen, during halftime, let's talk with Coach Petersen... I've got an idea.”

  “You wanna fill me in?” Nick asks, and I shake my head. “Any reason why?”

  “I think you're right... they can read our signals. I don't know how, or what they're doing... but it's safer to talk about this in the locker room, okay?”

  Nick nods, and we watch for the last two minutes of the half as the offense struggles to move the ball upfield. Luckily, we get a pass interference call go our way and with time running out, the Knights kick a field goal, making it twenty one to ten at the half.

  In the locker room, the tension is thick and explosive. The offense is doing their jobs, but they just haven't had enough chances to actually move the damn ball, and they know it. Meanwhile, the defense feels like we've had the rugs pulled out from under us, and most of the guys don't know what to do.

  “Coach?” I call, getting the Coach Petersen's attention. “What are you seeing out there?”

  “They're prepped better than any team I've ever seen,” Coach says. “Red's pissed, but somehow unconcerned.”

  His comment raises my suspicions, and I glance over at Red and Joe, who are discussing changes to the game plan for the offense. “Yeah... Coach, I think we've been hacked.”

  “What?” Petersen asks, his eyes going wide. “You mean-?”

  “Yeah... somehow, Houston got a hold of our defensive game plan. I don't know how, but they know what we're going to do almost as soon as you send it in.”

  “You realize what you're saying, right?” Petersen asks. “This could be another Spygate situation. League's not going to like that.”

  “I know, and I don't want it to become that,” I tell him. “It'll only hurt us in the long run. Instead, I've got another idea.”

  “What?” Petersen asks, looking intrigued. “Because I'll be honest Lincoln, right now I could use some.”

  “Turn over the defensive play calling to me,” I reply, earning a surprised look from Nick. “Send in the signals as usual. Use all the sideline gestures you want, play it straight for us. I'll ignore it all though, and call what I feel in the huddle. If Houston's reading your signals, they'll be thrown off.”

  “So... four seasons in the league makes you ready to call your own plays?” Coach asks, incredulous. “Come on Linc, you're pulling something out of your ass and you know it.”

  “I know that we'll be able to surprise them,” I reply. “I'm going to keep it mixed up, play reads off of what I'm seeing and feeling. Nick'll help. But in the huddle, I might go with what you send in, I might not. Tell the refs when we go out that our helmets are on the fritz, that'll stop them from listening in on our radios if that's what they're doing.”

  Petersen thinks, then nods. “Fine. Can't be any worse than the first half. I'll go tell Red and the refs now.”

  “Wait... don't tell Red about the new plan,” I say, grabbing his arm. “Just a feeling... but I want this between us.”

  Coach Petersen squints for a moment, surprised, but nods. “Okay... it's your ass and you get to explain why if we lose. This goes wrong, and that bus out back has a lot of tires to throw you under.”

  “Don't worry about that,” I tell him. “Just make sure this is a defense only thing. I'll deal with the rest of it next week.”

  Coach leaves, and Nick pulls me aside, his eyes clouded with doubt. “You sure about this, Lincoln? No offense, but it seems like a gloryhound sort of move, the shit that Crenshaw's been leveling at you half the season.”

  I chuckle, and pat Nick on the shoulder pads. “Trust me, Nick. By the end of tonight, you'll be getting more glory than I will.”

  Third down, seven minutes left, and somehow we've made a game of it. My plan, which nobody on the defense even believed at first, has worked.

  Part of it, of course, is that it's taken Houston almost a full quarter to catch on to what we're doing. They came out, and I could see in the way they lined up they expected us to play our base defense. After all, that was the signal that Coach sent in.

  To say they were shocked when I dropped back into coverage of the flat while the linebackers went right up the middle to swarm the quarterback is an understatement. A quick three and out, and our offense was able to grind it down the field, taking most of the third quarter to score a touchdown, putting us down by four.

  Another quick series, and we've traded punts for the second half up until now. But the effect I've been looking for is there... Houston doesn't know what to expect. Honestly, I've been halfway pulling it out of my ass as we've gone along. When Coach sends in a blitz, I call base or go to a different blitz. When Coach calls base, we change it. We've even used defensive schemes that we haven't even practiced this week, throwing stuff at them that isn't even supposed to work against Houston's offense.

  The biggest thing I've done is draw attention to myself. I haven't gotten a sack, but instead I've spent the past quarter and a half working as a decoy. I'll rush hard, or fake it to set up the double team, but in doing so our tackles and linebackers have found themselves freed up. Nick's having the best game of his career, getting two sacks and a ton of hard hits. The Houston running backs, who were probably expecting to gallop to a pair of hundred yard games, have instead been stuffed time and time again by our swarming front seven, and our defensive backs have been able to stick their receivers enough to make sure Houston hasn't been able to throw it long.

  But our offense has gone super conservative as well. The play calling looks like something out of high school ball... run, run, chuck it on third if we're more than four yards out. So we've stalemated, and now, with seven minutes left in the fourth, it's on us as a defense to make a play.

  “Okay,” I call in the huddle, looking around. “Ninety four bandit veer. But I want you playing cover two under.”

  “You must be nuts,” our free safety says. “I'll be by myself if they go long.”

  “We won't give them time to go long,” I reply confidently. “Just be ready.”

  We break and line up. Houston comes out in a four man spread with an empty backfield, keeping their tight end in, lined up across from me. Getting in my stance, I see him smirk, and I know he's going to try and fake me out. “Michigan! Michigan!” I yell, a fake 'audible' that does nothing more than tell Nic
k Sedgwick to check my side. “Parker!”

  The Houston quarterback bites on the bait, calling an audible, but the tight end still looks cocky. As soon as the ball snaps he barely pops my right shoulder before he tries to release... but I've got a good hold on his right bicep. It's a danger of using tight ends in the passing game, close to the line they can be yanked and pulled around just like a lineman.

  I see the Houston quarterback bootleg out to my side, so I let the tight end go to go after him. I have to trust that Nick's got my ass covered, and I go after the QB, raising my arms as I do. He releases, trying to lob the ball over my fingertips, but not too many defensive ends have my height and arm reach, and I can feel the tip of my glove just graze the ball as it goes past.

  I turn, my head whipping as the now wobbly ball goes up... and Nick's right there. He grabs the interception with soft hands, barely breaking stride as he takes off downfield. I run with him, screening for him as the Houston crowd roars their disapproval of the situation.

  Out of the corner of my eye I see one of their wide receivers, a tall, lanky former basketball small forward who usually goes up for jump balls, coming from across the field. Nick's got a lead, but he's also thirty six and nowhere near as fast as the receiver, who's trying to push Nick out of bounds somehow.

  Not on my watch. I plant and reverse field, lowering my shoulder and hitting the Houston player with a block that I'm sure his ancestors in their graves felt. He goes flying, an unconscious scream of pain tearing from his lips as my pads hit his ribs, and I drive him to the turf, rolling off of him as soon as I can.

  I'm desperate, hoping Nick is able to use my block to his benefit... and the sound tells me the result even before I see him holding the football up in the air as he rounds the endzone to spike the ball. Touchdown, Knights, and for the first time tonight we've got the lead. I get to my feet, looking down at the crushed receiver who's holding his ribs and coughing sickly, red staining his lips. “Ref! Man down!”