War and Watermelon

I look pretty good in the game jersey. I’m all suited up by four forty-five for the seven o’clock game. Tony finally comes by, and we walk down to the field. His lip doesn’t look any worse than mine did last week.

“Me, too,” he says. “But I can’t wait to make that first hit. Just nail somebody on the opening kickoff, you know? Knock all the nerves right out of my system.”

But we win the coin toss and decide to receive the ball, so we won’t be kicking off after all. We stand on the sidelines and watch.

East Rutherford is apparently better than they were a year ago. The game is scoreless at halftime. We spent the first half standing off to the side, yelling but not really feeling like part of the team.

Tony grabs my sleeve as we walk out of the locker room for the second half. “Nice and clean,” he says.

East Rutherford has a fast running back who almost broke a couple in the second quarter. Number 33. He’s back deep for the kick, so we’re wary.

Mitchell’s kick is high and relatively short, and it drifts toward my side of the field. One of the midfield players circles back and catches it, and he immediately swings toward the opposite sideline. I do my box-in around the thirty; otherwise the whole play would be past me. Everybody else from our team is heading toward the return man.

The guy cuts sharply up the middle of the field as he draws even with me, but I’m ten yards from him. The field is wide open.

I pivot and start angling toward him at full speed. There’s no way I’ll catch him without help, but I can see Mitchell heading toward him from the opposite side. So the guy gives a head fake and hesitates just slightly, veering into my path. I lunge and wrap both arms around his churning legs, and Mitchell hits him high.

I saved a touchdown, but they’re at our forty-two. I get to my knees and hop up. My teammates are clapping as I run off the field. Magrini punches my arm.

Coach Epstein smacks me lightly on the shoulder pad and says, “Nice job!”

My heart is beating ferociously, and my breathing is short and hard. That’s excitement, not fatigue. I stand closer to the coaches now, a foot back from the sideline.

Unfortunately, all I did was postpone the touchdown, because they drive down the field with a solid running game. Number 33 takes it the last seven yards to the end zone.

But they get greedy. They try the same play to the other side for the conversion, and Magrini reads it well. He drops the guy for a loss, so the score stays 6–0.

“Get it right back!” Coach Epstein says. He grabs Ferrante’s arm and whispers intensely to him while East Rutherford kicks off.

I take a deep breath and let it out, then glance at the scoreboard. Plenty of time. We’re not even midway through the third quarter.

But the clock moves quickly. We keep the ball on the ground, getting four first downs but nothing substantial.

The crowd’s been quiet. Even the cheerleaders have been standing and watching.

Finally we’ve got a fourth-and-four at the East Rutherford twenty-one. Way too far for a field goal attempt. Ferrante hands off to Esposito, who’s hit in the backfield but manages to roll off, breaking toward the sideline. A linebacker hits him hard. Esposito twists and reaches for the first down. The officials call for a measurement.

Esposito comes up holding his leg, limping around. The officials stretch out the chains, and I can see that we’re about three inches short. The crowd groans.

Coach grabs Colaneri and sends him in at cornerback for Esposito, who hobbles off the field.

“Kenny, you ready to go?” Coach calls to Esposito, who’s been sitting on the bench.

“Yes.” He stands and puts on his helmet and runs onto the field. You can tell that he’s wincing, but he barrels through the line four times in a row, moving us past midfield.

The next time Esposito goes down, he stays down. The ref calls time-out and our coaches walk onto the field. Coach Powell pulls Kenny up a minute later and helps him off the field.

I guess we’ve softened up the East Rutherford line, because Colaneri picks up where Esposito left off, gaining four or five yards a carry and eating up the clock.

Ferrante drops back with the ball. He’s thrown only one pass all game, so East Rutherford has its defenders packed in. Lorenzo is wide open, and he catches the pass and runs untouched into the end zone.

We erupt. The cheerleaders start that “Rah rah Eddie Lorenzo” thing. Then they do one for Ferrante. After that they have to do one for Mitchell, too, because he just kicked the extra point to put us in the lead.

We huddle up. “Don’t get fooled again!” Mitchell yells. “This is the game.”

The kick goes to number 33 again. He runs straight, then starts to drift to my side. I get hit hard as I begin to box, but I roll off the block and keep my feet, stumbling backward. I dig in and find my balance just as 33 moves into my area. Two other guys hit him and stop his progress. I dive into the pile to make sure.

The whistle blows as I stand up, and I see a yellow flag flying through the air.

The referee points at me, then signals to the bench. “Unnecessary roughness, number 27, blue. Fifteen yards.”

Coach Epstein has his arms folded as I jog to the sideline, and he’s shaking his head. “Winslow weighs fifty pounds,” he mutters. “Unnecessary roughness?”

I’m fuming. I stand with my back to the crowd, helmet on. That could cost us the game.

“Except the team,” I say. “I knew he was down. I just couldn’t stop myself.”

But 33 dashes toward the sideline on a pitchout and races right past us. Colaneri knocks him out of bounds near the thirty.

They split two ends out to the right, and the quarterback drops back. We’ve got good coverage, so he throws a short one over the middle. It’s complete, but the play eats up a lot of time.

A long pass falls incomplete. Fourth-and-two at the twenty-three. Thirty-four seconds left.

“No way. They didn’t even kick the extra point. They have to go for it.”

Magrini and Lorenzo chase the quarterback around the backfield. He keeps scrambling, but nobody’s open. Magrini sacks him and the ball comes loose. Lorenzo falls on it. That’s the game.

We shake hands at midfield, then run all the way to the locker room, shouting and jumping.

Coach tells us we played great. That we’ll keep playing conservatively and won’t run anybody off the field. That a win is a win.

“Don’t be so rough on those poor guys,” he says, laughing. “You don’t want to break anybody in half out there. . . . Seriously, good effort. Everybody played hard. Let’s keep at it. And don’t be shy about hitting people. Penalties are part of the game.”

And I was part of the game, too. Two plays, but they both were meaningful.

SUNDAY, AUGUST 31

Before the Kickoff

By Brody Winslow

At game time you feel like puking
Or diarrhea in your pants
Because everybody’s watching
And you might just blow your chance
And be embarrassed by your screwup
And the bonehead play you made
It’s a lot like thinking forward
To the start of seventh grade