by Todd Hafer
Coach Smith removed his baseball cap and cleared his throat. “We’re halfway to the biggest upset in school history,” he announced. “But only halfway. We have our foot on their throat, and we can’t let ’em up. That team over there has pride. They haven’t lost all season, and they sure as shootin’ haven’t been shut out. They’re gonna fight like wildcats until the final tick of the clock. So we have to be ready. We have to be tough. Boys, you played an outstanding half of football. You do that for sixteen more minutes, and you’ll earn a victory that you’ll remember. Always.”
“Speaking of remember always,” Pork Chop whispered conspiratorially to Cody, “check out who’s leaning over the fence behind our bench.”
Cody looked over and saw his dad, his long arms dangling over the fence that circled the field. He was pointing at his watch and shrugging apologetically. Cody smiled and gave him the okay sign. His dad wiped his forehead in a sign of relief and then pounded his fist against his heart.
Cody felt the weight of Pork Chop’s hand on his shoulder pad. “We’re gonna make your pops proud, dude. Your mom, too.”
Cody nodded and put on his helmet.
East stumbled on its first second-half opportunity, collecting penalties for holding, illegal motion, and offensive pass interference on three consecutive plays.
“They’re rattled,” Pork Chop said to Cody. “We’ve rented space inside their heads, and they’re gettin’ desperate.”
Grant couldn’t move the ball either, but a booming punt from Goddard sailed over Cabrera’s head and rolled to a stop on the Eagle nine.
East picked up two first downs, one courtesy of a roughing-the-passer call on Pork Chop, but their minidrive ultimately stalled at their own twenty-eight.
Only a slip in the open field kept Berringer from taking the ensuing punt all the way to the end zone, but Grant still took over at its own forty-two. After a counterplay by Berringer gained six yards on first down, Coach Smith sent in a play he had called only once before all season—an end around to the wide receiver. Cody, in this case.
Cody nervously flexed his fingers in the huddle. Don’t fumble. Don’t fumble. Don’t fumble, he admonished himself. And by the way, don’t fumble!
On Bart’s third sharp staccato “Hut!” Cody took one step forward, as if to begin a pass pattern or blocking assignment and then wheeled around to his left. He passed behind Bart, who slammed the ball hard into his stomach.
Then the Grant QB pivoted back toward the line of scrimmage and blocked a charging East linebacker, sealing him to the inside of the field. Seizing the opportunity, Cody arced toward the left sideline, then, seeing a pack of humanity forming seven yards upfield, he cut back to the inside, nearly losing his footing in the process. He had to reach down with his left hand to keep himself on his feet.
He was running full speed as he crossed the Eagle forty. There was only one defender ahead of him now, and Brett was battling him at the thirty.
Cody tucked the ball in the crook of his right arm, holding on to it as if it were filled with gold. His fingers were spread over the ball’s nose, gripping the pebblegrain leather.
Nobody’s pryin’ this ball from me, Cody thought. Not even if they bring in the Jaws of Life.
He felt his legs growing heavy as he crossed the twenty. As he reached the fifteen, he heard the thudding of footsteps behind him. He hoped they belonged to a teammate, but he couldn’t risk a look. At the ten, his leg muscles were Jell-O. He tried to lengthen his stride.
At the five, he felt a hand grab his shoulder pads from behind. Then there was another hand on his facemask, jerking him sharply to his right. He tried to strain forward, extending his arms to try to get the ball to break the imaginary plane above the goal line. But, as he would tell Pork Chop later, “It’s hard for your body to go one way when your head’s going another.”
It was Cabrera who dragged Cody down at the two. A face-masking penalty made it first and goal from the one.
“Punch it in, offense! Punch it in, Big O!” Cody heard someone bellow from the stands, as he sat on the bench to get checked out by Dutch and Coach Smith.
“Well, your head’s still on your shoulders, right where it’s supposed to be,” Coach Smith observed. “But how does it feel?”
Tentatively, Cody rolled his neck around, first clockwise, then counterclockwise. “It’s fine, Coach,” he announced. “I’m glad we do all those neck isometrics in practice.”
“That’s why we do ’em,” Dutch said.
Cody joined Goddard, standing on the sideline. “I wish I were out there, right now,” he said. “If I weighed about ten more pounds, I bet I would be on the goal line offense.”
“Yeah, Code,” Goddard said philosophically, “but look at it this way. If it weren’t for you, we wouldn’t be down here knockin’ on the door in the first place.”
After a QB keeper lost half a yard, East’s head coach called time out. Cody couldn’t hear what he was telling his defensive unit across the field, but his face was as purple as a plum, and he was jumping up and down, as if someone had set him on a hot griddle.
East responded to their coach’s histrionics. On second and goal, the Eagles held a team meeting on Berringer’s body on an attempted sweep around the right end. On third and goal, Bart was chased out of the pocket and had to fling the ball out of the end zone to avoid taking a sack at the twelve.
“Aw, man,” Goddard said, snapping his chin strap, “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this. The pressure’s all on me now.”
Cody grabbed his shorter, slightly chunky teammate by the shoulders. “You can do this,” he urged. “A twenty-yard field goal? You’re automatic from there. Just boot it through, man.”
The long snap from center was high, but Bart stretched and snagged it, spun the laces away from Goddard, and held the ball perfectly perpendicular to the turf.
Goddard kicked the ball so hard that it sailed through the uprights and didn’t touch down until it bounced on the track, twenty yards behind the back of the end zone.
Grant kicked off to begin the fourth quarter. Energized by his field goal, Goddard drilled a low line drive that Cabrera mishandled at the fifteen. He had to go back and retrieve the ball at the five, where Betts and Dylan pounced on him.
“Listen,” Pork Chop said in the defensive huddle, “we got these guys in a deep hole, and we ain’t lettin’ ’em out, understand? Let’s stop ’em cold, then watch the offense ram it down their throats!”
The Raiders blitzed on first down and Nottingham had to dump the ball off to Williams in the backfield. Cody pursued the fullback as he tried to find a lane to run in. He smacked into him before he reached the line of scrimmage and clutched for a handful of jersey. Williams, who Cody guessed outweighed him by thirty pounds, kept his legs churning, but Cody was able to slow his momentum enough so that several of his teammates could jump on his back and finish him off. After only a two-yard gain, Williams went down amid a pile of white helmets and red jerseys.
Nottingham overthrew Landers on second down, and Dylan sniffed out a third down reverse, pushing Cabrera out of bounds after only a five-yard gain.
Berringer fair-caught the ensuing punt at the Grant forty-five, and in the next offensive huddle, Bart Evans spoke with more confidence and authority than Cody had heard all season.
“Time is running out on these guys. If we can score once more—or even mount a long drive—they have no chance. It’s time to put ’em away. East undefeated? I don’t think so!”
During the change of possession, Coach Smith had called the first down play, an off-tackle to Berringer. But Bart called an audible. “They’re going to be expecting a run, so we’re gonna hit ’em with three-fifteen X Slant.”
Cody recognized the play instantly—a fake handoff to Berringer, then a pass to Cody Martin, running a delayed slant pattern.
“Code,” Bart said earnestly, “give your DB the outside leverage so you can beat him inside.”
Cody made eye cont
act with Bart and nodded.
As the offense lined up, Cody glanced at the clock, which read 6:48. Bart took the snap and backed away from center. Suddenly, an East inside linebacker plunged through the line, and it looked as if Bart would be sacked for at least a seven-yard loss. But, as the ’backer closed in, Bart ducked, and his would-be tackler grabbed nothing but air. Bart rolled to his right, gesturing wildly for a receiver to come back toward the line of scrimmage.
Cody, who had only moments ago released his block and started his pass pattern, looked back and saw the QB’s peril. He planted his right foot in the soft turf and charged back upfield, reversing the slant he had just run. Bart saw him and launched a high, floating pass in his direction.
Cody leaped for the ball, securing it on his fingertips, and then pulled it down to his body. He turned to run, but was swarmed by a cornerback and a safety. Still, the play was good for fifteen yards.
Not wanting to risk his coach’s wrath, Bart stuck to the game plan from that point, calling three straight running plays that moved Grant to the East twenty-five.
“Well,” Pork Chop said, plucking a wad of grass from the top of his face mask, “it’s Goddard time again.”
A forty-two-yard field goal was beyond Goddard’s range by at least five yards, but Cody hoped that adrenaline could make up the difference. It did. Goddard’s kick traveled at least forty-four yards, but did so two yards wide of the left upright.
The teams traded three-and-outs, and when Grant lined up to punt from its own thirty-five, the game clock read 3:09.
“The way we’re playing,” Coach Smith announced on the sidelines, “I don’t think there’s enough time for ’em to score twice.”
Coach Smith’s words seemed reasonable to Cody, until Cabrera fielded the punt at his thirty-three, shook off a tackler, and raced untouched to the end zone. Cody had to hold himself back from bolting from the sidelines to tackle Cabrera, as he began highstepping at the fifteen. “Oh, man,” he muttered to himself, “this is bad, bad news.”
After Nottingham booted the extra point, Grant was able to run a minute and a half off the clock before punting, giving East only 1:32 to salvage its perfect season.
The Eagles began their drive from their own forty-one. Landers picked up thirteen yards on a diving catch over the middle. Cabrera rocketed nine yards around right end. Nottingham turned a mad scramble to escape a blitzing Cody into a seven-yard gain and an all-important first down.
When Williams bulled up the middle for another eleven yards—thanks to an effective double-team block on Pork Chop—the Eagles set up shop at the Grant nineteen.
They’re in field-goal range already, Cody thought, shaking his head sadly.
But East wasn’t thinking field goal. Nottingham hit Cabrera on a dead run on a slant pattern, and only a shoestring tackle by Dylan kept the Eagle halfback from scoring. Cabrera lunged desperately for the end zone, but came up two yards short.
Cody saw Nottingham sprint up to one of the referees, frantically signaling for a time-out. Then he stared at the clock. Five seconds remained.
As the defense formed a half circle around Coach Smith, Cody surveyed his teammates. Pork Chop’s chest heaved beneath his jersey, and sweat ran in rivulets from various locations under his helmet. He was mumbling something to himself, which Cody couldn’t decipher.
Blood trickled from Dylan’s left nostril, and Bart’s jersey was torn at the neck, and his game pants were so mud- and grass-stained that Cody was sure they would have to be retired.
Coach Smith cleared his throat. “That number ‘1’ I wrote on the board in the locker room? I guess now it stands for one play. One play that will define our season. It’s up to you eleven guys to determine how we’ll all remember that one play.”
He paused and studied the eyes of his team. “Anyone got anything to add?”
Pork Chop drew in a deep breath and then extended his hand, palm down, in front of him. “Yeah, I got something to say, Coach,” he said. “Let’s be a wall. No way do they score on us. Not in our house.”
“Okay, then,” Coach Smith said with a grim smile, placing his hand on Pork Chop’s. “Wall, on three!”
The other players stacked their hands, one on top of another. The cry of “Wall!” was loud enough to drown out the cheerleaders, the crowd, and the pep band. Cody stole a glance into the stands. His dad, Pork Chop’s brother and father, Robyn, and Blake stood side by side, holding hands. He waited a moment for his dad’s eyes to fall on him. Then he placed his fist over his heart, nodded confidently, and sprinted on to the field to join his teammates.
Cody watched the defensive line dig in. Nottingham moved in behind center. East was in an I formation, with Cabrera lined up directly behind Williams.
Here we go, Cody told himself. It all comes down to this. Dad’s in the stands, and I hope Mom’s watching from heaven. Okay, East, whatcha gonna do? Send Cabrera over the top? Or will he be a decoy, while Nottingham tries to bootleg it?
Cody quickly got his answer. He was wrong on both guesses. Nottingham immediately rolled to his right, coming directly at Cody. Then he pitched the ball to Cabrera, who followed Williams, picking up speed with every stride.
Williams’s face was twisted in a snarl as he bore down on Cody. Nottingham peeled off to block Brett, driving him to the inside and out of the play.
Now, with Williams and Cabrera thundering toward him, Cody sensed he was alone. Williams’s snarl began to turn to a smile as he braced himself for impact.
Cody didn’t like the look of that smile. He showed Williams his displeasure by clubbing hard with his left arm. The blow caught Williams high on his outside shoulder, knocking him off balance. Then Cody moved deftly to the outside, shadowing Cabrera as he tried to sweep into the end zone.
Cabrera must have realized he was running out of field, because he braked and angled his body back to the inside of the field.
Pork Chop was waiting at that particular location. The groan that escaped from Cabrera as Pork Chop slammed him on the one-yard line would make Cody smile every time he thought about it for the next three months.
As he charged toward his best friend to congratulate him, Cody thought, I wish I were big enough to lift you up off the ground in celebration, Chop. I guess that means I wish I were a forklift.
Cody took a twenty-minute shower after the victory. He would have extended it to twenty-five minutes if the hot water hadn’t run out. Coach Smith had sniffled and stammered through most of his post-game speech, but he was able to rein in his emotions long enough to say, “I’ve never been prouder of a group of young men in my whole life.”
When Mr. Evans came in to collect his twins, he detoured to Cody’s locker and said, “Young man, I owe you an apology. My boys tell me you’re religious. I don’t exactly know what religion you represent, but you represent it well.”
“Thank you, sir,” Cody said. “But I don’t really try to represent any religion—just Jesus.”
Outside the locker room, Doug Porter and Robyn both called him “a monster.” He wasn’t sure whose compliment meant more. It was a close call.
Moments later, with their respective fathers’ car engines idling, Pork Chop and Cody stood facing each other in the parking lot.
“So,” Cody said, grinning, “way to pancake Cabrera and save the day.”
Pork Chop wagged his head from side to side. “You made the play and you know it. You did all the hard work. I just mopped up.”
“Hey, Chop,” Cody said, before turning to leave, “what were you mumbling about before that last play?”
“I wasn’t mumbling, dude, I was praying.”
“You? Praying?”
“Yeah. Hey, I may be a wild buck, but I’m no atheist. My people, you know, we’re deeply spiritual.”
“So what were you praying—that you’d win the game and be a hero?”
“No—that you would.”
Cody swallowed hard. “You prayed—for me?”
“Yea
h, and guess what? Somebody answered.”
“Hey, Chop. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome. Just don’t try to hug me. I’ve heard about you church people and your hugging.”
“Don’t worry. I’m not gonna try that. I’ll just say thanks for being the best friend in the known universe.”
Pork Chop smiled. “I’ll just say that, too.”
Epilogue The Fifth Quarter
Cody awoke on Sunday morning to the crisp pops and sizzles of bacon frying. He checked his watch, which read 7:28.
Puzzled, he stutter-stepped his way down the stairs to the kitchen. His dad was humming an aimless tune and carefully grabbing long slices of bacon with a pair of tongs that seemed to Cody much too large and unwieldy for the task at hand.
“Dad,” he said softly, “you do know it’s Sunday, right?”
His father set down the tongs and smiled. “Of course. Will you get the orange juice out of the fridge, please?"
“Uh, okay.”
“Don’t look so confused, Cody. You can’t have breakfast without orange juice.”
“I know, Dad, but it’s like, seven-thirty on a Sunday morning, and we haven’t had breakfast this early on a Sunday since—well, you know.”
Luke Martin moved the plate full of bacon from the counter near the stove to the middle of the kitchen table, next to a platter stacked high with cinnamonraisin toast. “I know,” he said quietly. “But we have to eat breakfast this early if we’re going to make early service.”
Cody shook his head, as he did when trying to get water out of his ears after a leap off the high dive. “Early service?”
“Yes, Cody. We have to go to early service if we’re going to get home in time to watch the Broncos together. You know they’re playing at Miami today, and that means pregame broadcast at ten-thirty, kickoff at eleven. Deke Porter is coming over to watch with us, and he’ll eat all the snacks I bought if we’re not here to monitor him.”
