Backfield Boys
Page 26
At halftime, Coach Cruikshank pulled Tom aside. “You have to stay ready,” he said. “We bog down at all, you’re going to be in there.”
“I hope we don’t bog down,” Tom said, meaning it—not because he was nervous about playing, but because he didn’t want Billy Bob to fail.
They traded touchdowns in the third quarter, and then the Patriots drove to the Roanoke 19 late in the quarter before stalling. On came Nick Stover to nail a thirty-six-yard field goal for a 27–24 lead.
The defense promptly held as the fourth quarter began and Jason, fielding a punt on the 22, returned it to the 43 to set the offense up in prime field position.
As Jason came to the sideline, Coach Gutekunst met him. “Catch your breath for two plays, then get back in there,” the coach said. “We have a chance to drive a stake through their heart on this drive.”
Sure enough, Billy Bob began moving his team again. Jason came back on a third-and-two from the Roanoke 49 and made a catch down the seam for seventeen yards. The Roanoke defensive backs were playing way off him because, by now, they had figured out he was the fastest player on the field.
The game clock was ticking toward ten minutes. A two-score lead might be enough.
But then, just when another score seemed inevitable, Billy Bob made a mistake. On second-and-three, with the ball on the 14-yard line, he spotted Jason open over the middle in the end zone. Only he wasn’t really open. He had the cornerback beaten, but one of the Bengals linebackers had dropped deep in coverage and he stepped in front of Jason just as the ball was about to reach him and made a diving interception.
It was the first turnover of the game. Roanoke took over with 8:43 left and began marching methodically down the field—mixing runs with short passes. Billy Bob was berating himself on the sideline for the mistake, but there was nothing to be done at that moment except watch and hope.
“The way this is going, they’re going to run the clock to almost nothing,” Jason said.
“We might have to start using time-outs now,” Tom said.
“We gotta save one or two for when we get the ball back,” Billy Bob said.
It seemed as if Roanoke was picking up four yards on every play. The Bengals converted four straight third downs as the clock kept ticking.
“If we can hold them to a field goal, we’re fine,” Tom said. “Even if we don’t score, we can win in overtime.”
On a third-and-eight from the 14, Doughty dropped and then ran straight up the middle on a quarterback draw, picking up nine—for a first down at the 5. The clock was now under three minutes. Coach Thurman used a time-out as much to rest the defense as stop the clock.
It didn’t help. Two plays later, Doughty faked to his fullback, then ran a bootleg to the right and scored with nobody from TGP in the same county. The extra point was perfect and, with 2:09 to play, Roanoke led 31–27. It would take a TGP touchdown to win the game. A field goal would be worthless.
“Just like in the Fairfax game,” Tom said.
“Exactly,” Billy Bob said. “Which means, roomie, we need a good return.”
Jason understood. Only Roanoke wasn’t going to give him the chance to give his team some momentum with a return—it had seen enough of him. The Bengals kicker sailed the kickoff well out-of-bounds, meaning TGP would start from the 35-yard line. Not bad field position, but time was short.
“One more time, Billy Bob!” Tom yelled as the offense took the field. “You can do this.”
Billy Bob nodded, checked with Coach Cruikshank, and jogged to the huddle. Just as in the Fairfax game, the first two plays were quick outs to speedy receivers: one to Jason, who picked up seven yards before stepping out-of-bounds; one to Terrell Davidson. He picked up seven more and got out-of-bounds at the TGP 49. The two plays had only used up nineteen seconds, but the clock was now at 1:48.
Coach Cruikshank signaled in two more plays: the first one a little risky, Tom thought—a draw to Danny Nobis—because it would definitely use some clock. The second was a fake spike play they’d worked on all season. Billy Bob would race to the line signaling “spike” to his teammates; then he would fake spiking the ball and throw a quick turn-in pass to either Terrell Davidson or Jason. Depending on how fooled the defense was, the play could pick up ten yards or it could go all the way. Tom liked the strategy but understood the risks.
Billy Bob handed to Nobis, who burst through a big hole for nine yards. The clock ticked down while Billy Bob frantically made the spike signal to his teammates as they rushed to the line. Tom could see that many of the Roanoke players weren’t even in stances as Billy Bob moved under center. They were expecting the spike. The clock rolled under 1:20.
Billy Bob took a step back and made a motion with his arm to spike the ball. Tom could see that both Jason and Davidson were virtually uncovered. Roanoke had bought the fake entirely.
And then disaster struck.
Somehow, as he made the motion to spike, Billy Bob lost control of the football. It slipped from his hand and began bouncing wildly on the ground. He spotted it right away and dove for it, but so did a couple of Roanoke defenders, who had seen the ball come loose.
Billy Bob got there first and landed on it as about a half dozen white jerseys followed. A huge pileup ensued. The officials signaled for time—the clock stopped on a fumble—with fifty-nine seconds left. Then they dug into the pile to see who had the ball.
Apparently Billy Bob did, because the officials came up signaling that it was still TGP’s ball. Tom breathed a sigh of relief. A lot of time had been lost, along with about three yards, but they were still alive.
Everyone untangled and got up from the pile.
Except Billy Bob. He was lying on his back, holding on to his right leg, writhing in apparent agony.
“Oh, no,” Tom breathed. “Oh, no.”
The officials were waving at the TGP sideline for the trainers to look at Billy Bob. As they raced to help, followed by Coach Thurman, Tom had a realization: By rule, once the medical staff goes on the field, the player has to come out.
You’re going in, he thought, for at least one play.
Tom turned and saw Danny Nobis, who had come out to catch his breath, standing there, staring, like everyone, at Billy Bob.
“Nobis, quick,” Tom said. “You gotta warm me up!”
Nobis froze for a second, then understood. They walked to the bench area and grabbed a ball. Tom stood fifteen yards from Nobis and began lobbing passes to him. He wasn’t even looking at the field. He put more zip on the ball after about five throws, then moved back five yards. As he did, he heard a cheer rising from the stands.
He looked at the field and saw that Billy Bob was on his feet or, actually, on one foot. His right foot was off the ground and he was leaning heavily on two of the backup linemen, who had come out to help him off.
“Jefferson!” he heard Coach Cruikshank shout. “Where the hell is Jefferson?”
“Here, Coach,” Tom said.
Coach Cruikshank saw him and waved him over. “It’s up to you, Tom,” he said.
“How bad—”
“Bad. Ankle is either broken or badly sprained. Someone fell on it. He’s absolutely done for tonight. You ready?”
Tom had no idea if he was ready, but that wasn’t the right answer. “Hundred percent,” he said instead.
As he spoke, Billy Bob reached the sideline, his face a mask of pain. Coach Thurman was behind him, the referee behind Coach Thurman.
“Hang on a second,” Billy Bob said. He put one hand on Tom’s shoulder. “I can’t believe I put you in this position,” he said, his voice filled with pain. “But you can do this. You know you can do this.”
Tom nodded, unable to think of a response. The referee was explaining to Coach Thurman that because the injury had occurred in the last two minutes, TGP had to lose either a time-out or ten seconds off the game clock.
“Take the ten seconds off,” Coach Thurman said.
“Coach, I don’t think—” C
oach Cruikshank said.
Coach Thurman waved him off. “You gotta trust me, Mark,” he said.
He turned to Tom. “You get warmed up at all?” he asked.
“Enough, Coach,” Tom said. “I’m okay.”
“Good,” Coach Thurman said. “Run Z-curl. They still gotta respect Jason’s speed. Send X on a fly. If it works, spike the ball and look at Coach Cruikshank for your next play.”
The X-receiver was Terrell Davidson. He would go deep to create some space for Jason in the middle of the field.
Tom ran to the huddle. The referee started the play clock. The game clock was at forty-nine seconds after the runoff.
“You’ve got this, Jefferson,” Conor Foley said as Tom stepped into the circle of players. “We believe in you.”
That made Tom feel good. He called the play. As soon as he took the snap, he felt as if he’d been playing quarterback all fall. He dropped three steps and snapped the pass to Jason, who caught it in stride coming across the middle. Jason raced to the 24 before he was brought down.
“Spike!” everyone was screaming.
Tom got them lined up and spiked the ball with twenty-two seconds left.
He looked to Coach Cruikshank. He was signaling for a draw play and for Tom to call time as soon as the play was dead. Tom wasn’t crazy about the call, but there was no time to argue.
He handed the ball to Nobis, who picked up five yards to the 19. The clock was at thirteen seconds when Tom got the officials to stop the clock.
He came to the sideline. “Two pass plays,” Coach Cruikshank said. “You don’t have to throw in the end zone because we have the time-out left.”
Five receivers were now in the game. The backfield was empty. Tom dropped and saw no one open. He couldn’t scramble because, if he did, the clock might run out. Finally, he saw Emmet Foley come back to him and he found him at the eight.
Foley caught the ball and Tom screamed for time. He got it—with two seconds left.
“They’re going to put their entire defense on the goal line or in the end zone,” Coach Cruikshank said when Tom ran over one last time. “Terrell’s our best leaper. Send him to the corner and throw the lob. It’s our only chance.”
Coach Thurman nodded. Tom went back to the huddle. Davidson was their strongest leaper, but he wasn’t all that tall. The chances of completing the pass were slim—at best. All eyes were on him as he reached the huddle.
He looked at Jason, then made a decision.
“Listen to me, we’re going to try something crazy.”
No one said a word.
“Everyone run Flood Fly”—that meant flooding the end zone with receivers—“except you, Jason. You fake like you’re running Flood Fly, then come behind me. The rest of you block your men like your lives depend on it. Because they do.”
It was a play Tom and Jason had run in Riverside Park all the time, setting up the other receivers as blockers downfield and then letting Jason outrun everyone else. It was insane to call it at this moment. Which was why, Tom thought, it could work.
“On the first sound,” Tom finally said, and they came to the line with the entire stadium on its feet. Tom knew it was loud, but he heard nothing.
He screamed “Omaha!” in honor of Peyton Manning, and took the snap.
Roanoke was only rushing two men. Everyone else was in the end zone. Tom watched his receivers sprint to the end zone and cocked his arm as if to throw the ball up for grabs. Out of the corner of his eye he saw Jason flying past him. He pulled the ball down and pitched it to him.
Jason had a full head of speed. It took a split second for the Roanoke defenders to figure out what had happened. Jason was around the corner and at the 5 before anyone started in his direction. It looked as if someone had a shot at him at the 3, but Davidson dove in front of him and knocked him aside. Jason planted a foot and cut to the outside. Three defenders closed on him. It was a race to the corner.
At the 1-yard line, Jason left his feet and dove. A blur of white uniforms collided with him in midair. Jason was knocked sideways but kept lunging. Tom saw him reach with the ball at the goal line and then go down in a huge pile.
Everyone raced in the direction of the pile. Two officials got there first. They looked at each other for a moment, and then their arms went into the air.
Touchdown!
Tom fought through everyone and reached Jason just as he was climbing to his feet.
“I get there?” he asked, uncertain for a moment.
Tom pointed to the kids in the white uniforms, all of them on a knee or lying flat on the ground.
“What do you think?” he asked.
A few seconds later, they were both on the shoulders of their teammates, being given a crazy ride around the field. When they were finally put down, Coach Thurman and Coach Cruikshank were both standing there, hands on hips. Billy Bob, on crutches, was a half step behind them.
“What the hell kind of crazy call was that?” Coach Thurman asked.
For a split second Tom thought the new head coach was angry, but he could see both coaches were fighting grins.
“New York City schoolyard,” Tom said. “Works all the time.”
“I love New York!” Billy Bob said.
He dropped his crutches and reached for Tom and for Jason, and they group-hugged, someone grabbing them from behind to join in. It was Anthony.
“I told you,” Billy Bob said, tears rolling down his face. “I told you that you could do it. Even if it took the stupidest, craziest call I’ve ever seen in my life.”
Coach Thurman was laughing. “Actually, it was an amazingly smart call,” he said. “Caught them totally by surprise.”
“Yeah, I guess that was some pretty deep thinking,” Billy Bob said.
With that, they all burst out laughing, and the hugging and the celebrating began all over again. The two black kids and the two white kids. The two Southerners and the two New Yorkers. All celebrating, as one.
ALSO BY JOHN FEINSTEIN
The Sports Beat Series
Last Shot: Mystery at the Final Four
Vanishing Act: Mystery at the U.S. Open
Cover-Up: Mystery at the Super Bowl
Change-Up: Mystery at the World Series
The Rivalry: Mystery at the Army-Navy Game
Rush for the Gold: Mystery at the Olympics
The Triple Threat Series
The Walk On
The Sixth Man
The DH
Foul Trouble
Backfield Boys
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
John Feinstein is the author of more than thirty books, including the #1 New York Times bestsellers: A Season on the Brink and A Good Walk Spoiled. He is also the author of numerous kids mysteries. His first young adult mystery, Last Shot, won the Edgar Allen Poe Award. John also works for The Washington Post, The Golf Channel, Sirius XM Radio and Comcast Sportsnet. You can sign up for email updates here.
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CONTENTS
Title Page
Copyright Notice
Dedication
Prologue
Part 1
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
Part 2
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
Part 3
18
19
20
21
22
23
24
/> 25
26
27
28
29
30
31
32
33
Also by John Feinstein
About the Author
Copyright
Farrar Straus Giroux Books for Young Readers
An imprint of Macmillan Publishing Group, LLC
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Text copyright © 2017 by John Feinstein
All rights reserved
First hardcover edition, 2017
eBook edition, August 2017
fiercereads.com
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eISBN 9780374305932