THAT FRIDAY, Lincoln was playing the Bothell Cougars at Memorial Stadium, with the KingCo 4A title on the line. The winner would advance into the tournament; the loser was done for the year.
With everything in the balance, I was certain McNulty would finally start Angel—and I was wrong. On the opening series Darren Clarke was at middle linebacker, and Bothell went right at him. It was the Mater Dei game all over again. If Clarke played off the line of scrimmage expecting a pass, the Cougars sent their tailback right up the gut for five, six, seven yards. If Clarke crowded the line, the Bothell quarterback would hit the tight end or a slot receiver over the middle in the exact spot Clarke had vacated. They marched right down the field and scored. What sense did it make to cheat ... and lose? Why have Angel on your team if you're not going to play him?
Lincoln's offense, led by Horst's passing, pushed the ball back down the field. It looked like they'd score and tie up the game, but a fumble after a catch near the twenty killed the drive. As Bothell's offense came back out, I sat forward. Now! I thought to myself. McNulty has to put Angel in now!
But it was Clarke at middle linebacker, and the Cougars went right back to keying every play call on Clarke's position. Bothell scored a second touchdown on an eight-yard run right up the gut.
Lincoln had to put points on the board to stay in the game. On the second drive Horst remained on target, hitting his receivers in stride, gobbling up chunks of yardage with every play. But on first and goal, the team got hit with an offside penalty, and on the next snap, a holding call. After a couple of botched plays, McNulty sent John Kenstowicz out for the field goal try. Kenstowicz's kick barely crawled over the goal post. Bothell 14, Lincoln 3.
After the kickoff, the Cougars' offense sauntered onto the field—that's how cocky they were. Darren Clarke was in way over his head, but Angel sat alone at the end of the bench, helmet in hand. The third Bothell touchdown came on a feathery touch pass to the tight end.
Things looked terrible, and then they got worse. On the kickoff, Blake Stein had the ball stripped from him. It bounced around for what seemed like forever, but when the whistle blew, a Bothell guy was clutching it to his gut. Two passes and two runs later, the Cougars scored their fourth touchdown. When the first half ended, the score was Bothell 28, Lincoln 3.
As the teams trotted down the tunnel into the locker rooms, the Bothell fans roared their appreciation. And why not? They were two quarters from a trip to the state playoffs. On the Lincoln side, kids and parents sat in stunned silence. It was one thing to lose, but to be annihilated? The season that had begun with the amazing victory over Mater Dei was ending with a pitiful defeat at the hands of Bothell. It was over; everyone knew it.
Everyone except Horst Diamond. Lincoln had the first possession of the second half, and Horst came out red-hot. He'd been on target in the first half, but penalties and drops had killed every drive. Now passes that had slipped off fingertips were hauled in.
Bothell countered by blitzing, but Horst beat that strategy with his scrambling. Most quarterbacks slide to the ground when a safety or linebacker has them in his cross hairs, but Horst enjoyed lowering his shoulder and belting would-be tacklers. His take-no-prisoners attitude was contagious. With each first down, the offense gained confidence. Lincoln marched sixty-five yards in nine plays for a touchdown, scoring when Horst dived over the goal line on a quarterback sneak. Bothell 28, Lincoln 10.
I looked to the sideline. Coach McNulty was clapping his hands, exhorting the team to even greater effort. And then I saw him call Darren Clarke over. He said something, Clarke's shoulders slumped, and then Clarke took his helmet off and headed for the bench. As he was walking away McNulty looked down the sideline and pointed. Angel Marichal was up an instant later, pulling his helmet over his head, fastening his chin strap.
Angel's impact on the game was immediate. He lined up right behind the nose tackle, crowding the line of scrimmage. On running plays, he charged like a runaway truck, quickly coming up to smash Bothell's running backs into the turf. On passing plays, he was catlike, dropping into coverage and either breaking up passes or slamming receivers to the turf immediately after the catch.
The Cougars managed one first down on that possession before being forced to punt. They got the ball right back when Warner dropped what would have been a first down pass, forcing a Kenstowicz punt. But Angel rose to the challenge again, stuffing the tailback after a two-yard gain, knocking down a pass, and then sacking the quarterback on third and eight. As Horst headed onto the field to take over the offense, he high-fived Angel.
Because they led by eighteen, Bothell's coach figured Horst would be passing on every down trying to score quickly, so they dropped seven guys into coverage. McNulty saw it, and he switched to the running game. Shawn Warner carried the ball five straight times and reeled off at least five yards on every play, breaking the last for a twelve-yard run to Bothell's thirty. The success on the ground forced Bothell to pull the extra defensive backs. McNulty spotted the defensive change and called the perfect play. Horst faked a pitch to Warner, dropped back, and hit Lenny Westwood for a scoring strike.
Bothell 28, Lincoln 17.
That TD knocked the cockiness out of those Bothell guys. Time was on their side—the third quarter was nearly over—but they needed one more touchdown to seal the game, and they needed at least a couple of first downs to change the momentum.
But Angel devastated their line on both first and second down, stopping the tailback both times for no gain. That made it third and ten. The whole stadium was up—the Bothell fans begging for a first down, the Lincoln fans trying to spur the defense to one more great play.
Bothell huddled, then stepped to the line of scrimmage. Angel inched up, ready to blitz. Bothell's quarterback spotted him and changed the play. He took the snap and quickly fired to his tight end over the middle. It was the right call against a middle linebacker blitz—only Angel hadn't blitzed. After his initial step forward, he'd dropped back into coverage. His big hand reached out and tipped the pass. The ball fluttered, far short of the receiver, into the arms of our cornerback. He juggled it for an instant before securing the interception. Four Bothell guys gang-tackled him immediately, but Lincoln had the ball back, deep in the Cougars' territory.
The next drive was like watching a Swiss clock tick off the seconds. Warner sweep right: eight yards. Horst to Westwood on an in route: twelve yards. Warner over right tackle: six yards. Horst on a quarterback draw: seven yards for the touchdown.
Bothell 28, Lincoln 24.
Angel was playing out of his mind on defense; Horst was playing out of his mind on offense. Bothell had no answer for either of them.
And right then, when it seemed certain that Lincoln would pull off the stunning comeback, Bothell started moving the ball again. It made no sense. Angel was still Angel. He was still flying all over the field. So what had changed?
As I watched, I figured it out. Bothell would fake something to the middle, forcing Angel to hold his position for a count, and then they'd run the play away from him. Simple, but effective. Somebody besides Angel was going to have to make a play.
Bothell marched down the field, five yards on one play, six on the next, then another for eight. They were protecting the lead and they were running time off the clock. Six minutes left, then five, then four. Still the Cougars controlled the ball.
Bothell had worked the ball inside the twenty and was facing third and four when McNulty rolled the dice, sending both safeties on a do-or-die blitz. The Cougar quarterback saw them coming, stepped up, avoided the tackle, and slung a bullet to his wide-out, who was running a post pattern over the middle. The guy caught the ball, took two steps, and then was crushed by a savage hit. The ball bounced onto the turf, and a Lincoln player fell on it. The Bothell guy stayed down for a long time, but finally he was helped to his feet and managed to walk off the field on his own. As he did, fans all around the stadium stood and applauded. Then the ref blew his whistle and Lincoln's offense came on the field. Two minutes left. Score a touchdown and they were headed to the playoffs. Anything less and the season was over.
Right when he needed to be at his best, Horst threw his worst pass of the season. The pass hit the Bothell safety right on the numbers—absolutely a cinch interception. Maybe it was too easy; maybe that's why the guy dropped it, or maybe the guy was on defense because he had stone hands. When the ball hit the ground, the safety put his hands to the side of his helmet and dropped to his knees as the groans of the Cougar fans echoed through the stadium.
That was the one bit of luck Horst needed. His next pass was a bullet for a gain of seventeen. After that Horst found Westwood on an out pattern for another nine yards, pushing the ball past midfield. Horst then ran for twenty-two yards on a quarterback draw before he was dragged down. First down—but with only thirty-three seconds on the clock. The Bothell guys were doing everything they could to kill the clock. Would there be time?
The crowd was up as Horst brought the guys to the line. I thought he'd throw the ball to the sideline so the receiver could get out of bounds and stop the clock. Instead, he hit his tight end over the middle for eight yards. Bothell was in no hurry to unpile. Nineteen ... eighteen ... seventeen. Horst was jumping around, calling his last time-out, but the ref didn't blow his whistle until the game clock was down to fourteen.
During the time-out, McNulty pulled Horst over to the sideline. He gave him the play, then put his hands on Horst's shoulder pads, and looked him in the eye. I knew what he was saying, even though I was fifty yards away. The ball had to go into the end zone. Anything short and the game clock would tick off the final seconds before there'd be time to run another play.
The ref blew his whistle; Horst trotted back onto the field. The crowd was roaring—Bothell's fans screaming for a stop; Lincoln's begging for a touchdown.
The huddle broke, and now Horst was under center. The ball was snapped. Horst rolled right, toward the wide side of the field, holding the ball as if he might throw, but also as if he might at any second tuck it under his arm and run. The cornerback ran parallel with him, holding back, holding back. Pass or run? Pass or run? Which was it?
Horst seemed to tuck the ball and take off. The cornerback came up to make the tackle, and at that instant Horst stepped back and lobbed a pass over the cornerback's head to Lenny Westwood. Westwood caught it on the three-yard line, turned, and with two steps crossed the goal line. Lincoln 30, Bothell 28. It was the greatest comeback I'd ever seen.