Two-Minute Drill

by Mike Lupica

  Scott put out his left hand. As he did, he motioned for his dad to come closer and whispered, “It hurts, Dad. A lot.”

  “Nice and easy, now, let’s see how much you can move it.”

  Scott gently tried moving his wrist up and down, then side to side, surprised that moving it around this way didn’t make it hurt more.

  “How’s that feel?”

  “Not great.”

  “But not any worse than before?”

  “No.”

  “I’m no doctor,” his dad said, covering the wrist with his hand now, putting a little pressure on the sides, “but I don’t think you broke anything. But the sucker is starting to swell up already.”

  Mr. Dolan came back with the ice, handed it to Scott’s dad. Scott thought Mr. Dolan wanted to say something. But there was something in the look Scott’s dad gave him that made him just walk away, as if his dad had glared him away. “I’ll call later,” Mr. Dolan said, “to see how he’s doing.”

  “Do that,” Hank Parry said.

  He wrapped the ice pack around Scott’s wrist, told him to hold it tight, no matter how cold it got. Then he helped his son to his feet.

  As he did, the rest of the Eagles began to applaud.

  It wasn’t broken.

  His dad had driven him straight to the emergency room. And even though his dad had said they might have to wait, it must have been a slow night there, because the nurse took him in right away to get x-rayed. They took pictures of the wrist from all angles.

  After the x-rays had been developed, Dr. Accorsi showed Scott the injured area on the outside, said it was a combination of bone bruise and sprain, had him move it around a little more. Then he told Scott that just to be on the safe side, he was going to put a soft cast on it for a couple of days.

  “But I’ve got a game tomorrow!” Scott said.

  The doctor smiled. “Your team does, but I’m afraid you don’t.”

  “It’s the last game of the regular season,” Scott said, as if that was somehow going to change the doctor’s mind.

  Dr. Accorsi looked at Scott’s dad, then back at Scott. “The good news is that the wrist will be as good as new in a couple of weeks,” he said. “The bad news is that you’ve already played your last game of the regular season.”

  Scott waited until he got in the car.

  Then the football player started to cry.

  Chris called in the morning to see how he was doing, ask if Scott was coming to the Panthers game.

  “My wrist is still killing me,” Scott said, even though it felt much better. “I think I’ll sit this one out.”

  “Come on,” Chris said. “After the game we’ll go hang out at my house.”

  “Nah,” Scott said. “Watching a game I was going to get into will hurt even more than my wrist does.”

  That much was the truth. The kind his dad sometimes called the painful truth. Scott didn’t want to watch the Eagles crush the Panthers, didn’t want to watch another guy off the bench getting carries he would have gotten today, didn’t want to go there and act like he was still a part of the team when his season was over.

  He’d go to the championship game next Saturday, just to root for Chris. Not because he had to. Because he wanted to. If your best friend was playing for the championship, well, that wasn’t a game you could miss.

  Today’s game he could miss.

  After he hung up the phone, he got his ball and whistled for Casey. His parents were in the kitchen having coffee. His dad looked up when he saw Scott with the football. “Hey,” he said, “I don’t think you should be running around with that wrist today.”

  Scott said, “I’m just gonna kick. Case will do the running around.”

  They walked out to Parry Field. In an hour or so, the Eagles would be playing the Panthers.

  I was gonna get in the game, he thought.

  I was gonna play.

  He walked slowly to the end of the field, where the goalposts were, Casey right behind him, ready to chase.

  The two of them were right back where they started.

  Like this was the only game in town.

  NINETEEN

  When the doorbell rang the next Saturday morning, the morning of the Eagles’ championship game against the Lions, Scott said he’d get it.

  He didn’t look outside to see who it was, just opened the door and there was Chris, already dressed for the game except for his helmet.

  “I told you on the phone I’d see you over there,” Scott said.

  “Go suit up.”

  “No,” Scott said. “We talked about this yesterday.”

  “That was before your cast came off.”

  “Who told?”

  “I can’t reveal my source,” he said, then grinned.

  “Okay, your mom told my mom.”

  Dr. Accorsi had taken it off the day before, then wrapped the wrist in an Ace bandage, saying that was more of a reminder for him to be careful with it than anything else.

  “I don’t have to be in uniform to watch from the sidelines,” Scott said.

  “Suit up. We’re gonna finish what we started.”

  “Yeah, with me watching and you playing.”

  “No,” Chris said. “As teammates.”

  He brushed past Scott and headed up the stairs. “I’m not leaving until you suit up.”

  “Are you gonna be this stubborn about passing that test on Monday?” Scott said.

  “More,” he said. “Now come on, or you’re gonna make me late.”

  “I give up,” Scott said, and followed him.

  He and Chris were coming down the stairs, Chris in his number four—for Brett Favre—and Scott in his number twenty-two for Doug Flutie, when Scott’s mom and dad came back from their walk.

  His dad just gave him one of those smiles, the kind where he didn’t have to say anything because the smile said everything.

  “I figured I’m gonna get rained on anyway,” Scott said. “I might as well do it wearing this.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” his dad said.

  It had started raining earlier that morning, not a big storm, just a steady downpour. Even if it stopped right now, the game was going to be played on a muddy field.

  Scott’s dad said, “Your mom, Casey and I will see you over there.”

  Sure enough, the field was a mess by the time the game started.

  Yet the first half of the championship game was an even bigger mess.

  By then it was no longer just a nice, steady rain, it was a total downpour, but because the coaches had agreed to start the game, they were determined to finish it, no matter how miserable the conditions had become.

  Chris fumbled the ball away twice in the first quarter, both times deep in Eagles’ territory, but both times the Eagles’ defense held, and the game remained scoreless. It looked as if that might change when the Lions’ quarterback fumbled on his own twenty-yard line with less than a minute left in the half. Except then Jeremy fumbled right back.

  The game was still scoreless at halftime.

  For the first time all season, Mr. Dolan took them inside at the break. It wasn’t so they could get a chance to get dry. That, they all knew, wasn’t happening until they got home. But at least it was fifteen minutes out of the rain.

  “You guys are playing your hearts out, and I’m proud of you,” Coach said. “I know the conditions are lousy, but they’re lousy for the other guys, too.” He took off his red cap with the O on the front now, shook it hard to get some of the rain off it.

  Then he knelt down in the front of the room where they all could see him.

  “This is one you win,” he said. “This is one you win and then no matter what you do in football after this, you’ll remember this day, and talk about it for the rest of your lives.”

  Chris stood up then. He wasn’t much of a talker, and had never given a speech to the team, but he said something now.

  “Let’s win the Mud Bowl!” he yelled.

  Suddenly all
of the Eagles were chanting “Mud, mud, mud.” Scott was yelling right along with everybody else, knowing they sounded as if they had water on the brain by now.

  He and Chris were the last two out of the room as they filed out. “Glad you came?” Chris said.

  Scott grinned. “Let’s go win the championship,” he said.

  It didn’t get any easier in the second half. Both teams kept turning the ball over. Nobody came close to putting it in the end zone.

  Then, near the end of the third quarter, disaster struck for the Eagles.

  Dave Kepp was back to punt from his own five-yard line. Only the snap went sailing over his head like it had been shot out of a cannon and landed in the Eagles’ end zone. There was a wild scramble for the ball, and for a moment Scott was worried that somebody on the Lions was going to recover it for a touchdown.

  At the last second, though, Dave was smart enough to shove the ball out of the back of the end zone for a safety. No touchdown, but now the Lions had a 2-0 lead. And in these conditions, those two points felt like more.

  A lot more.

  Maybe the whole game.

  Because of the safety, the Eagles had to kick the ball back to the Lions, who weren’t taking any chances now that they had the lead. They just ran the ball up the middle three straight times from midfield and then watched as their punter boomed one out of bounds on the Eagles’ fifteen-yard line. Those eighty-five yards to the Lions’ end zone had never looked farther.

  On first down, trying to make something happen despite lousy field position that matched the weather, Chris went back to throw one to Jimmy in the right flat. Only the ball slipped out of his hand and somehow ended up behind Chris, falling right into the arms of a Lions’ defensive tackle, who seemed as shocked as anybody to have the ball in his hands, then started slip-sliding toward the end zone until Chris managed to bring him down from behind.

  Lions’ ball, on the Eagles’ eight-yard line.

  But Scott watched as his guys on defense finally caught a break. The Lions’ quarterback fumbled the snap on first down and the Eagles got it back just as the third quarter ended. One last quarter to go in the season.

  Lions 2. Eagles 0. A baseball score for the biggest football game of the year, the biggest game any of those kids had ever played.

  The rain was coming as hard as ever.

  Somehow, though, with three minutes left, Chris Conlan—maybe because he was Chris Conlan—began to drive the Eagles down the field.

  You couldn’t see the numbers on the uniforms by then. You wondered how Chris could see anything with the rain hitting him in the face. Didn’t seem to matter to him. He completed his first pass of the day, to Jimmy, and Jimmy nearly dropped it before hugging it to his chest with both hands and running twenty more yards, almost in slow motion to avoid slipping in the mud. The Lions’ defenders could hardly plant their feet in the mud to make the tackle.

  That gave Chris an idea. He called for the reverse that he’d run with Scott at practice, and Jeremy Sharp gained another fifteen yards.

  The Eagles were at midfield now. The element of surprise seemed to be working. On the sloppy field, it was more difficult to react than act. So Chris kept the surprises coming by calling a quarterback sneak and running all the way to the Lions’ fifteen-yard line.

  One minute to go. The Eagles’ first real drive of the game.

  Chris called their first time-out, went over to talk to Mr. Dolan.

  “No turnovers,” he said. “This is for the game.”

  “Got it,” Chris said.

  Scott had come over to listen.

  “Let’s see if we can run it in,” Mr. Dolan said. “We’ve seen already that bad things are happening today when the ball’s in the air.”

  Chris nodded. Scott handed him a bottle of Gatorade. Chris tipped his helmet back to take a swig, and it was then that Scott saw that he was smiling. Like there was nowhere else in the world he’d rather be.

  He tossed the bottle to Scott. Still smiling, he said, “Love of the game, dude.”

  Then the quarterback ran back on the field.

  The next play was a sweep. Jeremy ran for three yards. When the play started, it looked like he might get more, but Jeremy fell down without being touched, body-surfing for about five yards after he hit the ground.

  Second-and-seven.

  They lined up without a huddle to save time. Chris faked a pitch to Jeremy, handed the ball to Grant. But the Lions weren’t fooled this time, and Grant got stuffed for no gain.

  Third down now, from the twelve-yard line.

  Fifteen seconds left.

  Chris called another time-out to stop the clock. It was third-and-long. Pass coming. Chris took the snap, rolled to his right. As he did, Scott looked down the field and saw that Jimmy had gotten himself wide open in the back of the end zone, his man having slipped.

  It looked like a sure touchdown to win the game.

  Except.

  Except as Chris’s arm came forward, his back foot slipped out from under him and he went down, the ball squirting out of his hand, dying like somebody had shot it out of the air. It fell harmlessly to the ground.

  Fourth down from the twelve.

  Eight seconds left.

  Time for one more play.

  Only Chris Conlan was limping now, limping badly, grabbing for his hamstring, in obvious pain. Even with the clock stopped because of the incompletion, he called their last time-out and hobbled toward the sideline.

  Mr. Dolan ran out to meet him.

  By the time Mr. Dolan had met him halfway, Chris was doubled over, unable to walk. Mr. Dolan leaned over now, put a hand on Chris’s shoulder, his face grim, and said something to him. Chris shook his head. Scott got as close as he could, tried to make out what they were saying. The rain was too loud, and they were too far away.

  Chris was still bent over. But he turned now and met Scott’s eyes, before pointing right at him.

  Mr. Dolan took off his cap despite the soaking rain, and rubbed his forehead. Scott thought the coach looked lost for a moment, Chris still speaking at his side.

  Then, as if suddenly remembering where he was, Mr. Dolan put his cap back on.

  “Parry!” he yelled, his eyes looking everywhere except at Scott. “You’re in!”

  It took Scott a second to realize what he’d just heard. When he did, he began shaking his head no. But Chris caught his eye again and nodded.

  Then Chris, straightening up now, waved him over.

  Scott ran toward them.

  “Are you crazy?” he said to Chris. “What the heck did you say to Coach?”

  “I told him about our secret weapon,” Chris said. “Like he said, you’re going in.”

  “To do what?”

  “Kick for it,” Chris said.

  Scott waited for some sign that he was joking, even with eight seconds left in the championship game. Only he wasn’t. He meant this. This was what he’d been talking about with Mr. Dolan, what he’d just spent nearly the whole time-out talking him into.

  Scott couldn’t talk now, couldn’t move, just stood there shaking his head.

  “No,” he managed finally, still shaking his head. “No way. I can’t.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  Then Chris Conlan was grabbing Scott by both sides of his helmet, forcing him to focus. “Let’s go win a championship,” he said.

  TWENTY

  “This is insane,” Scott said.

  “Nah,” Chris said, “it’s Parry Field. Just muddier.”

  They were standing in front of Mr. Dolan now. The whole team had gathered behind them, wanting to know what was going on. Mr. Dolan said to Scott, “You can do this?”

  Chris answered before Scott could. “Coach, he can do it. I know he can even better than he does. It’s not just our best chance to win—it’s our only chance. You saw what just happened when Jeremy was in the clear. And I couldn’t throw a pass to save my life even on two good legs.”

  Mr. Dolan ignore
d Chris. He tipped back his cap just slightly. Now Scott could see his eyes, staring at him.

  “I’m asking you,” he said to Scott. “Can you make this kick?”

  “Yes,” Scott said, “I can.”

  The ref came over to where they were standing. “Coach, I’ve been giving extra time on the whistles.

  But you gotta get these kids lined up soon or I’m gonna have to call a delay of game on you.”

  Mr. Dolan nodded. The ref left. When Mr. Dolan started talking again, it was as if he were talking to himself.

  “This is nuts,” he said. Then looked back at Scott and said, “Go for it.”

  Jimmy Dolan had been over on the sidelines, trying to clean some of the mud out of his spikes, so he didn’t know what they’d been talking about.

  “Go for what, Dad?”

  “We’re gonna kick for it,” Mr. Dolan said.

  “Who’s gonna kick for it?”

  Mr. Dolan said, “Scott.”

  “You’re gonna let the brain try a field goal?”

  Jimmy said. “Tell me you’re joking. Please tell me you’re joking.”

  Mr. Dolan gave his son a long look and said, “Tell me something, son. Do I look like I’m joking?”

  Scott ignored them, turned to Chris instead.

  “You’ve gotta come out, right?”

  Chris nodded.

  “So who’s going to hold for me?” Scott said.

  “It’s like I just finished telling Coach,” Chris said. “We’re not gonna need a holder. It’s just one more thing that could go wrong.” He paused and said, “That’s why you’re gonna drop-kick it.”

  Scott felt the air come out of him the way it had that time Jimmy’d hit him in practice and he was afraid he was never going to catch his breath, the day he’d somehow held on to the ball.

  “I can’t drop-kick a field goal,” he said, choking the words out.

  “Would somebody mind telling me what a drop-kick is?” Jimmy said.

  His dad said, “It’s like a punt, except you drop it on the ground before you kick it.”

  “But it counts the same as a placekick?” Jimmy said.

  “Only if you make it,” Scott said in a weak voice.

  “Look at me!” Chris said, snapping at him. This time he grabbed Scott by the shoulder pads. “You’ve made this kick with me a hundred times. And every single time it was to win the game. So go make it again.”