“You should stay down, Marshall,” I tell the strong side linebacker. “It’ll save you some pain.”
In the fourth quarter, I feel like I haven’t played a down. I slap Hammer’s ass hard. “We making good television today, Hammer?”
He laughs like a hyena.
At the end of the game, after the press has left, I’m drenched in Gatorade and sweat, standing on top of the bench. The faces around me are wreathed with unadulterated joy.
It wasn't perfect, but it was enough. We'd beaten the number five ranked team in the country. That means we should take their place in the rankings tomorrow. One short of what we’d need to make the playoffs.
I stand for a moment and look into the stands shrouded in royal blue Warrior gear. Others do the same—seniors who won’t go to the next level. Guys who played for four years, but will move on to be businessmen, doctors, lawyers. No matter where they go in their lives, they’ll always be able to say that they played for one of the best college teams in the country. I have no doubt that if you asked every one of them if their broken fingers, black eyes, bruised bodies were worth it, they’d snap out a yes faster than you could blink.
Because there is nothing like this game. What had Ellie said? The temple built to the reverence of physical perfection? She’s right and she’s wrong. It’s a place that celebrates sacrifice as much as it celebrates winning.
Ellie’s sacrificed so much for the game. For her brother. For us. I wish she could be here. I tilt my head and pretend she’s sitting in the very top.
Best seats in the house.
“Miss you, baby,” I say into the cool afternoon air. I kiss my helmet and raise it up for her. And then turn to walk toward the tunnel.
A print journalist from the local paper catches me before I can make my way off the field. “There are rumors that you plan to declare. Is this your last home game?”
Behind the journalist stands the team PR lady. She glares at me as if she knows I’d rather run away than do this.
I muster up a smile and bend down to reach the microphone. “This is the last home game this year,” I answer carefully, not letting on that this is a bittersweet win. “Being a Warrior is a special opportunity and I’m grateful to be part of the team.”
“Do you deserve the playoffs despite the one loss earlier in the season?”
“Yes, we deserve the playoffs.” That’s reckless, shit talking, bulletin board type of language, that will probably get mangled into something like Knox Masters guarantees a win and be blasted all over social media. But I believe it 100%.
“Are you saying you’re better than the five other teams in front of you?”
“I’m saying we belong in the playoffs. That’s all.”
“There are rumors of locker room problems. Did that distract you?”
“Did it look like I was distracted today?” I look over her head at Coach, who gives me a nod that I can go. I trot out the lines that we players practice as a joke. “I’m glad I can be part of the Warriors and have the opportunity to play for a national title with the best guys in the world.”
I raise my helmet in the air and holler. The guys holler back, and soon it’s too loud for questions.
We run off the field, into the locker room where there’s more press, more boosters, family members. I hug everyone. Slap a dozen asses. Take a bath in even more Gatorade.
There’s no Ellie, but I call her. I pick up my phone and head straight for the showers.
“You played so great, babe!” she squeals. “I particularly liked the first quarter sack. You stood over the quarterback for a while. What did you say?”
I told him he should get used to the turf. “I complimented him on how pretty he looked lying down.”
She snorts. “Jesus. You’re asking for it.”
“I can’t wait to come home, wife.”
She giggles. “I can’t wait to celebrate.”
Well, hot damn.
I make her do all the work because my poor body feels sore even after the ice bath. Then we get up and watch the rest of the games. Jack, Riley, me, and Ellie sit in her living room, glued to the television.
We watch in growing elation as the number-two-ranked team in the country falls apart before our eyes. The quarterback loses a fumble on the twenty. On the ensuing punt, the tight end gets a personal foul and the opposing team starts on the forty five.
The twenty point underdogs march down the field, punch the ball in, and the score is fourteen-zero. The phone rings.
“You watching this?” Matty yells. I can hear cheers of jubilation in the background.
“It's the first quarter, bro.” I try to play the voice of reason. Jack and I exchange guardedly hopeful looks. Neither of us say anything out loud because we don’t want to jinx it.
The second quarter goes about as well for the favored team as the first quarter, and they go in losing twenty-one zero at the half. By the fourth quarter, the team tries to make a run, but it's too little, too late.