by David Klass
Coach Shea brought it up when I saw him third period. “I don’t care if Sam Taggart is the best safety in all of New Jersey—”
“Which he may be,” I interrupted.
“He can’t beat us on his own,” Coach Shea growled. “The rest of the Sand River team is mediocre. Take one more game off. If we need you, I can always put you in.”
“The docs have cleared me,” I reminded him. “If I don’t play, I’ll be rusty for the States.”
“You’ve been practicing hard,” he pointed out.
“It’s not the same,” I replied.
Coach Shea reluctantly nodded. He had been a high school star at Kendall, and then had played in college for Fairleigh Dickinson and nearly turned pro. He knew the difference between practicing and game time. “True,” he admitted. “Listen, Jerry, you know how much I want to win it all. But I really don’t think we’ll need you today.”
I looked back at him, at his craggy face, as if a sandstorm had blasted away at his cheeks and forehead, at his white hair, which he cuts so close to the scalp that it makes him look like an old army sergeant who has seen his share of combat, and at his coal-black eyes that during tight games seem to ignite with intensity and inner fury. Yeah, he wanted to win it all, and he wanted it badly.
Coach Shea led Kendall through its glory years when state titles came to our town in bunches. The last few seasons, we haven’t won it all. I hate to even write this, but lately there’s been talk that he’s too old, which is ridiculous. Coach hasn’t lost a step, and he’s still razor sharp. But people here expect state titles, and when that doesn’t happen, somebody’s got to take the fall.
We would have won it all last year, if I hadn’t gotten suspended. This season could be a last chance for both of us. It’s my senior year. And for Coach Shea, if we don’t win they may try to replace him with someone younger. That would be a damn shame.
“You’re the coach,” I told him. “But I feel great. No headaches. No dizziness. And if you want me to come into the state tournament sharp, I need this.”
He studied me carefully for a few seconds, looking down at me with those intense black eyes. I’m not a small guy, but Coach is five inches taller, and his shoulders are a lot wider, and at sixty-three he can still do more push-ups. He finally put a beefy hand on my shoulder. “Okay, Downing. You want it, you got it. Just take it easy.”
“You know a way to play football and take it easy?” I asked him.
He shrugged. “Just try not to lead with your head.”
Our bus rolled through pitch pines, and soon Sand River’s brick high school swam into view, and behind it their football field with its cobalt-blue metal bleachers. I could hear the music from their marching band, especially the rhythmic pounding of the bass drums. The Sand River Blue Devils were ready for us.
It may have been enemy turf, but when I ran onto their field, I heard the roar from a thousand of our loyal fans who had made the half-hour drive. There must have also been two thousand Sand River faithful sitting there, cheeks painted blue, wrapped in winter coats with scarves around their necks, sipping hot chocolate, and waiting for their hero.
SAM TAGGART—THE MONSTER LIVES! a sign read, and another proclaimed TAGGART—SAND RIVER—RUTGERS—NFL—HALL OF FAME. I could see him warming up, running short sprints forwards and backwards—not the biggest guy on their team, but perfectly put together. Call it extra muscle-twitch fiber or genetics or superstar charisma, but whatever it was, Sam Taggart had it in spades.
When the game started, it looked like maybe Coach Shea was wrong—Sam Taggart could beat us all by himself. I threw my third pass up the middle to Glenn Scott, and Taggart—who should have been taken far out of the play—read my eyes and somehow got a hand on it.
The deflected ball bounced off Glenn’s shoulder, high up into the air, and Taggart leaped up and snatched it back to earth. In an instant, he was running the interception back the other way, and it looked like he was moving twice as fast as our players.
Three Kendall Tigers took off after him. I tried to cut him off, but a lineman blocked me onto my butt, and I watched the race from the grass. Taggart pulled away from two of our players like they had concrete in their shoes, but one stayed right on his heels, and I saw that it was Danny.
The two of them seemed to cover the forty yards to the end zone in a couple of heartbeats. It was a blue streak followed by an orange lightning bolt as Danny matched him stride for stride and even gained half a step. At the twenty, Danny launched himself in a desperate dive. His flailing right hand brushed Taggart’s right ankle, but Taggart ran it into the end zone, where he spiked the ball and raised his fists to the roaring Sand River crowd.
It’s a dangerous thing to let a home team get a lead. Suddenly they started to believe that they could beat us, and we were in a world of trouble. Their defense stopped us cold, so that we had to kick. Our punter was told to kick it away from Taggart, but he squibbed it.
The Monster of Sand River stepped up and fielded the pooch punt on his thirty, juked back and forth twice, superlight on his feet like a dancer, and then found a seam and ran the ball all the way back for his second touchdown in four minutes.
I tried to lead Kendall back, but Danny is my go-to guy in these situations, and every time I made him my primary receiver, Taggart was practically inside Danny’s shirt. I had to find a secondary receiver, or even a third option, or run the ball myself.
I was surprised to find that I was a little gun-shy. When I had to search the field for open receivers and buy us a little time, I couldn’t shake the premonition that I would be hit in the head again, from behind, and slammed to the ground. I kept flashing to that moment when Gonzales had launched himself at me like a guided missile and I ended up flat on my back listening to Coach Shea ask: “Jelly? Jelly?” I wasn’t rushing my passes, but I also wasn’t giving my receivers the extra seconds they needed to free up.
I brought us close enough to hit one field goal, but we went into halftime down fourteen to three. As we ran off the field, someone from our cheering section shouted, “Put in Ryan Hurley!”
Coach brought us back into the team bus for our halftime meeting. He started off quietly, but his black eyes were flashing, and I knew it was the calm before the storm. “You guys must have been reading the papers,” he told us. “You thought these guys were going to roll over, and you were already in the States. Well, bad news, guys, they’re not rolling over, and we may never make it to the States. Our season could end here at Sand River, with their marching band tooting their horns and their fans cheering as we walk off the field. I’ve seen plenty of games like this, where great teams choke away a whole season’s hard work. Do you want that to happen today?”
There was silence on the bus, a gut-wrenching silence as the picture he had conjured up sank in. I thought about what I had been through during my suspension, and the vow I had taken to redeem myself and lead us to a championship. “No, Coach,” I answered first. “That’s not gonna happen.”
Other voices immediately took up my answer with different words, the tone swelling louder and growing more confident and angry, like a rising tide: “No way, Coach.” “We’ll step up.” “We know what we need to do.”
Coach Shea let it build for thirty seconds or so and then cut us off by punching the steel wall of the bus with his bare fist, so hard he put in a dent. BAM!
“All right, listen to me!” he shouted, and believe me we were listening. “It’s not up to them. Do you understand that? It’s not up to their quarterback or their receivers or Sam Taggart. It’s up to you. You played a stinking half, you can play a great half. You can make the decision to take back what’s yours. Where are my seniors?”
We raised our hands.
His eyes fell on Danny and me. “You can go out with your heads held high, or you can remember this game of shame for the rest of your lives. Now, I’m not gonna diagram any plays for you or change up personnel—to hell with that. But I am going to tell you tha
t I’ve been coaching for thirty-three years and this is one of the best teams I’ve ever had, and if you want it you’d better take it from them. Fight for it! Claw it out! Win the one-on-one battles. Kick some ass. Let’s go!”
We got off the bus and headed back to the field, and I was thinking, to hell with the fear of another hit. I would hold the ball and buy time and take whatever shots came my way. Coach was right—this was something we would have to live with for the rest of our lives. And that’s when Danny took my arm and tugged me away from the rest of the team and said, “Jer, you gotta throw it to me.”
“I’m trying, but he’s all over you,” I told him.
“I’ve got half a step on him,” he said.
“I’ll keep looking,” I promised.
Danny didn’t let go of my arm. His usual relaxed expression and goofy grin were gone. He hadn’t caught one pass the whole first half, and he looked angry. “Four years of work, Jer,” he reminded me softly. “We got here together. You threw them, I caught them. Don’t you dare throw away from me now.” Then he stalked off.
Two quarters. Twenty-four minutes. We ran back onto the field, and I took a deep breath and looked at our cheering section, drawing strength from the faces I knew—my dad and Mr. Rosewood looking tense, Carla typing away on her iPad, and on a high bleacher I spotted Leo Keller. Leo was the only Kendall grad to ever make it big in the NFL. He played outside linebacker for ten seasons and has two Pro Bowl rings. He’s a handsome African American with a rugged face and salt-and-pepper hair. He doesn’t come to many of our games, but there he was in an orange Kendall Tigers jacket, massive arms folded across his chest. I felt him staring down at me and me alone as if to say, “It’s money time. This is on you, baby.”
In the huddle, during our first possession, I wasted no time. “It’s a post to Rosewood. I’m gonna fake it short to Glenn and let it fly. Let’s get one back!”
I grabbed the snap and took a five-step drop to give Danny a few precious extra seconds. Glenn slanted across the middle, and I pump-faked it to him so realistically that one of their tackles jumped high to bat down the pass that never came. I felt the pressure of their rush coming from my right, and I slid left. A panicked voice inside me warned, “Throw it now. Get rid of it or you’ll get creamed.” But I held on to the ball, dodged a rusher, and looked desperately for Danny.
He was already twenty yards deep, slanting toward the goalpost at full sprint. My fake to Glenn hadn’t fooled Taggart—he had a good inside position on Danny and was running right with him. People think quarterbacks gauge distances and aim long passes based on calculations, but that’s not true—there’s no time for that kind of thinking. I just heaved it high and hard, trying to put it in a place where only Danny could possibly catch it.
As soon as I let the ball go, I knew I had overthrown him. No one could catch this one. POW! I got hit a good shot in the small of my back and fell to my knees. I knelt there as if praying and watched the ball spiral through the cold air. There was no way Danny could possibly catch it, except that no one had told him that. My old friend from Pee Wee turned on the afterburners.
He pulled a half step in front of Taggart, and then a full step, and it was like watching a graceful antelope dart away from a hungry lion. Somehow Danny ran under my prayer of a long pass. At full sprint he reached out his long arms and caught the ball in his fingertips, and then it was Taggart’s turn to dive at Danny’s ankles and miss.
I don’t remember getting up off my knees, but I suddenly found myself sprinting to the end zone and giving Danny a flying high five that turned into a tight embrace. “WAY TO GO! Damn, I didn’t know you could run that fast.”
“I didn’t know it, either,” he admitted, still gasping.
Fourteen to ten. As quickly as that, the game turned. Sand River fought hard, but their confidence had been shaken. We scored again on our very next possession, this time on a run right up the middle by Brian Hart, our sophomore running back, who had started the season on the bench and played himself into the starting lineup.
We took that three-point lead into the fourth quarter and held it as the clock ticked down. “I’m going to take you out,” Coach Shea informed me with four minutes left. “No reason to risk a late hit. Ryan can close this out.”
“I’m sure he can,” I told the coach, “but we’re only up by three. If they score a late touchdown, they win. Leave me in for one more possession to seal the deal.”
He thought it over and nodded. “One more set of downs, Downing. Just keep it simple.”
Our defense held them, and we ran onto the field with three and a half minutes left. “Hold on to the ball,” I implored our guys in the huddle. “We’re gonna eat up time and win this thing as long as we don’t fumble it away.” Sure enough, we picked up a first down on three straight runs, and now there were only two minutes left.
The Sand River players looked desperate. Time was running out for them. If we got another first down it was all over. Twice we tried to run it, and both times they stopped us behind the line. On our second run, Sam Taggart came off Danny, blitzed, and stuffed the run behind the line himself. Suddenly we were looking at third and twelve. There were still ninety seconds left. If they got the ball back, they’d have a chance to drive it in. We have a solid defense, but I didn’t want to leave the game and our whole season in their hands.
Coach Shea called a time-out. He looked worried. “They’re expecting another run,” he said. “Taggart is cheating up. Let’s fake a handoff to Magee to draw Taggart in and then hit Rosewood on a slant up the middle. One more first down, guys, and this game is history. Come on, seniors. Execute this play and we’re in the States!”
We ran back onto the field, and for a long second I locked eyes with the Monster of Sand River. He was studying my face, trying to read what we had planned. I’m sure I didn’t give him any clues, but monsters have sharp instincts, and I saw him back up half a step.
I took the snap and dropped and wheeled to my right. Magee came roaring up, and I stuck the ball in his belly. He put his arms up as if cradling it, and I pivoted with him and rode the fake a full step before I popped the ball out. Magee slammed into the line, his arms now cradling thin air, while I bootlegged right and looked for Danny.
Sam Taggart hadn’t bought the fake. He was a quarter step behind Danny, the two of them slicing up the middle. Danny needed just a little more time to open up daylight. I sensed the pressure coming from my blind side and knew I might be crushed at any second. “Go down,” that panicked voice called out inside my head. “Take the loss. Kick it away. Trust your defense. Go down now!”
I stayed up, sliding to my right, trying to buy a few more seconds. When you play quarterback as long as I have, you can feel a pass rush closing in, and I knew my blocking had collapsed. I steeled myself for a hard hit, drew back my right arm, and threw a dart to Danny, seven feet off the ground and two steps in front of him.
Just as I released the ball my knees got chopped out from under me, and I spun to the turf. I hit the ground hard but never lost sight of my pass.
Taggart put on a burst of speed and reached out to tip the ball, but I had placed it too well. Danny leaped high and to the side and unfolded his lanky body like a bird spreading its wings. He caught my pass with both hands, and that was when the blue freight train ran him over.
It was a big lug of a kid named Schultz who should’ve been too chunky to play cornerback, but he had unexpected speed. Glenn Scott was supposed to take Schultz deep on this play, but he had come steaming back in. He found himself in a perfect position to make the hit of a lifetime with five steps of sprinting momentum and an unsuspecting target. Receivers are never as vulnerable as when they’re led up the middle and fully extended. Danny was wide open, and the collision of bodies sounded like a thunderclap.
The ball bounced free, and there was a wild scramble before one of their players fell on it and one of our players fell on him.
Meanwhile Danny lay there, flat
on his back, not moving or even twitching. The Sand River lineman who had tackled me still had me wrapped up, and it took me a few seconds to disentangle myself and hurry over.
By the time I got there, Coach Shea and Dr. Anderson were on the field, and I had the déjà vu experience of watching them stand over him just the way I had seen them standing over me two weeks before. “Danny,” Dr. Anderson repeated, clapping his hands. “Danny, can you hear me?”
I got up off one knee and walked close, so that I was staring down at my oldest and best friend. Danny’s eyes were open, but for the longest time he didn’t respond. There was complete silence on the field and in the stands. I noticed a tall figure standing stock-still on the edge of our sideline, as if tempted to move forward but frozen in place. It was Mr. Rosewood, standing alone. My father walked next to him and gently took his arm.
Everyone on both teams got quiet, and I’m sure prayers were said on both sides. I know I whispered one. The only sound to be heard out loud was Dr. Anderson repeating, “Danny? Daniel Rosewood?” And clapping his hands loudly. In the distance came the shrill wail of an approaching ambulance. “Can you hear me, Danny?” Dr. Anderson demanded.
Then Danny blinked, and said, “Yeah?” in a surprisingly loud and steady voice, as if he was suddenly ready for a conversation.
I let out a breath and walked even closer.
“Do you know what day it is?” Dr. Anderson asked.
“Today,” Danny answered. “Game day. Friday. Sand River. Did I hold on to the ball?”
You could feel the waves of relief from both teams and from the sidelines as more questions and answers and physical responses followed.
“Can you move your arms, Danny? Good. And your legs? Excellent. No, don’t try to sit up. We’re gonna carry you off the field as a precaution. Just lie back and keep your head and neck still. That’s good.”
They strapped him to a board and carried him off the field, and by then Danny was totally alert and talking to us. He gave a thumbs-up to the fans who stood and cheered for him.
