by Craig Birk
Chapter Seventeen
Final Score
8:11 p.m.
“How about that?!”
– Mel Allen, This Week in Baseball
It took only one minute to pass through Baker, California. The world’s largest thermometer, a neon pink phallic symbol rising one hundred and thirty-four feet out of the desert to commemorate the hottest temperature ever recorded in the United States (134 degrees Farenheit in Death Valley in 1913), showed that it was now only forty-seven degrees.
While possessing over three thousand songs on his iPod, Alex had not updated it in over six months, and so he was already bored of the available selections. Also, he knew that if Stanford covered the spread, Roger would have cash for the weekend and he would not have to lend him money. Roger was always good for his debts, but Alex considered it tedious to have to deal with the situation. He greatly preferred a world where he owed no one anything, and no one owed him. For both of these reasons he was happy to turn off the music to listen to the end of the Stanford game. Really, with possession of the ball, less than two minutes left on the clock, and ten and a half points to give against the spread, it was more of a formality than anything. But Alex wanted everyone to be merry and was pleased to let Roger enjoy the moment. Then Roger announced that he was guaranteeing a Stanford victory.
This prompted Alex to reconsider the certainty of the outcome. Roger had a long and bloodied history of intra-game guarantees that somehow went impossibly sour. Gary had also been a witness to this strange phenomenon over the years.
Gary: “Rodge, you idiot. Why can’t you keep your mouth shut for two minutes?”
Roger: “Don’t worry. This one is done. No question about it. I am putting it in the fridge.”
Washington was now out of timeouts so Stanford had elected to have their quarterback start taking a knee. Done properly two more times, this would run the clock down to thirty-eight seconds. A punt on fourth down, assuming it would not be returned all the way, would leave the Huskies with a maximum of one play to score a game-tying touchdown.
Remembering “The Play,” in which the California Bears miraculously leveraged five lateral passes and the Stanford Band on a last-second kickoff return to win the 1982 Big Game, everyone in the car waited nervously for the ensuing punt. During the next snap, the announcer was also recounting the famous Big Game history when suddenly his voice rose mid-sentence and he became very excited. “Oh my Goodness! I think he dropped the ball! It looks like the quarterback has fumbled the snap. There is a big pile around the line of scrimmage. Yes! Yes! Washington has recovered.”
Gary: “Oh, no.”
Roger: “No problem. They still have to score a touchdown and then win by four in overtime to cover the spread.”
Despite Roger’s confidence, he was now chewing his fingernails. No one was surprised when Washington completed a forty-three yard pass for a touchdown on the first play from scrimmage. Stanford received the kickoff and chose to run out the clock and take their chances in overtime. After a commercial break in which no one in the car said a word, Stanford took the ball first in overtime. On the first play, they ran a simple screen to the right.
Announcer: “The Stanford quarterback drops back. He quickly looks right and fires a short pass out to Jones. Jones is hit immediately but shakes the tackle. He advances up to the twenty and cuts inside. He is really turning nothing into something. Oh, wait, Jones has lost the ball at the fifteen and Washington has recovered. That is a devastating turn of events. It is as if somehow a curse was placed on Stanford in the last few minutes of this game. I am not sure if I can ever remember a team falling apart so quickly.”
Mike couldn’t help but laugh. Roger did not think the situation was humorous.
Roger began shouting: “Ball-licking madness! This has got to be some kind of joke. What the fuck is wrong with these fucking sperm-seekers?”
Mike: “Still guaranteeing a win?”
Roger: “Shut your damn pie hole.”
Alex: “Don’t worry. Most likely Washington will settle for a field goal and you will still cover.”
Roger: “Maybe if Stanford can pull their heads out of each others’ asses for ten seconds to run a play.”
Alex proved prophetic in his belief that Washington would be conservative. Following the college rules, they began their overtime possession on the twenty-five yard line. Washington ran the ball three straight times to start their possession, gaining exactly four yards on each carry and earning a fresh set of downs. Roger approved of their game plan and assumed they would kick when they got inside the fifteen. On first down they again ran the ball up the middle. Had the group been watching the game on TV, they would scarcely have believed how the Stanford defense could have missed so many opportunities to tackle a running back who was concentrating more on holding on to the football than gaining any serious yardage. Nevertheless, head down, he ran in a straight line all the way through the defense and into the end zone.
Roger was too defeated to yell. It was not the first time he had lost a bet on what seemed like extremely unlikely circumstances. He expressed his displeasure in a matter-of-fact tone, “Those too-smart for their own good monkey-fuckers fucked me right in the ass.”
Alex was about to switch the music back on when the announcer indicated there was a flag on the play. It was holding on the offense and the touchdown was called back. Three plays later, Washington successfully kicked a thirty-two yard field goal for a three-point win, and a $1,400 swing for Roger’s parlay.
Roger, though quite pleased with this second turn of events, felt a bit foolish about his previous outbursts and remained calm. “Huh. How about that?” was his only comment.
Alex switched the stereo back to the auxiliary setting and Gary scrolled to All I Wanna Do (Is Have Some Fun) by Sheryl Crow. She was not the only one.
