They stared at each other, and then Sam dropped his hands. Tony turned to the others as if nothing had happened. His heart pounded.
“All right.” He looked into Johnny D’Abruzzi’s fierce eyes and made his judgment. “We’re running Johnny again, this time through the left side. Then I’ll run an option.”
He saw Sam’s astonishment, Ernie Nixon’s disappointment; ignoring them both, he called the numbers for the next two plays. But when the huddle broke, he grasped Ernie’s sleeve. “I’m counting on you to cut down the left side linebacker.”
“I’ll do it.”
Turning, Tony ambled behind the center with deceptive casualness. Then he suddenly barked, “Hut three,” and the ball was in his hand, then in Johnny D’Abruzzi’s arms as he ran to the left behind Ernie Nixon. Ernie shot through the liner; with a fierceness that was almost beautiful, he coiled his body and slammed shoulder-first into Riverwood’s right linebacker, knocking him backward as Johnny ran past and then tripped, suddenly and completely, over the legs of the falling player.
“Shit,” Tony said under his breath. The clock read thirty-one, thirty, twenty-nine. Still twenty yards to go …
The blue bodies scurried up from the turf to re-form along the line of scrimmage. Twenty-two seconds …
The center snapped the ball to Tony.
He ran along the line, with Ernie Nixon trailing him. His option was to run himself or flip the ball to Ernie.
As the crowd began screaming, a wave of blockers formed in front of Tony.
Ernie was behind him to the outside, in good position for a pitchout. But Tony could see the play opening up for him; ten yards down the sideline and then out of bounds, stopping the clock again. The screams rose higher as he crossed the line of scrimmage.
From nowhere a red jersey appeared at the corner of Tony’s vision—Rex Stallworth, their quickest linebacker. Tony heard the crunch of Stallworth’s helmet into the side of his face before the shock shivered his body and dropped him into darkness.
The next sensation that came to him was the smell of dirt and grass. Tony rose to his knees, time lost to him.
“Tony!” Sam cried out.
By instinct, Tony looked up at the clock.
Sixteen seconds, fifteen, fourteen. Tony staggered to his feet and loped to the center of the field. “Spike,” he shouted. “On one.”
Raggedly, the line took its position. “Ten,” the Riverwood fans started chanting. “Nine…”
“One,” Tony screamed. The ball was only a second in his hands before he spiked it to the ground. An incomplete pass, stopping the clock.
Five seconds left.
Tony backed from the line of scrimmage, taking deep breaths. He was nauseous, dizzy. His head rang.
Sam was the first one to reach him. “You okay?”
“Yeah.”
“Gotta pass to me, Tony. Please.”
The team circled him again. Tony shook his head to clear it, then said to no one in particular, “Screwed that play up, didn’t I? Sonofabitch rang my bell for Parham.”
Tony felt their quiet relief. Only Sam seemed too tight.
“Okay,” Tony said. “We’ve got five seconds, twenty yards, no time-outs. Time to put this game away.” He paused, looking at everyone but Sam. “Thirty-five reverse pass.”
The huddle broke. Under his breath, Tony said to Sam, “It’s ours now, pal.”
Sam nodded, ready. For the last time, they walked to the line with their team.
Tony paused, taking it all in—the crowd, the light and darkness, the blue line of teammates, the red formation across from them shouting jeers and insults. And then he shut out everything but what he meant to do.
Time slowed for him. The cadence of his own voice seemed to come from somewhere else. But there was no other place that Tony wished to be.
“Hut two…”
The ball popped into his hand.
Tony slid the ball into Ernie Nixon’s stomach. Bent forward, Ernie plowed into the line in feigned determination as Tony pulled back the ball, spun, and slapped it into Johnny D’Abruzzi’s chest.
But only for an instant.
Johnny stood upright, crashing shoulder-first into a blitzing linebacker who was headed straight for Tony. And then Tony was alone, sprinting with the ball along the right side of the line.
In front of him, he saw bodies scrambling—two linebackers running parallel to block his path, believing he would run for the end zone, his own blockers forming in front of him.
Without seeming to look, Tony saw Sam break to the left sideline. Sam looked irrelevant, a decoy, so far was he from the sweep of the play.
Abruptly, Sam broke back across the center of the field, three feet ahead of the back who covered him.
Perfect, Tony thought.
All at once he stopped, cocking the ball to throw. The crowd cried out in warning.
From Tony’s blind side Stallworth charged for him, head down.
Tony jerked back the ball, scrambling forward. As Stallworth swept by, his outstretched arm grasped Tony’s ankle.
Tony stumbled, losing his balance. Then he caught his fall, left hand digging into the grass.
Ahead of him, two more linemen charged forward. Tony had nowhere to go. He could not see Sam; if he tried to pass, he would be defenseless against the onrushing tacklers.
Tony stood straight, cocked his arm, and threw, with his weight on his front foot, toward where he thought Sam’s speed would take him. The ball left his hand an instant before the first defender hit Tony’s unprotected ribs.
Tony felt his insides shift; the pain went through him as he hit the ground. By instinct he rolled on his side, sat up.
The ball arched above the players who turned to watch it, helpless. Its flight seemed to slow, a sphere sailing through light and shadow toward the rear of the end zone, accompanied by shrieks of hope and uncertainty.
I’ve overthrown it, Tony thought, and then he saw Sam Robb.
Seemingly without a chance, Sam sprinted for the ball as it fell to earth. Three feet from the ball, two feet from the back of the end zone, Sam timed his leap.
It took him parallel to the ground, feet leaving the grass as he stretched, arms extended, and clasped the ball in his fingertips. He fell beyond the end zone, feet trailing in a last effort to touch in-bounds. Tony could not see whether he had done so; he saw only, as Sam rose to his feet and turned to the referee, that the ball was in his hands.
Tony stood, pain forgotten as he gazed at the referee, a silent prayer forming in his head.
Slowly, the referee raised his hands aloft.
A lump blocked Tony’s throat.
Touchdown. Mother of God, a touchdown. He began to run toward Sam.
Sam stood in the end zone, arms aloft, clutching the ball in his hand. Above him, the scoreboard registered six more points for Lake City. Sam’s helmet was off; beneath the klieg lights, Tony could see the tears on his face.
Sam stood frozen. And then, suddenly, he saw Tony.
He turned, flipping away the ball, and ran toward him.
They met on the goal line. For an instant, they stopped there, then they threw their arms around each other.
Wordless, Sam held Tony close. In that moment there was no one Tony Lord loved as much as he loved Sam Robb.
“Touchdown,” Tony said in a thick voice. “That’s the play.”
TWO
Their teammates pressed against them at the goal line, whooping and hugging and pounding each other. Nothing coherent was said: it was a moment they could share only with each other, and needed no words. At some unspoken signal, they broke away and headed through the exit gate toward the darkened tan brick building that had always looked to Tony more like a factory than a high school, the cheering fans who had poured from the stands forming two lines around them from the gate to the doorway.
Inside the door, Tony stopped in the narrow corridor as the line of teammates slowed to pass him, shaking their hands as he
waited for Coach Jackson. As was his custom, the coach held himself aloof, trailing behind the team as if nothing much had happened. He would save his emotions for his players.
As he reached the door, Jackson found Tony waiting.
The coach gave him a look of mock annoyance, a man diverted from his business. “What you want, Lord?”
“Give him the game ball, okay?”
Jackson put one hand on Tony’s shoulder, not smiling. “I’ll do what I goddam want,” he said, and headed for the locker room.
Why, Tony wondered, did the coach deny Sam the recognition he craved, even a thing so small. Sam played hard for Jackson and, beneath his bravado, feared the coach as much as most kids did. There was something skewed here: once more, Tony thought of the rumor that he devoutly wished Sam would never hear—that Coach Jackson was fucking Sam’s mother. Tony hoped the coach’s heart held up.
Turning, he went to the locker room.
The team sat on wooden benches in front of battered gray lockers, heads bowed, newly quiet as Coach Jackson—who Tony was confident had not seen the inside of a church for years—spoke a terse prayer.
“Thank you, Lord,” he finished. Then his head snapped up abruptly, and he stepped atop a bench, his communion with the Almighty done.
“All right,” Jackson said brusquely. “I won’t tell you all that bullshit—that you’re the greatest team I ever coached, that I’ll think of you on my deathbed. ’Cause I hope to live long enough to forget about you all.
“The only thing that matters is what you take with you when you leave here.
“They don’t keep score out there. This championship may be the last thing you ever win. But the most important job you did tonight was not to win but to achieve.
“You did your best. You worked with the other guy. You respected yourself. Take that with you, and things just may turn out right.”
The sweaty faces looked up as one to Jackson. In spite of himself, Tony was moved: Jackson had helped him learn that he could keep his head and make things turn out right. This was better than the game ball, because Tony could take it with him.
Jackson snatched the ball from an assistant and held it out in front of him.
Tony glanced at Sam. His friend sat gazing up at Jackson with a hope and need so naked that Tony looked away.
“Still,” Jackson said, “there’s this ball. There are a lot of guys that I could give this to. But some of you might fumble.”
Some laughter now. But Tony saw that Sam did not laugh at all. His eyes were stuck on Jackson.
Jackson turned to Tony. “So I’m giving this to Tony Lord. I don’t need to tell you why—you’ve played with him all season.”
As Tony stepped forward, the team began clapping and cheering; when Johnny D’Abruzzi stood, and then Ernie Nixon, they all did. Tony did not look at Sam.
What to say. Quickly, Tony rejected some slop about sharing the game ball with Sam—this would slight the rest of them and, he decided, condescend to Sam.
Tony stood on the bench next to Jackson, looking out at them as he gathered his thoughts, and then began in solemn tones.
“I owe this ball to every one of you guys. So I want to share it with you.” Pausing, Tony grinned. “Visiting hours are nine to five.”
The team laughed in surprise.
Encouraged, Tony went on. “If you think about it, though, if it weren’t for Sam Robb’s catch, Jack Parham would be holding this game ball in some hospital, trying to figure out if it’s a football or a world globe. So in honor of Jack Parham, Sam gets to sleep with the ball on weekends.”
Amidst rising laughter, the young faces turned to Sam. “All right, Sam,” someone called. Sam grinned with pleasure and surprise. Tony waited until the laughter died, and tossed the ball underhand to Sam.
“Nice catch,” he said. “Again.”
The team turned back to Tony. His tone was quiet now.
“You guys are the best. Coach Jackson may forget you—he’s got a lot on his mind. But I never will.”
He stepped down from the bench before they could applaud, embracing the players who stood nearest him. But when he got to Sam, he said only, “Where are our girlfriends hiding?”
Half smiling, Sam spun the football on the end of one finger like a world globe, watching it with great concentration. “The parking lot,” he answered, and flipped the ball back to Tony.
A half hour later, dressed in oxford shirts and khakis, they left the building together.
Outside, a few students and fans and a couple of local reporters still waited, milling about in the cold night air. Raggedly they applauded. Tony felt both pleasure and puzzlement: it was like celebrity, but only for a season, and it happened too young and passed too quickly to seem quite real. Already the heroes of two years ago were half ignored when they visited the team; often Tony sensed that they left without whatever they had come for, not knowing that they had only borrowed it in the first place.
But this was their season, his and Sam’s: as the two reporters came forward, one young and one middle-aged, pads in hand, a certain pride entered Sam’s face, which, to Tony, seemed close to innocence.
“Move closer, Tony,” the young reporter called out, and snapped a picture of the two of them. “You know,” he said, “you guys look like brothers.”
They didn’t, Tony knew: Sam’s hair was close to white, Tony’s caramel blond; Sam’s smooth face was deceptively young, Tony’s angular, his thin nose somewhat ridged; Sam was stronger and, at six feet, a good inch taller than Tony. But this season, Tony knew, people would see them as they wished.
The older man stepped forward, voice jocular. “So which one of you boys gets Athlete of the Year?”
Tony felt his goodwill vanish. “Who knows?” he said carelessly. “There are a lot of guys at this school who can play, and it’s not even basketball season.”
Sam stepped forward. “It’s like that play tonight. We both made it up, back in ninth grade.” He paused, smiling at Tony. “When I figured out this guy could actually get the ball to me. See, we’ve always worked together, so we don’t care who gets the credit.”
Sam was lying, Tony knew; he cared more deeply than he could say. But so did Tony. To lie was all they could do; to speak the truth felt dangerous.
“Thanks,” said Tony. “We’ve got people waiting for us.”
“Dates?” The younger reporter looked curious. “Who you guys going out with?”
Only in Lake City, Tony thought. He looked to Sam. “Sue Cash,” Sam said, and shrugged. “Like always.”
“How about you, Tony?”
Tony hesitated. “Alison Taylor,” he answered.
The man nodded, almost solemnly. Alison Taylor, his look seemed to say. It was only fitting.
“Let’s go,” Tony murmured.
THREE
Sue and Alison waited beneath a tree at the far corner of the empty parking lot, talking quietly, Sue in her cheerleader’s uniform and Sam’s letter jacket, and Alison wearing a navy-blue coat, Villager sweater, and pleated skirt. When she saw Sam and Tony, Sue ran up to Sam. Alison hung back a little; as if to fill the void, Sue turned to Tony, giving him a tight squeeze.
“You guys were both so great, Tony. At the end I thought I’d die.”
Looking down at her, Tony smiled. It was hard to imagine Sue Cash dying of anything; not with those lively big brown eyes, the compact body so full of energy, the expressive face that reminded Tony of the cute kid sister in a Hollywood musical—snub nose, strong clean chin, dimples when she smiled, the tight nimbus of brown curls. But unlike most girls Tony knew, Sue could almost be imagined as some lucky family’s wife and mother: beneath her extroversion was something womanly and stable, the sense that Sue would always take care of whatever needed tending—at the moment, Tony himself.
“Sue,” Tony told her, “you definitely beat a game ball.”
They grinned at each other. Then Sue turned back to Sam, pressing her face against his chest as he
held her close again, a couple.
Alison came forward, more tentative than the self-possessed girl she usually appeared. She gave him a fleeting kiss and smiled for the first time. “My hero,” she said. “Is this where you drag me from the campfire?”
Her humor sounded a bit shaky—again, unlike Alison. Tonight she had a tensile quality; Tony was aware of Sue and Sam watching them.
“Maybe for a Coke,” he answered.
With a hesitant smile, she gave a half shake of the head, too small for the others to see. Tony felt a tightness in his chest.
She was different from any girl he had known: smart and a little guarded, with an air of self-possession that implied that she accepted who she was or, perhaps, who her family was. That she was not like this tonight told Tony what he wished to know.
Softly, he said, “We’d better get going.” Taking her hand, he turned to Sam and Sue.
“Come on with us,” Sam said. “At least for a while. I’ve got some whiskey in the car—it’ll warm you up.”
Tony felt Alison’s hand touch his elbow. “No, thanks. I think we need a little time.”
Sam glanced at Alison and then gave Tony a crooked, somewhat sour smile. Guess you don’t need whiskey, the expression said. Once more, Tony sensed Alison’s discomfort.
“Just don’t let the cops catch you,” Tony said to Sam.
Sam laughed. “In this town, tonight? Who’s going to throw either one of us in jail? Like Alison says, we’re heroes, man. We can do anything we want.”
For a night, Tony thought. There was something worrisome in Sam’s elation; he had too far to fall.
“See you Monday,” Alison said to Sue. She said nothing to Sam.
Turning, Tony and Alison walked to Tony’s car. It was a ’61 Ford Fairlane; Tony had bought it with his earnings from two summer jobs, and he kept it waxed and polished. But the most important thing was that the radio worked.
Inside the car, Alison turned to him.
She even looked different—like money, Tony sometimes thought, or a delicate sliver of steel. Her raven-black hair fell straight on both sides of her face, accenting the hollows of her cheeks, the cleft chin, the china complexion. Whereas Sue was vibrant, Alison was watchful and had a certain mettle. Sometimes when she smiled, it was with an air of secret reflection, but her black eyes had a quiet directness, and she seldom looked away. She appeared much like what she was: the class president, a girl other kids were more certain they admired than that they knew. The gift she had given Tony was to let him in.
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