Nico is standing a few steps behind my father, his helmet on, but tipped so his face is exposed. He’s chewing on his mouthpiece nervously, his hands gripping at the pads by his neck while he sways with the countdown of the clock. On the far end of the field, near Travis, my brother is doing the same, his weight held by two crutches. They’re both almost in sync, the way they look to the clock, then to the field, over and over again as if they’re hoping to somehow speed it up.
I’m watching them when it happens, I don’t have to look at the field to know that St. Margaret’s completed a pass. Their faces both look pained, and the roar from the other side of the field grows until it absolutely swallows us whole—our fans falling silent.
“Block it, block it!”
The guys all shuffle down the field as St. Margaret’s sets up to kick the extra point. Arms waving as those not on the field leap—including Nico—as if somehow they can jump and make a difference from here.
They don’t. The ball sails through the uprights, and this game shifts into that precarious place with a minute and fifteen seconds on the clock. We can either win—or we lose or tie; despite those options, there’s really only one that anyone cares about at Cornwall. We win. Ties are losses. And no matter how great Nico was tonight, it won’t matter if that scoreboard doesn’t fall in our favor.
He’ll lose the starting position.
My father will lose control.
And we’ll all slip deeper into the cesspool of whispers and snide remarks when we run into families from the school off campus.
My father is holding Nico’s face close to his, his hands gripping both sides of his quarterback’s helmet, his jaw hard, veins exposed, his face red as he yells over the cacophony of screams, drums, and whistles from the refs who want to finish this game, and finish it now.
I can’t hear him, and I wish I could because not once did I ever see him talk to my brother this way. He isn’t mad. He’s passionate right now. He’s…begging. Willing Nico to go out there and give him one more miracle, on a night that he’s thrown for three hundred yards.
Nico jogs out to the guys waiting in the huddle, and the cheering around me grows even louder. My brother looks on, standing alone, at least a dozen feet away from the rest of the team. My heart breaks for him because he’s helpless. All he can do is watch. All any of us can do is watch.
Nico’s hands gesture, moving to both ends of the field, up the middle, then coming to the center of the huddle in fists. He looks each of his teammates in the eyes, then, hands in the center, they all chant “break.” The Tradition all filter to their positions, Sasha and Travis both lining up on the far right side of the field. They are the speed, and if we have any shot at all, Nico is going to need to hit one of them.
Nico begins to shout, raising his knee once on the count. He repeats everything again, his eyes on his opponents, assessing them and every tiny move they make. He moves in closer to Colton, his hands ready, then shouts something different, his line shifting maybe a second before the ball is snapped, never once offsides, but on the edge enough to force St. Margaret’s to scramble to play catch-up. The move buys Nico a precious extra second, his feet falling into step, his legs carrying the defense to the opposite end while Travis and Sasha divide and sprint forty yards out.
The clock is at fifty-six seconds; Nico stops hard, changing direction and shirking two defenders, one gripping his pads and nearly pulling him off balance. His feet recover quickly, and his speed only grows with the close call. He works his way back to the center, the ball clutched in both hands as he pumps once…twice…getting his timing just right, waiting just long enough until he lets it go right before a defender’s hands find the center of his chest, shoving him to the ground so hard he bounces and skids. Nico pushes his tackler off him so he can get to his knees to watch as his best friend runs as fast as he can, his right hand out as the ball begins its decent. My head works to calculate the angle, and it seems so impossible.
Tradition players crowd down the field, running in step with him, bodies low and crouched with hope until they explode in leaps, arms pumping as they all chant “Go! Go! Go!”
I can’t see Sasha through the bodies, but I do see Nico. He’s on his feet in a blink, his arms over his head as he rushes toward the rest of his team, the crowd behind me the loudest they’ve been tonight. I know he pulled it off. I don’t need to see the scoreboard. I only need to see the sheer elation exuded in every step Nico takes until his chest collides with his best friend’s, the ball that a breath ago passed into the end zone still clutched in Sasha’s hand. Sasha lifts Nico, who hugs his friend’s helmeted head, his palm patting it in pride. This is what makes football great. The moments when impossible happens; the boys who make impossible happen.
My eyes scan the field while our team kicks an extra point, and as I trail down the sidelines to where my brother stands, I see a different emotion. His hand runs over his face, and his jaw hangs open. Travis runs up, raising a hand that Noah takes, clutching it as they come together to bump chests. My brother smiles when Travis celebrates, but he doesn’t give him everything. He holds something back.