He flexes his hand a little, looking down with regret and a sort of bitter good humor. “Getting old, and the rheumatism is starting to kick up a little, especially in my right hand. I'll wear the glove for the rest of the season. Started it last year, but it screws with my grip a little, so I only do it starting in September. Main reason I'm retiring, actually. Heart's still willing, the body isn't quite able any longer.”
“Hmm . . . looks like both of the Fighters' QBs are running a bit gimpy then. Guess I'll just have to tough it out.”
“Do your best,” Vince reassures me. “I'm sure it'll be fine.”
The game starts, and we go on defense first. With a week of rest, the defense is prepped and ready, and I'm happy when they hold the Montreal offense to just a single first down before they punt.
Our first play is a play action pass, and I fake a hand-off to Bobby who releases on a Pound route, running through the line like he's still got the ball. If he's still standing, he'll run to my backside flat, but I'm looking for Paul and Robbie. Robbie's got a window, and I let my pass go. My finger flares, but I grit my teeth through the pain.
Unfortunately, gritting my teeth doesn't help my pass fly any better, and while Robbie hauls it in for eight yards, the pass flutters just enough that he's not able to get any extra yardage. Shit.
It's the pattern for the rest of the first half. Most of my throws, while close enough that the guys are catching them, are just a little off. They're jumping up for balls that float, overextending or holding up, breaking stride enough that they're getting hit as soon as they catch the ball. We score a touchdown and a field goal, but that's it.
Meanwhile, after a promising start, the defense is getting hammered again. They give up two touchdowns and barely prevent a third when time expires on the first half and we go into the locker room down fourteen to ten.
Sitting on my stool, I flex my hand, looking at my knuckle which is starting to swell. I may need to check off and do some running the second half, there's no way I can throw another twenty-five passes in the second half.
“How're you doing, Tyler?” Coach asks, squatting down in front of me. “Your throws have been off all week.”
“We can use some more runs this half,” I admit. “I think I banged my hand.”
Coach nods. “Right. During the second quarter with that sack, right?”
Yeah . . . during the sack. I don't say anything, and Coach lets me get away with it. “Well, we'll see. Tyler . . . don't let what the GM said Monday get to you. He's more of a PR man than anything else. You don't need to sweat it.”
“I'm not. Honest, Coach. I'm busting my ass out there, just my grip isn't quite right.”
“You want the docs to take a look at it? Vince can start the second half.”
I shake my head, there's no way a starting QB gives up his slot unless he's about ready to die. Some people consider us the prissy princes of football, but the fact is, you try sitting calmly in a pocket while a bunch of defensive linemen are coming for your ass, and then letting a pass go a half second before one of those giants tries to rip your spine out the hard way. “No. I'll tough it out.”
Coach leaves, and I focus for the rest of halftime, making sure that when we get the ball, that I'm ready. We're only four points down, we can make that up with one good drive.
The offense gets a lucky break on the kickoff, as Bobby is able to take the ball all the way to the fifty, only getting pushed out on a last ditch diving shove from the kicker. Going out to the huddle, I put the pain aside and look around at the guys. “Okay, Bobby got us started, let's punch it quick, push these guy's shit in quickly.”
I take the snap from Dave and roll out to my right, looking for space. I'm not throwing this, even if it is a pass play, and when some daylight shows, I tuck and run like hell. The linemen are easy, and with a juke I get past the linebackers, leaving me in the secondary with DeAndre and Paul as lead blockers. They've seen that I'm running and they're doing their best to screen for me and I turn it on for the sidelines, hoping to run the seam.
I lower my shoulder and meet the guy coming at me, shoulder to shoulder and helmet to helmet, each of us about the same size, although I'm a bit taller. Still, I've got momentum on my side, and as we go tumbling, I fall into the end zone. Touchdown.
The first thing I see when I hit the sidelines is April in her seat on the fifty, clapping and jumping up and down in her green. Coach is next, clapping me on the shoulder. “When you said you wanted to run more, I didn't think you meant yourself,” he says with a laugh.
I shake my head, laughing. “I just saw daylight, and ran for it.”
The second half turns into a scoring fest, with the Montreal offense striking back quickly. We trade touchdowns, and going into the fourth quarter we're right back where we started the half, down by four.