That much is true. Everyone on the field is slow today. Ace seems to throw everything a yard too short. Campbell isn’t playing. I don’t know if he’s injured, but he’s standing on the sidelines, dressed in a suit and tie.
Our corners get wasted in the backfield. Matty, Hammer, me, and the rest of the D-line move like our cleats stick to the turf.
At halftime, we have managed to move the ball a total of thirty yards on offense, and above our heads on the giant scoreboard hangs a big fat zero. The home crowd jeers us as we run down the tunnel.
Coach tears us a new asshole in the locker room, telling us we’re playing like quitters. We get time to piss and hydrate before we’re given the heads up that we need to be on the field. I straighten my pads and head for the door when Coach grabs me.
“You’re playing like this is some unranked, non-scholarship team we’ve put on our schedule to pad the wins instead of the fucking Big Ten champions,” Coach hisses. “This is the real deal, Masters. You want to win the championship?”
“Yes, sir.” I ignore the fact that my fingers are numb from the cold and pain, and that there’s a throbbing in my ankle that developed sometime in the middle of the second quarter after I tried to sidearm the right side offensive lineman.
“That doesn’t sound real convincing to me. If you’re thinking about Sunday, stop. If you’re thinking about the title, stop. The only thing that should be in your head is eating those Badgers for lunch.” Coach’s voice raises at the end.
When the guys in front of me pause, the D-line coach yells: “What the fuck are you ladies gawking at? Get your asses onto the field.”
“Yes, sir. I want to win.”
Coach swings me around. He’s five inches shorter and probably a hundred pounds less, but I let him toss me around like a fish on a sailing boat.
“This might be the closest thing you have to being God, Masters. Ninety-five percent of the pro players don’t get a whiff of a championship. They chase it all their lives. You have it in your fucking hand. What will you do? Will you piss it away? Or will you grab that opportunity by the fucking balls and claim it as yours? If you want it, nothing stands in your way. Nothing.” He slaps his clipboard against his thigh and stalks out.
“Come on, Masters. The team relies on you,” the D-coach chides.
The image of Ellie rises to my mind.
If you want it…nothing stands in your way.
“Yes, sir.” I pull down my helmet.
It’s not Ellie that cost me this game. It’s me. My inability to see the damn forest for the trees.
“Next possession is ours.” I stand and walk down the line of seated defensive ends and linebackers. “No more first downs. Hammer, you stuff that motherfucker at the line. He’s creeping to the left every time they run. Jesse, go inside. Forty-five is way weaker on the left. He’ll try to hold you every time.” Down I go, talking to each one until the whistle blows and it’s time for the defense to take the field.
For three downs, we stuff their offense and the defense leaves the field excited. We don’t even mind when we have to strap on our helmets three minutes later because Ace and company can’t get a first down. We slap each other’s shoulder pads and helmets, go out there, and drive the opponents deep into their own territory.
This time, with better field position, Ace and Ahmed, our running back, hook up for a short pass play which Ahmed turns into a sweet run down to the twenty. We settle for a field goal, but it’s a score. We don’t have the donut hanging over our heads.
We score again and close the gap. At ten to fourteen, we’re down by one score. In a miraculous turn of events, with only a minute left, I knock the ball out of the quarterback’s hands in the end zone, and when the running back recovers it, Jesse is on him.
Safety! Twelve to fourteen!
We’re still in this goddamn game. We run around, bumping each other’s chests, slapping asses, and knocking our helmets together like it’s the motherfucking Super Bowl.
I run down the sidelines, yelling encouragement in everyone’s ear. Heads are up and eyes are hungry but the clock is against us.
In the end, we run out of time. We started our comeback too late, and when the clock flips to all zeros, we are short by a field goal.
We’ve lost.
32
Ellie
Post Game: Warriors 7-1
“Oh no. Oh no.” I press my palms to my face. I stare at the television as if I can will more time on the clock. The game can’t be over. It can’t. There has to be a few more seconds left.