SATURDAY'S SEMIFINAL GAME was in the Tacoma Dome, an hour from Seattle. Kimi went with Marianne and Rachel, which was okay by me. I didn't mind having some time alone. Once I hit the freeway, I turned on the CD player and listened to the Beach Boys, loud. Those guys had it easy. Surfing and cruising and making out with girls—living back then must have been like not having a brain.
I pulled off the freeway into the parking lot, showed the usher my press pass, and found an end zone seat away from most of the Lincoln kids, but still close to the field.
Lincoln's semifinal opponent was Lakes High, a school near Tacoma. They looked great through warm-ups—big, strong, and fast. But then, there were only four teams left in the tournament. All of them were big, strong, and fast.
After watching the Lakes Lancers for ten minutes or so, I turned my eyes to Lincoln. As usual, the team was warming up in small groups spread out from the fifty to the end zone. It was like every other warm-up before every other game except for one thing—I couldn't find either McNulty or Angel.
My cell phone rang. Kimi. "Did you see Angel and Mr. McNulty?" she said.
"No. What happened?"
"They were arguing with each other. Really arguing. At one point, Angel got right up into McNulty's face."
"What were they saying?"
"McNulty's voice was low. But I heard Angel. He said that he didn't care if it was dangerous, that he wasn't running away again."
"Where are they now?"
"They're coming out of the tunnel. Angel's got his helmet on, so I guess he's playing." She paused. "Mitch, what's going on? Running away from what? And how could it be dangerous? Did we miss something?"
The public address announcer told everyone to rise for the national anthem. "I don't know, Kimi."
I closed my phone and stood. After the anthem, the captains strode to midfield for the coin toss. Angel was off by himself, but instead of having his head down, his eyes were scanning the stands.
Lincoln had the first possession and promptly moved the ball downfield. Around me Lincoln kids were cheering loudly, but I was only half there. I knew Horst was on target with his passes, and I knew Shawn Warner was running strong, too. I even took notes. But as play followed play, Kimi's question—Did we miss something?— kept gnawing at me.
My eyes went back to the field just in time to see one of our wide-outs drop a third-down pass inside the ten-yard line. Lincoln's fans groaned, but a minute later were cheering when Kenstowicz, steady with his kicking all year, split the uprights from twenty-eight yards away. Lincoln 3, Lakes 0. The drive had taken six minutes.
Lakes's receiver took the kickoff out to the thirty before he was tackled. The defense trotted onto the field. I sat up, and there he was, Angel Marichal, trailing the other guys, but on the field.
For the first time he was a starter, and for the first time he wasn't right. He kept sneaking peeks into the stands, scanning every section, just as he'd done when he'd stood along the sideline. Who was he looking for?
Lakes's star was Gene Wang, a running back with power but not much speed. He was a north-south runner—nothing fancy, just good old smash-mouth football—three yards and a cloud of dust. Lakes strung together first down after first down until they were inside the ten. Facing third and goal from the six, the quarterback handed off to Wang on a draw. Wang put his shoulder down and drove right into Angel, bulling through the tackle and into the end zone.
Lakes 7, Lincoln 3.
All year the center part of the field had been off-limits whenever Angel had been playing at middle linebacker. His focus had been 100 percent. But now his head was on a swivel, looking this way between every play. And so was mine. My eyes kept going around and around the stadium, trying to figure out what was going on.
Football is intense. If your mind isn't in the game, your body's going to take a beating. And that's what happened to Angel. Lakes took the attack right up the gut, knocking him back, pushing him around, and eating up the clock.
They did everything right except put up points. That was because of John Kenstowicz. Horst wasn't getting much going against the Lakes defense, but Kenstowicz was having the punting game of his life, booming one high spiral after another, and our special teams were special, pinning Lakes deep in their own territory after every one of Kenstowicz's punts.
Force a team without speed to go eighty or ninety yards, make them use a dozen plays, and chances are something will go wrong. On one drive the Lakes quarterback botched a handoff to Wang in the red zone. The ball rolled along the line of scrimmage until one of our linemen fell on it. On another, a Lakes receiver had a pass hit him in the chest and carom to a Lincoln cornerback for a drive-killing interception. Lakes totally dominated the game, but when the clock ran to 00:00 ending the second quarter, their lead was just 7–3.