by Carl Deuker
Halloween came and went, and then there were just two games left in the season. The first was on a Friday, right after school, against Roosevelt on our home field. For three quarters, it was just like every other game. Fumbles, penalties, the occasional long run, a botched play. It was actually worse than most games for me, because I hadn’t been involved in a single play on offense or on defense.
With a little more than a minute left in the fourth quarter, we were losing 10–6. I was sitting at the end of the bench holding my helmet in my hand and fighting down a yawn, wishing the season were over.
We had the ball—fourth-and-one—on our own forty-yard line. Aiden was up over center when suddenly Coach Quist screamed, “Time out! Time out!” A whistle blew, and Coach turned to me.
“Get your helmet on, Brock. You’re in for the next play.”
I sat, frozen.
“You heard me. Now move!”
I jumped up, pulled the helmet on, snapped the chin strap, and joined the huddle around Coach Quist. “Okay,” he said, leaning forward. “We’re going to go power formation with Brock split right. Aiden, you fake the handoff and then throw that ball as far as you can down the center of the field. Just heave it.” Quist stopped, then looked at me. “Got that?” I nodded. “All right, then. On three.”
We ran back onto the field and took our spots on the line. I was split ten yards to the right. A cornerback was on me, but the safety was way up, anticipating a running play.
Aiden looked over the line and then shouted, “Hut! Hut! Hut!”
I took off. Aiden faked a handoff, dropped back three steps, and then flung the ball. The Roosevelt safety had bitten on the fake, and I’d blown by the cornerback guarding me. I looked up and found the ball, but instead of being out in front where I could run to it, it was behind me. I had to twist my body and reach back. I felt the ball hit my hands. I bobbled it once . . . twice . . . and then had it in my fingertips. I regained my balance, pulled the ball tight to my chest, looked up, and saw nothing but green grass in front of me. I ran and ran and ran, until I was in the end zone, and then I ran until I was through the end zone, and only then did I turn around.
My teammates were racing toward me, huge grins on their faces. I’d done it! It had come out of nowhere, but I’d done it. I’d gone sixty yards for a touchdown in the last minute of the Roosevelt game. A hoard of guys surrounded me. Aiden pounded my back so hard, it hurt. The whistle was blowing, so we all raced to the sideline before we got an unsportsmanlike-conduct penalty.
Coach Quist was waiting for me. He slapped my helmet and shook me by my shoulders. “Great play! Great play!”
We missed the extra point—we didn’t make a single kick all year, and the varsity kicker made only a couple—but we won 12–10. That night at dinner, I described the play to my dad. When I was finished, he fired question after question at me, his eyes and face lit up for the first time in a long time. Seeing him smile made my mom smile.
The next day, I was a minor celebrity at school. My friends from Whitman—the McDermotts and those guys—congratulated me, and so did Richie and Anya, though I don’t know how they found out about my touchdown.
As I suited up for practice, guys on the team patted me on the back again. On the practice field, Coach Quist talked about the victory, but he didn’t mention my name. Then he told us it was time to turn our attention to the next game. “It’s our last game of the year,” he said. “Put it all out there.” My glory time was over.
Thirty minutes into practice, I spotted Mr. Gates walking toward our field. I’d seen him at all the varsity practices, working with Hunter on technique. There were four or five other fathers like him—volunteer coaches—but they came fewer times once the losses mounted. Hunter’s dad was the only regular.
As he strode toward Coach Quist, he looked in my direction and waved. Was he waving to me? I turned around. No one. I gave him a small wave back.
I was doing stretching exercises when Coach Quist called me over. I hustled to where he stood—shoulder to shoulder—with Mr. Gates. “Get your gear, Brock,” Coach Quist said when I reached them. “You’re playing on the varsity this week.”
My mouth dropped open.
“Me?”
Coach Quist nodded, not looking happy. “Yeah, you. So gather your stuff. Mr. Gates will explain.”
My “stuff” was a water bottle. I grabbed it and walked with Mr. Gates. As we moved off, the guys on the freshman team watched. Once they learned I’d been promoted, they’d be angry. They’d busted their butts game after game, while I’d been on the bench for ninety-five percent of the plays. I’d made one good play all year. One.
Walking fast, Mr. Gates explained the plan. “Coach Payne heard about your TD catch. I told him that you and Hunter had worked together in the summer and that you had good hands and great speed. You’ll play only a handful of downs against Bothell High. You’ll be split out wide, almost out-of-bounds—a good five yards farther out than the normal spot for a wide receiver. You won’t block anybody, and we won’t expect you to take any kind of hit. Bothell knows Hunter hasn’t connected on any long passes all year. They might rotate a safety over the first few times we use this formation, but if we don’t throw to you in the first half, in the second half, you’ll only get one-on-one coverage. When they least expect it, you run a fly pattern; Hunter throws a strike. Bang! We score.” He paused. “At least, that’s the plan.”
I swallowed. “Sounds great.”
He put his hand on my elbow and squeezed tight. “Listen to me, kid. This year has been a nightmare for Hunter. Everybody who sees him play knows he has talent. But the mental part—it’s getting to him. He needs something positive to take into the off-season, something to build on for next year. You could be that first brick.”
It was a strange week of practice. The varsity guys were beat up by the long season, so Coach Payne went easy on them. After the warm-ups, he had them run through the plays, but with absolutely no hitting. Most of the time I stood off by myself, watching. Nobody on the varsity knew me, but I knew what they thought. I was the guy who had good hands and could run like lightning, but who also had a yellow streak down his back.
Every so often, we’d practice my play. I’d line up close to the sideline and run out, at about eighty percent speed, making it easy for the cornerback to cover me. But once or twice every practice, when Coach Payne turned his clipboard upside down, I’d turn on the jets and run a fly pattern. Usually the play didn’t work. The safety would be back, or Hunter wouldn’t have enough time to make a good pass. Of the ten times he threw long that week, I caught two.
On Thursday during lunch, Richie asked me what my parents thought about my promotion to varsity. “I haven’t told them,” I replied.
“Why not?”
“I’m probably going to be in four plays all game and do nothing. My mom is so afraid I’ll get killed that she won’t watch football, and I don’t want my dad to drive all the way out to Bothell just to see me run downfield a few times. We have no chance of winning.”
For a while, Richie didn’t answer. “Did you ever see The Music Man?” he finally asked.
“Never even heard of it.”
“It’s a movie. Well, it was a play first. A musical. It’s really good, especially the opening. Anyway, at the end all these grade school kids march around playing their band instruments. They totally suck, but their parents clap like maniacs. Your dad will be like that. Seeing you on the field in a varsity uniform will make him proud.” He paused. “Your dad’s got something wrong with him, doesn’t he?”
The blood rushed out of my head. How did Richie know?
“I saw him with your mom a while ago,” Richie said. “At the Bartell Drugs on Fifteenth. He was using those arm-brace things to help him walk, and your mom was right by his side.”
I could picture my dad moving slowly up the aisles, my mom helping him. How Richie knew they were my parents was a mystery, but what did it matter? He knew.
> “He’s got a muscular disease,” I said,
“Can they fix him?”
I shook my head. “Not now, but they’re working on it. Researchers are always coming up with new cures. Pretty soon they’ll have something.”
Richie nodded. “That’s good, that’s good. It’s the same with my mom. The doctors got most of the cancer with surgery and chemo the first time, but she might need more chemo to get the last bit.”
We both fell silent, and then he put his fist toward me. I gave him a bump, and a smile. “Let’s go to Gupta’s room. I want to beat that Rohan kid, and I know you want to lose yourself in Anya’s dreamy dark eyes.”
When I told my dad I’d been promoted to varsity, he was surprised. “Now? For the last game?”
“It’s because of my touchdown catch. Coach Payne put in a new play just for me. He’s got me split way out, and I run a straight fly pattern or a deep post. They’ll use it only once or twice all game. Either I’ll make a big play or I’ll do nothing.”
He considered for a moment. “That’s smart. It uses your speed and puts you in a place to succeed. When’s the game?”
“I’ll be on the field only for a couple of snaps. It doesn’t make sense for you to go.”
“What are you talking about? Of course I’ll be there. I bet you Mom will go too. She’s not as nervous about football as she used to be.”
The game was Saturday night in Bothell. Saturday came up cold and wet. Some juniors and seniors might drive fifteen miles to watch a lousy team try to finish the season with a win, but my friends were freshman; none of them would be there.
Bothell had clinched a spot in the playoffs the previous week. For them, the game was a tune-up for a state title run. All they wanted to do was avoid injuries.
After I changed into my uniform, my mom drove me to the school parking lot, where the team bus was waiting. The bus ride was brutal. Diesel fumes filtered into the bus, and on Bothell Way the bus hit one red light after another. My stomach churned from both nerves and the ride, but I was determined not to barf a second time in front of the varsity guys.
Once the bus reached the stadium, we stored our stuff in the visitors’ locker room before taking the field. There had never been more than one hundred people at any of my freshman games, but the entire city of Bothell was in the stands. The Cougar marching band played the theme song from Rocky as the Bothell High team raced onto the field with fireworks exploding behind them.
After our warm-ups, Hunter started throwing to me and the other receivers. As I went through the drills, crazy fantasies filled my head. I wouldn’t be on the field for one play; I’d be on for many plays. I’d run fast and make leaping catches and score touchdowns. My name would be in the headline of the prep page of the Seattle Times.
Then the horn sounded—game time— and I jogged toward our bench. I was still sky-high with what I would do. That’s when I spotted my dad walking next to my mom, about ten rows up from the field. His face was pale, his shoulders bent, his eyes fixed on the ground in front of him as he moved his braces forward. He’d always been the one to look out for anyone who was old or weak or sick. Now people were clearing space for him. I turned away.
I felt a hand on my shoulder—it was Coach Payne. “Listen up. If you do catch a ball today, and you see somebody closing on you, just fall down. Understand? Just drop like you’ve been shot.”
“I can get some yards after the catch, Coach,” I said. “I’m not afraid.”
“Nobody’s saying you’re afraid. But this is your first varsity game, so we’re going to keep things simple. Open space in front of you—run like hell. Tackler coming at you—drop, cover, and hold.”
The Bothell guys were fast and strong, but their heads weren’t in the game. Why should they take us seriously? We were a crappy team finishing out a failed season. Win or lose, they were in the playoffs.
We caught an early break. Midway through the opening quarter, their center snapped the ball before the quarterback was ready. It soared over the QB’s head and bounced around in their end zone until one of their guys fell on it. Still, it was a safety for us, putting us ahead 2–0.
Throughout the first half, Bothell kept doing dumb things—fumbles, holding penalties, botched handoffs—to stop themselves. Probably they had a bunch of second-teamers out there—I don’t know for sure.
When we had the ball, Coach Payne had Hunter running draws and option sweeps, eating up the clock. Every once in a while, Hunter would throw a quick slant over the middle to Colton or Ty Erdman, the slot receiver, but nothing went deep.
In the first half, Hunter drove the team into the red zone three times, but without a decent field-goal kicker, each time we had to go for it on fourth down. All three times, Hunter was stopped short. He was piling up yardage with his arm and his legs, but at halftime the score was still 2–0.
I’d been on the field twice, split wide. Both times, Coach Payne told me to run at about three-quarters speed. “Let them think you’re nothing.” I did what he said, all the time picturing my dad freezing up in the stands, his muscles growing stiff.
On the first drive of the second half, Bothell’s offense took the kickoff and marched down the field, mixing up passes and runs, going seventy yards in seven plays for a touchdown. They were the hot knives, and our defense was the butter. Were these the first-string players? When the extra point split the uprights Bothell led 7–2, which sounded like a baseball score.
Throughout the third quarter, we stayed on the ground, making a few first downs and taking time off the clock before punting the ball away. The only passes Hunter threw were short completions to Colton or Ty. I took the field for a couple more plays, both times as a decoy.
When I entered the game early in the fourth quarter, the safety didn’t even look over at me. When the ball was snapped, the cornerback didn’t jam me or force me out of bounds. His eyes were peeking into the backfield; he was ready to leave me and give run support.
My heart pounded. Coach Payne had to see what had happened. The trap was set; he had lulled Bothell’s defense to sleep. I could race by both defenders, get open deep, and catch a TD pass that would put us ahead. Fly eighty-eight was my play, and every time I stepped onto the field in the fourth quarter I expected Coach Payne to call it.
But he didn’t.
And the clock kept ticking.
With four minutes left, the score was still Bothell 7, Crown Hill 2. Bothell had the ball on the fifty-yard line—fourth-and-two. They could punt the ball away, but if they made two more first downs, they’d be able to run out the clock and win the game. Their coach didn’t hesitate; the Bothell offense stayed on the field. Bothell’s fans roared approval.
They went on a quick count. The Bothell quarterback faked a handoff to his fullback and then rolled to his right. The tight end rolled with him and was wide open. Simple pass, simple catch, first down. But just as the QB released the ball, the tight end stumbled. He recovered, reached his hand up, and got his fingertips on the ball, but he couldn’t haul it in. The ball flopped to the ground like a wounded duck.
We had one final chance, and we had good field position.
I paced the sidelines, praying to get into the game. On first down, Hunter gained four yards on a read-option play. On second, he was stopped for no gain, but on third down he completed a slant pass for five more yards, setting up a fourth-and-inches. That’s when Coach Payne pushed me onto the field. “Now. Fly eighty-eight,” he said. “Make the catch, kid.”
I raced into the huddle. “Fly eighty-eight,” I screamed at Hunter over the crowd noise. His eyes widened, and then they went ice cold. “You heard him,” he said to the other guys. “On three.”
Bothell, expecting a power run right up the middle, brought their linebackers and safeties close to the line of scrimmage. Our guys pinched in, making it seem like we were definitely pounding the ball up the middle. I split way outside, trying my best to look like a spectator.
The Bothell fans w
ere on their feet, roaring; all eyes were on our running backs. Hunter took his position in the shotgun. “Rocket . . . Rocket . . . Rocket!” he screamed.
The center snapped the ball. As Hunter faked a handoff to the tailback, I blew by the cornerback guarding me, turning on the jets for the first time in the game. Bothell’s safety never glanced my way.
I looked up, and there was the ball—high and soft—way out in front. A perfectly thrown ball.
Watch it in! Watch it in! Watch it in!
I ran, adjusting my angle just a little, reached out, and then had the ball in my hands. I clutched it to my chest as if it were a newborn baby that I was rescuing from a burning building. Green grass was in front of me, nothing but beautiful green artificial grass.
Once I crossed the goal line, I ran a few more yards and then turned around. The Bothell crowd was stunned into silence, but my teammates were charging me, all of them. Arms raised high and with huge grins and wide eyes. I looked from them toward the stands, but I couldn’t find my dad or my mom.
We failed on the two-point conversion attempt, and Bothell got the ball back with one minute to play. I watched from the sidelines, afraid that they would make a miraculous play and steal the game back. But they were completely out of sync. An offside penalty, a dropped pass, a ball in the dirt, and then—on fourth down—a long prayer that wasn’t answered.
We’d won.
On the bus ride back to Crown Hill High, guys came over to congratulate me on my catch. “I didn’t want to go out a loser,” Nate Nixon—a huge lineman—told me. Then he walloped me on the back so hard that a bolt of pain shot up my spine to my brain. Hunter was the last guy to come by.
“Nice catch.”
The lead article in the prep section of the Sunday Seattle Times described our upset of Bothell. It was mainly about Hunter—how he’d led our team with running and passing, how he’d finally shown signs of being the quarterback everyone had expected, how the next year would be his last chance to make a name and get a scholarship. My name wasn’t in the article. “You made the catch,” my dad said. “You scored the winning touchdown. You don’t need the newspaper to tell you that.”
