Bleachers

by John Grisham

  bizarre. Spartans break huddle and Crenshaw sets his offense. Curry wide right, Mabry is the I-back. East Pike has eight men in the box, just daring Crenshaw to throw the ball. Here’s the snap, option right, Crenshaw fakes the pitch, cuts upfield, sees some daylight, hit hard, spins, breaks a tackle, and he’s loose at the forty, the forty-five, the fifty, and out of bounds at the East Pike forty-one, a pickup of twenty-nine yards! The best play of the game for the Spartan offense. Maybe they’re coming to life.

  “Man, those guys hit,” Silo said quietly. “They had five Division One signees,” Paul said, reliving the nightmare of the first half. “Four on defense.”

  “You don’t have to remind me,” Neely said.

  This Spartan team is finally awake. They’re yelling at each other as they huddle, and the sideline is really fired up now. Here they come, Crenshaw points to his left and Curry spreads wide. Mabry in the slot, now in motion, the snap, quick pitch to Mabry, who scoots around left end for six, maybe seven yards. And the Spartans are really wired now. They’re yanking each other off the turf, slapping each other on the helmets. And of course Silo Mooney is jawing with at least three of the East Pike players. Always a good sign.

  “What were you saying, Silo?”

  “I was telling them that they were about to get their asses kicked.”

  “You were down thirty-one points.”

  “Yep,” Paul said. “It’s true. We heard him. After that second play, Silo started the trash-talking.”

  Second and three. Crenshaw in the shotgun. The snap, a quick draw to Mabry, who hits hard, spins, turns upfield to the thirty, the twenty, and out of bounds at the East Pike sixteen! Three plays, fifty-four yards! And the Spartan offensive line is really moving people off the ball. First down Spartans—in the first half they had only five, and only forty-six yards rushing. Crenshaw is calling his own plays now, nothing from the sideline because there are no coaches over there. Slot left with Curry wide, Mabry in the I, Chenault in motion, option right, the fake, the pitch to Mabry, who’s hit at the line, runs over the linebacker, and slams down to the ten-yard line. Clock is ticking, ten-oh-five left in the third quarter. Messina is ten yards from a touchdown and a thousand miles from a state title. First and goal, Crenshaw drops back to pass, a draw to Mabry, who’s hit in the backfield, shakes loose, scoots wide to the right. There’s nobody there! He’s gonna score! He’s gonna score! And Marcus Mabry dives in for the first Messina touchdown! Touchdown Spartans! The comeback has begun!

  Jon Couch said, “When we scored, I remember thinking, ‘Nice to have a touchdown, but there’s no way we can come back on these guys.’ East Pike was too good.”

  Nat turned the volume down and said, “They fumbled the kickoff, didn’t they?”

  Donnie: “Yep, Hindu stripped the ball on about the fifteen, we were swarming like hornets. It bounced around for about five minutes and finally rolled out of bounds at the twenty.”

  Ronnie: “They ran the tailback off-tackle right, no gain. Off-tackle left, no gain. Third and eleven, they dropped back to pass, Silo sacked the quarterback on the six-yard line.”

  Donnie: “Unfortunately, in doing so he stuffed him into the ground headfirst, fifteen yards, unsportsmanlike conduct, first down East Pike.”

  Silo: “It was a bad call.”

  Paul: “Bad call? You tried to break his neck.”

  Silo: “No, dear banker, I tried to kill him.”

  Ronnie: “We were out of our minds. Silo was growling like a wounded grizzly bear. Hindu, I swear, was crying. He wanted to blitz from safety on every play just so he could be sure he hit someone.”

  Donnie: “We could have stopped the Dallas Cowboys.”

  Blanchard: “Who was calling the defense?”

  Silo: “Me. It was simple—man coverage on the wideouts, knock down the tight end, eight guys in the box, everyone blitzed, everyone hit somebody, clean or not, didn’t matter. It wasn’t a game anymore, it was a war.”

  Donnie: “On third and eight, Higgins, that cocky flanker who went to Clemson, cut across the middle on a slant. The pass was high. Hindu read it perfectly, came across like a bullet train, and hit him a split second before the ball got there. Pass interference.”

  Paul: “His helmet went twenty feet in the air.”

  Couch: “We were forty rows up, and it sounded like two cars hitting.”

  Silo: “We celebrated. We’d killed one of ’em. Got a flag for that too.”

  Ronnie: “Two flags, thirty yards, we didn’t care. They weren’t going to score, didn’t matter where they put the ball.”

  Blanchard: “You guys were convinced they couldn’t score?”

  Silo: “No team could’ve scored on us in that second half. When they finally carried Higgins off the field, on a stretcher I might add, the ball was on our thirty-yard line. They ran a sweep that lost six yards, a draw that lost four, then their little quarterback went to the shotgun again and we just mauled him.”

  Nat: “Their punter dropped one on the threeyard line.”

  Silo: “Yeah, they had a good punter. We, of course, had you.”

  Nat turned up the volume:

  Ninety-seven yards to go for the Spartans, just under eight minutes left in the third quarter, still no sign of Eddie Rake or any of the Spartan coaches. I watched Crenshaw when East Pike had the ball. He kept his right hand in a bucket of ice the entire time, and he kept his helmet on. Handoff left side to Mabry, who doesn’t get much. Both defenses are simply sending everybody, which should set up the pass.

  Silo: “Not from the threeyard line, dumbass.”

  Paul: “Coffey always wanted to coach.”

  Pitch right side, Mabry bobbles the ball, then cuts upfield, got some room wide, and he’s out of bounds along the ten.

  Couch: “Just curious, Neely, do you know what you called next?”

  Neely: “Sure, option right. I read the option, faked to Chenault, faked the pitch to Hubcap, cut upfield for eleven yards. The offensive line was chopping people down.”

  First and ten Spartans, who break huddle and sprint to the line of scrimmage. This is a different team, folks.

  Paul: “I don’t know why Buck was on the radio. Nobody was listening. The entire town was at the game.”

  Randy: “No, you’re wrong. Everybody was listening. In the second half we were trying to find out what happened to Coach Rake, so all the Messina fans had their radios stuck to their heads.”

  Handoff to Chenault, who plows straight ahead for three or four. He basically just lowered his helmet and followed Silo Mooney, who is being double-teamed.

  Silo: “Just two! I was insulted. The second guy was this little nasty-faced bastard, weighed about one-eighty or so, thought he was bad. Came in the game trash-talking. He’ll leave the field in just a minute.”

  Pitch to Mabry, wide right again, and he’s got some room, up to the thirty and out of bounds. An East Pike youngster is shaken up on the field.

  Silo: “That’s him.”

  Blanchard: “What’d you do?”

  Silo: “The play swept right, away from us. I chop-blocked him, got him on the ground, then dropped a knee into his stomach. Squealed like a pig. He lasted for three plays. Never came back.”

  Paul: “They could’ve flagged us for unnecessary roughness on every play, offense or defense.”

  Neely: “While they dragged him off the field, Chenault tells me that their left tackle is not moving too well. Got something wrong, a twisted ankle maybe, the guy’s in pain but won’t leave the game. So we ran at him five straight times, same play. Six, seven yards a pop with Marcus low to the ground, just looking for someone to run over. I’d hand the ball off and watch the carnage.”

  Silo: “Turn it up, Nat.”

  First and ten on the East Pike thirty-eight. The Spartans are moving the ball but they’re sure eating up the clock. Not a single pass so far in the second half. Six minutes to go. Curry in motion left, the snap, option right, the pitch to Mabry, who swings outsi
de to the thirty! The twenty-five! All the way down to the East Pike eighteen, and the Spartans are knocking at the door!

  Neely: “After every play, Mabry sprinted back to the huddle and said, ‘Gimme the ball, bro, just gimme the ball.’ So we did.”

  Paul: “And after Neely called every play, Silo would say, ‘You fumble it, and I’ll break your neck.’ ”

  Silo: “I wasn’t kidding, either.”

  Blanchard: “Were you guys aware of the clock?”

  Neely: “Yeah, but it didn’t matter. We knew we would win.”

  Mabry has carried the ball twelve times already in the second half, for seventy-eight yards. Here’s a quick snap, right side again, not much there. The Spartans are really hammering away at the left side of the East Pike defense. Mabry just follows Durston and Vatrano, and of course Silo Mooney is always around the pileup.

  Silo: “I loved Buck Coffey.”

  Neely: “Didn’t you date his youngest daughter?”

  Silo: “I wouldn’t call it dating. Buck damned sure didn’t know anything about it.”

  Second and eight, from the sixteen, Mabry again off the right side, for three, maybe four, and it’s a dogfight down there in the trenches, folks.

  Silo: “It’s always a dogfight, Buck, that’s why they call it the trenches.”

  In the semidarkness, the fraternity had quietly grown larger. Other players had eased over or slid down the bleachers, close enough to hear the play-by-play.

  Third and four, Curry wide, full backfield, option right, Crenshaw keeps, is hit, falls forward for maybe two. He really got nailed by Devon Bond.

  Neely: “Devon Bond hit me so many times I felt like a punching bag.”

  Silo: “He was the one player I couldn’t do anything with. I’d fire off the ball, have a perfect shot at him, and he’d just vanish. That, or he’d hit me a forearm that would rattle my teeth. He was one bad dude.”

  Donnie: “Didn’t he make a roster?”

  Paul: “Steelers, for a couple of years, then some injuries sent him back to East Pike.”

  A fourth and two that is beyond huge, folks. Spartans must score here, because they have a lot more scoring to do. And the clock is really moving now. Three minutes and forty seconds. Full house, now Chenault in motion left, long count by Crenshaw. And they jump! East Pike jumps offside! First and goal Spartans on the five-yard line! Crenshaw gave it the old head fake and got by with it.

  Silo: “Head fake my ass.”

  Paul: “It was all in the cadence.”

  Blanchard: “I remember their Coach going crazy, charging the field.”

  Neely: “He got a flag. Half the distance.”

  Silo: “That guy was psycho, and the more we scored the louder he screamed.”

  First and goal from the two and a half. Option left, here comes the pitch, Marcus Mabry is hit, drives, and falls into the end zone! Touchdown Spartans! Touchdown!

  Buck’s voice carried even farther through the still night. Rabbit, at some point, heard it and crept into the shadows down the track to investigate the noise. He saw a crowd sitting and half-lying haphazardly up in the bleachers. He saw bottles of beer, smelled the smoke from the cigars. In another era, he would have taken charge and ordered everyone away from the field. But those were Rake’s boys up there, the chosen few. They were waiting for the lights to go off.

  If he got closer he could call each one by name, and number, and he could remember the exact location of their lockers.

  Rabbit slipped through the metal braces under the bleachers and hid below the players, listening.

  Silo: “Neely called for an onside kick, and it almost worked. The ball bounced around and got touched by every damned player on the field until some guy with the wrong jersey finally found a handle.”

  Ronnie: “They ran twice for two yards, then tried a long pass that Hindu broke up. Three and out, except that Hindu leveled the receiver out of bounds. Unnecessary roughness. First down.”

  Donnie: “It was a horrible call.”

  Blanchard: “We went crazy in the stands.”

  Randy: “My father almost threw his radio on the field.”

  Silo: “We didn’t care. They weren’t going to score.”

  Ronnie: “They went three and out again.”

  Couch: “Wasn’t the punt return somewhere around here?”

  Nat: “First play of the fourth quarter.”

  He turned up the volume.

  East Pike back to punt on the Messina forty-one, the snap, a low, hard kick, taken on the bounce by Paul Curry at the five, wide to the right to the ten, cuts back—He’s got a wall! A perfect wall! To the twenty, thirty, forty! Cuts back across midfield, picks up a block from Marcus Mabry, to the forty, the thirty, along the far sideline! He’s got blockers everywhere! To the ten, five, four, two, touchdown!! Touchdown Spartans! A ninety-five-yard punt return!

  Nat turned the volume down so they could savor one of the greatest moments in Spartan football history. The punt return had been executed with textbook precision, every block and every move choreographed by Eddie Rake during endless hours of practice. When Paul Curry danced into the end zone he was escorted by six green jerseys, just the way they’d been drilled. “We all meet in the end zone,” Rake had screamed, over and over.

  Two East Pike players were down, victims of vicious, but legal, blindside blocks that Rake had taught them in the ninth grade. “Punt returns are perfect for killing people,” he’d said, over and over.

  Paul: “Let’s listen to it again.”

  Silo: “Once is enough. Same ending.” After the field was cleared, East Pike took the following kickoff and began a drive that would consume six minutes. For one brief period in the second half, they used their superior talent to chew up sixty yards, though every inch was contested. Their seamless execution of the first half was long gone, replaced by stutter steps and uncertainty. The sky was falling. One massive choke was under way, and they were powerless to stop it.

  Every handoff drew a furious attack from all eleven defenders. Every short pass ended with the receiver crumpled on the ground. There was no time for long passes; Silo could not be contained. On fourth and two from the Messina twenty-eight, East Pike foolishly went for the first down. The quarterback faked a pitch to the left, bootlegged to the right, looking for the tight end. The tight end, however, had been mauled at the line by Donnie Utley, whose twin was blitzing like a mad dog. Ronnie caught the quarterback from behind, stripped the ball like he’d been taught, flung him to the ground, and the Spartans, trailing 31–21, were in business with five thirty-five to go in the game.

  There’s something wrong with Neely’s right hand, not a single pass attempt in the second half. When the defense is on the field he keeps it buried in an ice bucket. East Pike has it figured out—they’re in man coverage on the wideouts, everybody else is packed along the line of scrimmage.

  Jaeger: “It was broken, wasn’t it?”

  Paul: “Yes, it was broken.”