by Mike Lupica
Nate wondered if there really was going to be a time, ever again, when economy didn’t make you think of a hurricane that kept blowing through people’s lives. You were going along, having what felt like a pretty cool life, and then all of a sudden came the economy trying to wreck everything.
“He tried to explain it to me until I just stopped hearing what he was saying,” Abby said. “But I get the picture. We had a lot of our money in stocks and now most of it is just . . . gone. Along with our health insurance.”
Nate realized now, like a dope, that they were still standing at the front door. He motioned for Abby to follow him in and closed the door behind them. The two of them went into the family room, Nate’s game-watching room. He asked if she wanted something to drink. She said no. He asked if she was hungry. She said no, telling him to stop trying to be the perfect host.
“I’m just saying,” he said. “Anything you want, you tell me.”
“I want to be with you,” she said.
“It’ll be all right,” he said.
She closed her eyes, squeezing them shut, a couple more tears managing to escape.
“I keep telling myself that,” she said. “I really do. And most times I can make myself believe it.” Even now, he thought, she wouldn’t give in to feeling sorry for herself, even now, when Nate wanted to throw a penalty flag at the whole world for piling on the person who least deserved it. “Just not today,” she said. “It’s just like . . .”
For once he could read her mind.
“One more thing,” he said.
“Yeah,” she said. “One more thing. And I can’t handle one more thing, Brady.”
He wanted to tell her so many things, wanted to tell her that she couldn’t worry about money, shouldn’t worry about money, that there were much more important things to worry about than that, that he’d finally figured out that worrying didn’t help anything or solve anything.
Mostly he wanted her to stop crying.
So he did something he’d never done before then: He put his arm around Abby McCall and pulled her close to him. She let him, resting her head on his shoulder. And the two of them just sat there, not moving, for what felt like a very long time, until he finally said, “It is going to be all right, Abs.”
She stayed where she was, pressed into his shoulder, and asked how he knew that.
Nate said he just did, that she was going to have to take that one on faith, told the girl going blind something his mom told him all the time, that sometimes faith was believing in things nobody could see.
CHAPTER 29
B ig-game Saturday, on the road, against the Dennison Browns.
Twelve days before Thanksgiving.
The Patriots were tied with the Browns for second place in the league. So the last game of the regular season was really like the first game of the playoffs. Win and you got to keep playing, got the chance to play undefeated Blair and old pal Willie Clifton, in the championship game in two weeks.
Lose and go home.
Lose and the next game they all got to play would be in freshman football next year, or varsity, if any of them were good enough to make the varsity as freshmen.
But that was next season. Blair was the week after next, if they could make it that far. All that mattered—in football, anyway—was this game, today. This Saturday afternoon.
Some week, Nate thought. Last Saturday he had become a quarterback again, even if he was still a backup, even if it had been only for a quarter. Wednesday he had found out about Abby’s dad.
Yesterday, on the bus home from school, Abby had told him she would be going back to Boston next week to spend a few days at the hospital, go through some new tests, see if there was anything they could do—in Abby’s words—to slow down the whole stupid process of Leber’s, a dirtier word to Nate than economy.
“Like an operation?” Nate had said.
“No, no, no,” Abby had said. “Just more tests, don’t worry. But when they’re done, they’ll probably decide whether it really is time for me to check into old Perkins for good.”
Nate had said, “Man, is there anything else that’s going to happen this week?”
“Yeah,” Abby had said, giving him the raised eyebrow. “We’re going to beat the living daylights out of Dennison.”
He was going to try his hardest to get that one done, try not to think about everything that was happening around him, everything that was about to happen.
For this one day, he would try to concentrate only on football, be the guy who’d always been at his best no matter how crazy the game got around him. He would feel like the game really was in his hands.
Except it wasn’t anymore. Even on a great football day like this, the stands full on both sides of the field, the game was still going to be in Nate’s hands only when Eric put it there.
Coach Rivers’ pregame speech today was the shortest Nate could ever remember. He gathered them all in front of the visitors’ bench maybe a minute before the opening kickoff and said, “Anybody here ready for it to be basketball season?”
“No!” the Patriots yelled back at him.
“Didn’t think so,” Coach said. “I don’t even like basketball all that much, to tell you the truth.”
Coach liked the way the Patriots started the game even less. They had driven the ball down the field after the opening kickoff, made first down after first down, wound up first-and-goal at the Browns’ 2-yard line. But then LaDell, who hardly ever fumbled, got crossed up on a handoff with Eric, left the ball on the ground, and the Browns’ nose tackle fell on it.
At least the Browns couldn’t move the ball out of there and ended up having to punt out of their own end zone. It wasn’t a good punt, so the Patriots started their next drive at the Browns’ 20-yard line. On first down Eric tried to hit Nate on an out pass and didn’t put nearly enough on the ball. Nate didn’t even have enough time to turn himself into a defender and try to knock the ball away from the cornerback covering him. The kid was in full stride when he intercepted the ball. By the time Nate did manage to catch him from behind, feeling as if he were chasing the world’s fastest human, the cornerback had run all the way to the Patriots’ 20-yard line.
Three plays later, Dennison was ahead 7-0.
When the guys on defense came off the field, Malcolm took off his helmet, spit to the side and said, “Two turnovers in the first quarter. It’s like we’re all doing our community service hours for school right here.”
The Patriots made it three turnovers right before the half. They had moved the ball for the first time since their opening drive, throwing every down, Nate having turned into Eric’s favorite receiver, catching three passes, all for first downs, making the cornerback who’d made the interception more and more frustrated.
Then Coach Hanratty went to Nate once too often. The middle linebacker read Eric’s eyes the whole way on what was supposed to be a little curl pass, Nate running hard for ten yards, turning and looking for the ball. This time it was a big, fast linebacker who seemed to have a full head of steam as the ball ended up in his hands.
Nate started to chase, but ended up on the ground when the cornerback who’d been covering him cut him down with a perfectly legal block from his blind side. Nate watched from the ground as Malcolm missed the tackle, then Sam, and saw the kid with the ball make it to the sideline. Ben Cion had the last clear shot at him, but the linebacker was too strong, just shrugged Ben off and kept going, all the way to the end zone. After the conversion it was 14-0 for the Browns.
That’s the way the half ended, and the way the season was going to end if they didn’t change something, and fast.
So Coach Rivers changed quarterbacks.
He didn’t make the announcement in front of the team, just to Nate and Eric, pulling both of them aside.
“We’re gonna play this out the way we came in,” he said. “With Nate under center.”
Right away Eric said, “I’m good with that, Coach.” Then he turned to Nate, g
rinning, and said, “I’m a better receiver than you anyway.”
“True dat,” Nate said.
Coach Rivers told Nate to go get loose. The Patriots would be receiving the second-half kickoff and they were going to come out firing. Nate went and grabbed a ball and Eric went with him, the two of them behind the bench, Nate warming up fast, throwing the ball as soon as he caught it, like he was a pitcher warming up in the bullpen, runners all over the bases.
It was after he heard the ref ’s whistle that he heard Abby’s voice.
“Hey, you,” she said. “Hey, Brady.”
She was wearing a Patriots cap on her head, a gray Patriots hoodie.
“What are you doing down here?” Nate said.
“Getting a better view, silly.”
“Still trying to get into my head,” he said.
“I was never out of it,” Abby said. “Now go win the game.”
He started doing just that on the second series of the second half, after the two teams had traded punts. The Patriots had the ball on their own 49, and Nate went to work. They had been trying to mix passes and running plays for most of the game, but now Coach Hanratty called for five straight passes, to five different receivers.
Ben caught the first, then Bradley, then Pete and Eric and LaDell. The one to LaDell was a perfect screen, against a blitz, and he ran it all the way to the Browns’ 3-yard line. Nate took it in from there, rolling to his right, arm up like he was passing the whole time, freezing the linebackers, never planning to do anything except run it in. Nobody laid a hand on him, and after Ben ran off tackle for the conversion, it was 14-7.
The Patriots were back in the game. And Nate was feeling it.
On the third Valley possession of the fourth quarter, with five minutes left in the game, Nate dropped back in the pocket and threw a perfect spiral to a wide-open Pete running a straight fly route. Another Valley touchdown. LaDell ran the conversion in this time.
Game tied, 14-all. And the Patriots had every ounce of momentum on their side.
One more score and they would go to the championship game. Or, just as possible, one Dennison score and they would go. Now what felt like the first game of the playoffs had turned into sudden death.
Before they kicked the ball off, Malcolm Burnley came over to Nate.
“I like basketball, don’t get me wrong,” he said.
Nate grinned. “Nothing better than that first day back in the gym.”
“But I believe,” Malcolm said, “that I would like to have me one more big football game before we go there.”
Then he banged his helmet, hard, against Nate’s the way the linemen did with each other all the time and said, “We’re gonna go out and stop these suckers now. Then you’re gonna get back on the field and take us on home.”
“I’m supposed to do all that for free?” Nate said.
“Well, I can’t pay you a million dollars,” Malcolm said. “But I will take you to Joe’s afterward.”
“Who could pass up a sweet offer like that?” Nate said.
Malcolm made sure Nate had his chance. On third-and-two for the Browns, Malcolm steamrolled his way into the backfield and sacked the quarterback. The Browns were forced to punt. Ben made a fair catch at the Patriots’ 40-yard line. With two minutes and change left, the game was still tied.
In the huddle Nate said, “Okay, this is the way we roll,” and told them the play. “Exit 15 E,” they called it. A fifteen-yard square-out to Eric, a timing route. Done right, the ball would be waiting for Eric as he turned back to face Nate. Nate just managed to get the pass off before he got flattened by the Browns’ blitzing middle linebacker. He only found out when he got up that he’d thrown a strike to Eric.
First down Patriots, on the Browns’ 48.
Nate nearly got buried again on the very next play, barely managed to throw the ball away before what felt like the entire Browns’ front four hit him.
When he went down, somebody stepped on his right hand.
He didn’t know who got him. Could have been one of his own blockers. All Nate did know was how much it hurt. Like someone had jabbed a needle right into the top of his hand.
He didn’t cry out at the bottom of the pile. Didn’t grab the hand when he stood up, as much as he wanted to, not wanting anybody to know he was in any kind of pain. Just waited for the pain to go away.
Only it didn’t.
When he got back in the huddle, leaning forward, hands on knees, he was at least able to make a fist, figuring that if he could do that, he hadn’t done anything really bad. Like break something.
Nate wished he could call a time-out, put some ice on it, even if it was just for a minute. But they weren’t wasting one of the two time-outs they had left. And then everybody would see he’d done something to his throwing hand, including his coaches. Who might want to take him out.
And Nate had decided: He wasn’t coming out until next season.
He got the read off Coach Hanratty’s board. Another pass, this one to Bradley. It made Nate smile, made him think of one of his mom’s expressions: no rest for the weary. He was going to keep throwing, sore hand or not, until they were in the end zone.
“You okay?” Malcolm said when they broke the huddle.
“Yeah. Just got the wind knocked out of me,” Nate said.
He got under center and made sure to receive Malcolm’s snap with his bottom hand, his left hand, more than his right. He felt a quick jolt of pain anyway. But then his hand was on the laces and he was dropping back into the pocket, and the only thing that concerned him was delivering the ball to Bradley over the middle with something on it.
He did. A perfect spiral. Bradley gathered it in and fell forward to the Browns’ 36-yard line.
A minute and thirty left.
They crossed the Browns up then, running the ball twice in a row in their hurry-up offense, the second time on a direct snap to LaDell with Nate lined up in the shotgun. They had another first down and Nate called his second-to-last time-out. Thirty seconds left. Ball on the Browns’ 24.
Plenty of time.
As Nate walked toward the huddle, he looked over to the sideline, past his bench. Abby was right where he’d left her, staring right at him. He patted his heart twice and hoped she saw.
Their last run of the day was a quarterback draw by Nate. He ran up the middle, thought he might go all the way, but got tackled from behind at the Browns’ 10.
First down and goal.
He spiked the ball, wanting to hold on to that last time-out for dear life.
Eighteen seconds left.
He looked over to Coach Hanratty. The hot read was the same play they’d run to Bradley a few plays before, only this time Bradley was supposed to be right between the goalposts when he came open.
As though Bradley were the SportStuff target now.
There was this amazing quiet you got in the huddle sometimes, even in moments like this, even when it was all on the line, even with both the Dennison fans and the Valley fans making as much noise as they were. Nate looked up into the faces of his teammates. He smiled and told them the play, feeling the way he hoped they all felt:
That this was exactly where they were all supposed to be.
He set up in the shotgun. Malcolm gave him a perfect snap and even with that, Nate fumbled it briefly, being too careful to protect his right hand. But then he got a handle on it and took a couple of extra steps back.
Watched it all play out in front of him.
Watched as everything seemed to happen at once.
Bradley made his cut, broke free, turned around between the posts. The ball, a bullet, was already halfway there. The force of the pass seemed to surprise even Bradley, as many times as he’d caught Nate’s fastball, as much arm as he knew Nate had. This one knocked him backward and knocked him over.
But his feet were still in bounds when he landed, and so was Bradley, and the ball was cradled to his chest.
Valley 20, Dennison 14.
&nb
sp; Eight seconds left.
For the conversion Nate threw a fade to Eric in the corner and he outjumped the safety for it. Valley 21, Dennison 14.
Malcolm squibbed the kickoff. It seemed like half the Valley team tackled the kid with the ball, absolutely buried him at the Browns’ 35.
The horn sounded. The Valley Patriots were in the championship game against Blair. It was still football season after all.
CHAPTER 30
Abby’s doctor had to push back her tests a week because he was called out of town. So Nate didn’t have to say good-bye to her until the Sunday before Thanksgiving, four days until the big throw.
Only the throw didn’t feel nearly as big right now as Abby leaving, even if he was sure in his heart that it wasn’t for good.
Man, Nate thought. Man man man.
How did we ever get here?
It seemed like just the other day that she was standing next to him at the SportStuff counter, practically ordering him to sign up for the contest. Now she was going into the hospital and might be going off to Perkins for good after that and there was a “For Sale” sign in front of her house same as there was Nate’s. And there was so much he wanted to say to her, so much he felt like he needed to say. But he didn’t, not wanting to make things worse—at least for now, he kept telling himself—than they already were.
So the two of them stood in her studio, what had always been her special place, all of her paintings still covered, while her parents packed up the car.
“How’s the hand, by the way?” Abby said.
“Perfect.”
“Liar.”
“It must be exhausting,” he said, “knowing all the answers before you even ask the questions.”
“Well, it is, actually,” she said, smiling. Doing anything to lighten the mood. “But then I lie down and take a little rest, and I’m as brilliant as ever.”
She was the only one he’d told about getting stepped on, making her promise not to tell anybody else. The hand was still stiff a week later, and he still wasn’t able to grip the ball as firmly as he wanted to, which took some of the snap off his throws. But the coaches hadn’t said anything or seemed to notice anything wrong, and neither had any of his receivers. Nate wasn’t throwing as accurately at the target in the backyard, but he told himself that was just nerves as the big night got closer.
