The Heartbeat of Halftime (12 page)

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Authors: Stephen Wunderli

BOOK: The Heartbeat of Halftime
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“It's about time,” he said.
I ran onto the field for the next offensive series. Bam looked at me in the huddle and said, “All right …
bam!
… let's mix it up.”
He threw me the pitch the first play and I had to catch it with one hand. I turned the corner before the safety could crash in on me to force me out of bounds. I gained eleven yards. The next play Bam ran was brilliant. Fake to me on the sweep and hand off to Heat on the counter. Heat gained sixteen or so yards and we were past midfield.
“Throw me the ball,” I said to Bam in the huddle.
“It's first down,” he said. “And you only got one hand.”
“Just throw it,” I said.
“Okay,” Bam said, and he called flare pass right.
I lined up behind the tight end and ran the perfect flare to the outside. I had the cornerback beat
by a couple steps and Bam delivered the ball the way he had a thousand times before in practice. But when I turned to make the catch, I realized I was looking over my right shoulder, making my club hand the outside hand. So to catch the ball, I had to almost backhand it with my right. The ball hit my right hand, then the club, then dropped away from me onto the turf. I dove to the ground trying to make the catch, but it was no use. When I got up, I saw Darrel.
“Run it to the inside,” he shouted at me. Then he turned and showed me with his right hand how I would make the catch. I looked at my father, and even though he didn't move, I could tell it was what he was thinking too. I ran back to the huddle.
“Run it to the inside,” I said to Bam. “Run the post.”
“No,” Bam said.
“I can get it,” I said.
“Thirty-one dive,” Bam said. “On two.”
Heat gained a few yards. Then a few more the next play. But it wasn't enough for the first down. Cyprus was on to us. They shut down the ends and we had to punt. It didn't seem right. We moved the ball so easily, then hit the wall. That's how it went until halftime. Neither team doing much until time was nearly out. On their last series of the half, Cyprus crossed the two wide receivers about midfield and their quarterback launched a desperation
pass to keep them in the game. Sparky cut in front of the receiver, jumped up, and got a hand on the ball to flutter the flight. But the receiver slowed and scooped the ball up before it hit the ground, and while our whole team watched in disbelief, he ran to the end zone. We were shell-shocked, and didn't try all that hard to prevent their extra point attempt. Their big fullback ran right up the middle while we stood around wondering how that kid made the catch.
Score at halftime: 7 each.
“Ulysses had a vision,” Coach said to us in the locker room. “A vision of a distant land, a land he believed was his.”
We all knew Ulysses from Coach's talks earlier in the year. We knew he had completed nearly impossible tasks.
“We have our own vision,” Coach continued. “This is our football game. This is our territory. We have laid claim to it, marked each end zone.”
Our faces lit up. He knew about our ritual. And he'd said “we.” Did that mean he too had marked the end zone? Could that have been him with the flashlight last night? As the mystery grew, so did our passion for victory.
“This is our football field,” he yelled. “Ours by every natural and god-given right!”
We went crazy, yelling and screaming.
“No one can take it away from us! No one!”
The roar was so loud it made our heads ring, ring with adrenaline.
“Now let's go get what belongs to us!”
We charged the field even crazier than we had the first half. Cyprus must've been wondering what it was that could get us so psyched up for a game. But we knew. It was three years of losing, it was feeling alone in your own school, your own family. It wasn't about winning. It was about never wanting to lose anything again. Cyprus had never felt that. They had never sat together as a team after losing so badly it made them wonder if they would ever play football again.
We kicked off the second half, and Cyprus lost more yards than they gained. They were bigger than we were. They were faster. But they could not move the ball. When the fullback broke one loose up the middle, little Sparky stood him up with a hit so hard it staggered him and he fell over on his side. Our defense exploded. Our smallest man, our free safety, had taken on their huge fullback and rocked him right down to his toenails. There wasn't anything Cyprus could do to get past our howling defense.
When our offense took the field, we moved forty yards in three plays. The sweep. The counter. The dive. Everything worked. Taco Bell had dried blood all over his face and no one would go near him. He
had to chase people down to block them. But the drive ended on the two yard line when we ran the sweep and I fumbled just before stepping into the end zone. I walked to the sideline without ever looking up. We had the win, we had the momentum. And I'd handed it to Cyprus without a fight, like handing over my wallet to a gang of thugs. I couldn't believe it, and I couldn't look at my father. All I could think of was him going back to the hospital with this vision of his son giving away the championship. His last football memory would be of his son fumbling on the two yard line.
The fumble gave Cyprus new life, it gave them all the energy we had. They moved the ball slowly upfield against our dejected defense. Time was running out. Cyprus had control of the game. A score seemed inevitable.
“Suck it up!” we yelled from the sideline. But it didn't do any good. Cyprus had a first down with four minutes left, and they were inside the twenty yard line. Their huge center was getting a good piece of Spray Can every play and they were gaining four yards a carry. That's when Spray Can called time-out. He huddled up the defense and drew a play in the grass. When they came back to the line, Sparky was playing noseguard. Smallest guy on the team, and Spray Can sticks him at noseguard! Before Coach could do anything about it, Cyprus was
over the ball. We heard the cadence. We watched the center lift and hike the ball. Then, with incredible speed, Sparky shot between the center's legs and got ahold of the quarterback's ankles before he could hand the ball off.
The sideline went crazy. For the first time in the drive, Cyprus lost yards. They lined up again. Sparky took on the center again. This time when the center hiked the ball, he flattened out and lay on Sparky. Not a bad idea, except that Spray Can crashed the line right behind Sparky, and with the center lying down, it was an easy hurdle for Spray Can. He jumped the two like he was striding over a hay bale, then ran down the halfback, who was headed for the corner on a sweep. The sideline erupted again. Now it was third down and twenty yards to go for a first down. The defense had backed them up ten yards in two plays. We were all screaming, but above it all we could hear Ray cheering for his son.
“Yeah!” he'd yell. “That's it, yeah!”
It was the most any of us had ever heard him say.
When Cyprus lined up again, we all knew what the play was. Pass. Sparky had moved back to safety, and our linebackers covered the flats. The quarterback set up, but no one was open and he threw the ball out of bounds. On fourth down they tried the screen pass, but the halfback gained only
four yards against a pumped-up defense that read the play perfectly. Spray Can's smarts had saved the game, and with just under a minute left, Bam led us out onto the field.
We ran a counter first, then a sweep, figuring they were expecting a pass. That put us at about midfield with a first down. We had time for maybe two more plays. Trouble was, Heat was breathin' hard. He had taken a shot in the ribs and was having a hard time catching his breath.
I looked over at my father. He still hadn't moved much, only adjusted his arms a little.
“Run it to the inside!” I heard Darrel yelling.
Bam called sweep left. I got only about four yards before the linebacker drilled me and knocked the ball loose. I just couldn't hang on to the ball with my club hand, and I watched it bounce slowly away from me while nearly every Cyprus player on the field went after it. The ball bounced out of bounds. The gods were with us. We had one play left. One play to go home champions.
“Run the post,” I said to Bam when we were in the huddle. “I can catch to the inside.”
Bam called time-out. Coach came out and looked at his two backs. Then he sent for the fastest guys on the team.
“They know it's going to be a pass,” he said. “We might as well throw our fastest guys at them.”
Then he drew deep pass patterns in the grass, criss-crossing the middle and all ending up in the end zone.
“Look for Flame,” he said as he walked off the field.
Bam looked at me, then at Flame.
“Get open,” he said to Flame. “Everybody else run like you're about to get six.”
I lined up wide, just outside the end. I looked at the linebacker as if I was coming his way. The safety picked up on it and cheated in. When the ball was snapped, the safety dropped back and so did the linebackers. Only four defensive men rushed. Bam had plenty of time to throw the ball, but everyone was covered. Everyone but me. I guess the D-backs figured that after two fumbles and a dropped pass, we'd never throw up a forty-yard pass to a receiver with a club hand. They were wrong. As I bent my route to the inside, I saw that I was open. I saw Bam look left, then right, trying to find a receiver. Then he caught sight of me—all alone, headed for the end zone. I was his only hope. He launched a spiral nearly into the clouds. It was high, and far. I knew by the arc that he'd given it everything he had, closed his eyes and just heaved it. I ran under the ball, watching it turn. I crossed the goal line and reached up with one hand. This time there was no club hand in the way, there was no linebacker to knock it loose, not even a resting clarinet player to
trip me up. I caught the ball the way I would have in my front yard, easily, with one hand pulling it in like I was pulling a pear off a tree. For a moment I was crossing my own driveway, gliding across the same grass I mowed every Saturday afternoon, catching passes my father tossed after work. I curled my arm around the ball, drew it into my chest like the head of a friend or a little brother. It was as if it belonged there, like I could've closed my eyes and called to it and it would be there, nested in my arms. Then I heard my father calling to me from the driveway.
“Nice catch!”
And suddenly he was there, we were there, at the championship game, in the end zone together, listening to the roar of the crowd, the thunder of my teammates behind me. In a moment I would be smothered by them.
I flipped the ball to my father. It floated slowly through the air, and with every spin I could see my father as a young man running downfield, waiting for the pass to drop out of the sky, running in his own days of glory. I could see his eyes watching the ball, his hands reaching, reaching out to me as I learned to walk, wrapping around my own hands while I grew. I could see him go off in the morning to a job he hated, wanting to be home, throwing a football with his son. And I realized that I wasn't angry anymore, that we all have our day, that some
are shorter than others, that there are moments we remember forever: the way a football feels in your hands, the way a certain girl holds a bottle cap or leaves your cheek warm with a kiss, the way a friend sprays out the words “Sthee you around,” the way your father waits for you by the window, waits to see you one more time before he's gone, leaving you nothing but his heartbeat in your own chest pounding out the uncertainty of the future and the memories of the past.
The ball dropped into my father's hands and he cradled it like a baby. Was it me? Was he remembering too? I didn't know how much longer he would live then, and suddenly it didn't matter. I had his heart. And I would listen to it for the rest of my life.
WE ARE THE CHAMPIONS
W
hen we got to the lunchroom on Monday, the band had lined up all around the room and was playing the school song. It was as if they knew what was about to happen. The music was as bad as it ever was, but we were enjoying it. It was ours, and we were proud of it, even if we couldn't recognize enough of the notes to sing along. That's when Ed Stebbings and his gang walked into the room. They made it clear why they were there, as if we didn't know already. They showed up at school that day with only one thing on their minds: destroy any celebration we had planned.
“You're still a bunch of losers,” Ed shouted at me.
The whole room went silent. I admit, I was a little nervous. I wasn't afraid of Ed; I guess I just wasn't sure what I would do. I knew it was
coming, I had known all season that Fat Ed with the rancid breath would one day force a showdown with me. It was the sort of showdown you see in bad Westerns. We stood there, face-to-face, staring at each other with steely eyes. Ed even had his arms bent a little, like he was about to draw. There must've been a hundred kids standing there waiting. Ed had said his piece, and now it was up to me to respond. For that split second I thought about the season we had had. I think I finally realized what we had accomplished. For a moment, a very brief moment, I loved the world. I wanted to stick out my hand and say to Ed, “Let's put everything aside, huh, pal? Why don't we all just be friends.” Then I saw myself shake his hand and everybody cheer while we all celebrated. I kinda wish that's how it happened. But Ed wouldn't have it that way. He slapped the milk out of my hand and growled at me.
I stood my ground.
“You're the loser, Ed,” I said to him.
There was a short pause, like everyone was taking one last breath before the world ended; then the lunchroom exploded into the biggest food riot the universe has ever known. The band came to their senses quickly and started playing to cover up the noise of the confrontation. Some of them even locked the doors, except for the door that
went outside. Fats was standing there with his tuba, and he pushed the door open to let Heat's dogs in. The dogs charged into the crowd like wild boars and people started going down with the wind knocked out of 'em. The crotch attack was deadly. Somehow the dogs knew who the enemy was. When one would go down, we'd charge with lunch trays and smother the victim with creamed corn and sticky pudding. Spray Can was always first on the scene with a tray full of pig food. He'd launch it sidearm and strafe the downed man with slop. He'd celebrate briefly, then scream, “Reload! Reload!”
It was like Custer's Last Stand; Stebbings in the middle and a clan of crazed warriors closing in on him, redeeming their tribe for all the injustice he had rained on them over the years. Before long, teachers were pounding on the doors, trying to get in. But the band played on, and the janitor stood in the corner, not making a move to try and stop the whole thing. Taco Bell was shouting “Charge!” and the whole place soon looked like the inside of a disposal. There was food everywhere. One of the worst hit was Fats. I guess his tuba was the easiest target, and in a matter of minutes it was full of Jell-O lumps and chicken wings. Stebbings and his boys lost ground quickly. They tried to make a break for one of the doors, but Taco Bell read their play perfectly
and pounded the first two escapees to the ground with a textbook block. They were soon smothered in slop, and Taco Bell was soon smothered by Katie.
You kind of expect a first kiss to be under romantic conditions. But there was Taco Bell, covered in creamed corn and Jell-O, and Katie kissing him all over the face like he was a war hero. When she let him up for air, he screamed and celebrated like he'd just won the doughnut lottery.
I got to admire ol' Stebbings. He put up a good fight. Soon as he was knocked down, he was up quick and running hard toward another exit. He put his head down and charged the line of band members like a pulling guard. But Spray Can stepped in front of the band and hit the red-haired bully with a perfect tackle, knocking him over the top of a table and right onto his back. It would've been good for Ed if we had stopped there. But we didn't. Ed Stebbings, that legendary, red-haired bully with the dog breath, had thrown his weight around one too many times. Before he could get to his feet, the mob had picked him up and was rushing him toward the worst possible punishment any of us could think of, that sickening pile of stink, that vomit bucket, that barrel of barf … the wet-garbage can! He slid in easily, like a ball through a hoop, headfirst, all the way up to his ankles. The mob cheered like they
had just saved the village from a werewolf; then they picked up the garbage can, Ed and all, and tossed the whole thing outside. Ed spilled out and just sat there, horrified and covered with wet stinky garbage.
That's when the principal wrenched the door open, his keys still jangling from the lock. The crowd turned to silence as quickly as it had erupted into chaos.
“What in the world is going on here?” the principal shouted. Then he turned to us, and struggling to get control of his temper, he asked: “What are you trying to prove?”
No one said a word. We all had answers of our own. And they would stay that way—our own. No one could take them away. We held our heads up proudly. It was the last time we stood as a team, but we would never forget how far we had gotten together, how much we depended on each other that year. We learned that nobody could do it alone, you had to have a team; and that no matter how tough it got, you could do anything so long as you stuck together.
The principal waited for us to say something. It was perfectly silent except for the sound of a dog peeing on the side of a pop machine. It was our sound, the sound of another territory being marked, another victory. The lunchroom was ours! We would never be losers again. We had
conquered the unconquerable, we had won at unbeatable odds. It was a miracle. It was the year the football gods parted the universe to give us a glimpse of the heavens. It was the autumn of 1972.

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