Rookie Mistake (Offensive Line #1)
Tracey Ward
January 8th
College Football National Championship Miami, Florida
“You’re runnin’ outta time!”
88, 42, 25, 13, 57, 21
“Come out of the pocket, you *!”
Waters, Berdette, Cummings, Defoe, Fredericks, Folk.
“You sweatin’ yet, Domata?!”
I’m not. There are eleven reasons in red that I should be, over a thousand pounds of angry Alabama defense shouting at me over the line of scrimmage, but I’m not sweating. I’m not scared, and I have only six reasons why I shouldn’t be.
88, 42, 25, 13, 57, 21
Waters, Berdette, Cummings, Defoe, Fredericks, Folk.
This is my offensive line. This is my family. My first, last, and only line of defense.
It’s all I need.
‘Bama hasn’t been able to touch me all night. Not one single sack. It’s pissing them off. I can see it in their eyes burning like fire; like the torches of an enemy camp. They want to burn me to the ground. They want to shut me down, but they should have done it sooner because now they’re out of time. This next play is the last play. The last play of the game, the last play of the season. The last play of my college career.
Alabama 28 - UCLA 24.
4th and Goal.
Thirteen seconds on the clock.
This is when quarterbacks crumble. Interceptions happen in crunch time. Nightmares are born in the Red Zone. In ’09 Bates threw high, bouncing it off the goal post; cost Texas the BCS title. In ’97 Griffith passed right into the hands of a cornerback; Stanford lost the Rose Bowl on the resulting 92 yard touchdown. Hassleback in ’94. Gensing in ’03. Yates last year at the Fiesta Bowl.
Choke. Choke. Choke.
The magnitude of the moment is too much for so many.
But not for me.
I crouch down, opening my hands to take the pass from Cummings the same way I’ve done a million times over the last four years, because this play is no different than any other. I’ll run it the same way I always have. Calm. Cool. Precise.
I take a deep breath. I call for the snap.
My heart is a metronome.
Tick…The ball is in my hands…Tick…The line of scrimmage is a war zone…Tick…My receivers are on the move…Tick…Capshaw breaks loose…Tick…My pocket is gone…Tick…Capshaw is in the end zone.
I pull up, planting my feet. In my peripheral I see chaos closing in. Red rushing at me. I feel them crowding me, but I take my time. I milk every second to make sure I’m right, and when I rear back to launch the ball down the field only inches ahead of Capshaw, I know it’s good. I can feel it in the release; it’s a perfect spiral.
It’s a touchdown.
I feel it as sure as the air in my lungs.
As sure as the lineman crashing into my right side.
As sure as the bones breaking in my hand.
January 9th
The Ashford Agency
Los Angeles, CA
I perch on the arm of the white couch in Brad’s office. He’s miles away with a call on the other side of the country, on the other side of the room, the other side of the shining sea of black floor between us. The monochromatic surfaces of his office are dappled in watercolor pinks and grays from the coming dawn pouring in through the windows, and still it looks cold somehow. It must be the hour. It’s ungodly early. We’ve barely slept, but no one does this time of year. No one in the business, anyway.
Last night was the final game of college football, meaning today is the first day of work for sports agents like myself and Brad Ashford, King of Killer Agents in L.A.; also known on Christmas cards as my dad. He started the Ashford Agency where I’ve been a junior agent for the last two years, but this is my year. This is the year I’ll land the client that will get me on the books. Get me out of Brad’s shadow.
This is the year all of my hard work finally pays off.
Brad hangs up the phone. Without missing a beat, he commands, “Talk to me about the hit on Domata. Do we have an update on his hand?”
“It was bad,” I confirm, the info locked and loaded. “A late hit by Alabama’s biggest defensive tackle. He pulverized Domata. Almost knocked him unconscious. It’s not fractured, he doesn’t need surgery, but he’ll be in a splint for at least a month. Maybe longer.”
Brad sits back slowly in his large leather chair. He laces his fingers together over his chest in that way he does when he’s thinking. When he’s plotting.
“Damn shame,” he mutters to himself.
“He’ll heal,” I remind him defensively.
“Not in time for the NFL Combine.”
“He can do practically all of the drills with a broken hand.”
“That doesn’t matter. Do you know what bothers me most?”
I have a hunch.
“He. Can’t. Pass.”
Yep, I think morosely. That’s it. And it bothers me too.
“No, but he’ll go anyway,” I promise.