6 / FRIDAY, SEPTEMBER 20—AWAY GAME VS. THE TIGERS

“Yo, Ernie!” Shane said, walking toward us in the hall after school. “You best pack a lunch tonight, bro. Don’t let me down.”

Our opponent the next night was the West High Tigers, a team known to be very physical—and dirty. They’d poke at your eyes, chop block, you name it. And they had a couple very big, very fast defensive ends, which meant Shane would be facing more pressure than he’d faced…maybe ever. It also meant Ernie would get a lot more snaps, because Coach Z wanted the tight end to help block on every down.

Instead of getting conservative, like most teams that played the Tigers, we planned an air raid: lots of passes. That put a lot of pressure on Ernie and the rest of the line to keep Shane upright.

Shane was as excited as I’d ever seen him. He rubbed his big hands together like a B-movie villain. “All of Ohio will be watching us after tonight, boys,” he said. “It’s gonna be a wake-up call.”

“Don’t worry about me,” Ernie said. “I’m up for this.”

Shane turned to me. “What up, Two? You ready to learn something?”

“Whatever, man,” I said.

“No, seriously. I’ll be putting on a clinic.”

“Yeah?” I said. “I think you’re putting on a clinic in how to, like, not have rules apply to you!”

“That’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever heard, Two.”

“Well, too bad.”

“‘Too bad?’ Are you serious right now? You sound like a preschooler.”

Which was true. I said stupid stuff sometimes when I got nervous or angry.

Shane shook his head. “Hey, maybe if you were more of a man, your dad wouldn’t have turned to an ‘alternative lifestyle.’ Maybe he wouldn’t have AIDS.”

“He has HIV,” I said. “Not AIDS.”

Shane just laughed. I wanted to punch him—knock the pride out of his voice. But I didn’t have the courage. I never got in fights, and I knew I’d get my butt kicked. As Shane walked away, fist-bumping other guys on the team, Ernie said, “Wow, what a creep.”

Then I had an idea.

“Ernie,” I said. “Want to do me a favor?”

Near the end of the first half of the Tigers game, Coach Z’s plan was working pretty well. Shane was already thirteen for sixteen, with two TD passes and a couple big scrambles. Ernie and the guys were doing a great job of keeping him clean, and Coach Z was calling screens, slants, outs—even a couple bombs. The Tigers D-line was getting frustrated—they weren’t used to being manhandled like that. You could hear them bicker with each other between plays.

We were in the Tigers’ house, and we were in their heads too. Everything was clicking for us.

With only a few ticks left on the clock before the half, Coach Z called for a draw. We had a good lead, and he was playing it safe with time running down. Plus, maybe we could spring Devon, the running back. The Tigers hadn’t seen much of him all game.

But Shane got greedy. He called an audible at the line, Orlando ran a post, and Shane launched it his way—into a swarm. A defensive end got a fingernail on Shane’s elbow as he threw, the ball came out a tiny bit wrong, and it got picked off. The safety ran it all the way back as time expired, and we went into the locker room up only seventeen–seven instead of seventeen–zero.

“What were you thinking, Hunter?” Coach said. “There were three DBs back there! You think you’re invincible? You don’t throw into triple coverage!”

“Sorry, Coach, I thought I had him. Orlando and me had something good going all night. I thought I had him.”

“Listen,” Coach said, “when we have four seconds before the half and a seventeen-point lead, you need to run the play I call. Got that?”

“Got it, Coach.”

Coach had good things to say to everyone else—especially Ernie.

“Erickson, your guy hasn’t even sniffed the backfield all night. I think he’s gonna have a seizure out there if you keep shutting him down like that. I’d like to see that, actually. Keep it up.”

Ernie nodded, and Coach continued.

“Gentlemen, listen. We’re up by ten. This is a Tigers team that thinks it has a shot at winning the division. They don’t understand that it’s our division. They’re over there feeling pretty good—after that pick-six, they’re in this thing. They’re gonna come out hungry. Let’s not let them get any momentum back, boys. Let’s go out there and show them whose division it is!”

The Tigers had possession at the start of the second half. They ran a long, methodical drive that took up half the quarter: a halfback run off-tackle for six yards. A weak-side sweep for eight. QB keeper for six. After they got the TD, it was a three-point game.

“Let’s get it back, boys!” Shane yelled after we took the kickoff out to the twenty-eight yard line.

Ernie gave me a slight nod as the offense took the field. Coach called a pitch to Devon that got us six yards, then a quick slant that got six more, and the Tiger defense got no pressure at all on Shane.

On first and ten, Coach called for a longer pass. Shane went into a seven-step drop and looked downfield—until one of the big Tigers defensive ends flattened him.

Shane hit the ground with a thud, somehow holding onto the ball. The crowd exploded in cheers. The defensive end got up, howling and pumping his fist. Shane stayed down. Ernie stood with his hands on his hips, looking at the ground.

While Coach ran out to check on Shane, I grabbed a ball and started warming up with Brian Norwood, a linebacker. The Tigers defense was all high fives and laughter.

After a few seconds, Shane got up and started walking. The crowd applauded politely—they were impressed he was still breathing after that hit. Coach called me over and told me the play. A simple handoff to Devon, off-tackle.

I huddled the guys together, told them the play, and lined up under center. It felt good. The West High crowd was on its feet. They smelled blood. So did the Tigers defense, snarling and drooling like animals.

I took the snap and handed the ball to Devon, who ran into a brick wall. After losing eight yards on the sack, we lost two more on the botched run. All of a sudden, we were third and twenty on our own eighteen. It felt like the Tigers had all the momentum.

Coach called timeout, and we came off the field. Shane was playing catch with Brian. He looked fine.

“Shane’s back in,” Coach said, patting me on the head. He started telling the guys what play they’d run: a screen to Ernie. “We’ll get a chunk of yards back and punt. The defense has to hold.”

I was barely listening, though. My night was done.

As the team ran back onto the field and lined up, the West High crowd turned up the volume. Shane screamed out the snap count over the noise. I could see the steam of his angry breath all the way from the sideline.

As Shane dropped back, Ernie held his block for a second and then released him. He stepped into the flat like he was supposed to, and it worked perfectly. He was wide open. But Shane didn’t throw it. Instead, he ran directly toward the defensive end who Ernie had released, the same dude who had pounded him two plays earlier. He dodged to his right and threw a stiff-arm at the guy that left him grasping at air.

Once Shane burst around the line, Ernie picked up a block on the cornerback, and he kept on going. A safety hit him square in the hips, but Shane shook it off and picked up another six yards before another safety knocked him out of bounds. It was a twenty-six-yard gain: first down.

Shane smiled at the Tigers sideline as he trotted back to the huddle.

The next play, Shane changed Coach’s call again and ran a QB draw right up the middle—into the teeth of the Tiger defense—and picked up nine yards. On second and one, Shane threw that post again, the one that got picked off at the end of the first half. Only this time, he dropped it into Orlando’s arms. Orlando held the football like a baby as he ran all the way into the end zone.

The crowd was stunned. The Tigers were stunned. Coach was stunned.

Shane pointed to the defensive end who’d hit him earlier—a hit that seemed like it had happened hours ago—and winked. It was like he was saying, Nothing you do can stop me.

Nothing.