ANGES BLEUS (2–1) V. DIABLES ROUGES (2–1)
MARCH 14
At halftime, the score was 24–14 for the Anges Bleus.
“The greatest game plan in the world don’t mean squat when you’re losing by ten,” Free said as we exited the locker rooms at the Beach.
He was only half right. We were still in the game, so our plan was on track. Only now I had to produce the two scores we were down by, and I was a little banged up.
I had played safety in the first half, the fifth back in our nickel scheme, and on one third-down play I took on their running back, “Choo-Choo,” who had a good thirty pounds on me, all muscle. I stopped him, but he about broke me in two. Now I could barely turn my head to the left.
The stands were more empty than not. It was a cold, wet day. The Anges Bleus kicked the ball off to open the third quarter. They’d learned their lesson in the first half and kicked it away from Free, high but not too deep. Sidi fielded the ball—and got hammered the instant he touched it. The scattered crowd went “Oomph!” as he got hit, then started to roar, cheering, even though it was our own guy getting clobbered. I could see the hoodie boys by the oak pumping their fists in the air.
“Allez, Sidi! Get up!” I heard over the crowd. “Show them you can take whatever they dish out!”
It was Aïda, in a red-and-white headscarf—the team colors—standing down the sideline a little ways. Sidi wobbled back to the bench.
“And that goes for you too, mec,” she growled at me as I passed, jogging out to our forming huddle. “Get it going!”
The Anges Bleus knew I was a little shaken up, so they came after me extra hard on each play. Still, I got us back in it on our first drive, hitting our tight end, a French kid named Jean-Marc, on two straight passes, then lofting a long one to Moose on a skinny post.
Anges Bleus 24–Diables Rouges 21.
Our defense forced them to punt on the next drive. Free brought it back to their forty, the punter pushing him out of bounds on our sidelines.
He flipped me the ball as he passed where I was standing. “Now go get ’em,” he told me.
And I did. We did.
The Anges Bleus kept putting eight men in the box, blitzing off the corner, trying to get to me. Our O-line did a great job, and I picked them apart. Five passes to Moose on five different routes: a hitch, a curl, a slant, a drag, a quick out. Mobylette ran it in from eight yards out.
Anges Bleus 24–Diables Rouges 28.
Their Canadian quarterback was on the bench, screaming at their offense to bury us. But we put eight men in the box too, with Free at middle linebacker so he could roam. He was too quick for their lineman to get to, and he took on Choo-Choo on every play. They tried a pass to change it up, and our defensive end, Chorizo (his real name was Felipe), came off the corner and stripped the Anges Bleus’ French QB, scooped up the ball and ran it in.
Anges Bleus 24–Diables Rouges 35.
It went on like that, Free and the D blowing up their offense, me picking apart their defense. Sidi was a little off after getting tagged on the opening kick; I kept throwing at him, and he dropped every ball. But Moose and Mobylette, everyone else, had a field day. Flag routes, stops-and-goes, even a flea flicker. We won 49–27.
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Almost the entire team, forty guys or so, goofed off in the locker room afterward, boasting about big hits they’d made, singing group songs, laughing. Their retelling of the game went like this: all looked lost, and when Sidi got steam-rollered to open the second half, everyone expected more of the same. (“The line didn’t block for me!” Sidi protested. “Go screw yourselves!” And he stormed into the showers.) Then we turned it around the very next drive, the story continued. Like Drew Brees and the Saints in the Super Bowl. Like champions.
Outside in the parking lot, Aïda and Yasmina waited for us. Yasmina’s headscarf was team-colored too.
“You should’ve seen the faces of the Anges Bleus when they boarded their bus.” Aïda couldn’t speak a word without her fingers dancing on the air, restating her sentences in this other odd language. “They looked shell-shocked, like they couldn’t believe they’d lost to the lowly Diables Rouges.” And she laughed.
Others made their way over. Moose, Mobylette and the rest retold—yet again—the story of how David slew the mighty Goliath, one talking over the other. Even Sidi joined in.
Listening to them, I realized how much these guys were what my dad called “born underdogs.” It was like their daily lives were driven by one lone notion: to just get by, in the rough cités, at their sorry ghetto school, even in their huge families. But as much as fighting to get by was in their blood, the idea of prevailing, of coming out on top, wasn’t. It was like our victory had stunned them even more than it had the Anges Bleus. All the pre-game bluster aside, the Diables Rouges would probably have been just as happy playing the Anges Bleus tough and losing in a squeaker. Deep inside, it was likely what they had expected would happen.
“Coach Thierry says the Caïmans, next week, are a much better team,” Free said to quiet things down. “Probably second only to the Jets.”
(His French had really gotten quite good.)
“They are,” Moose said. “They beat the Jets last year in the final and are undefeated so far this season.”
“So far…” Free said, and he grinned.
Guys started to wander off. It was just us four—Freeman and me, Moose and Sidi. And the two girls, of course.
“So, what now?” Free asked, and I said, “Why don’t we go down to Paris?”
Sidi and Moose looked at each other, visibly not so hot on the idea.
“Paris?” said Sidi.
“Sure,” I said. “Let’s go to the Champs-Élysées. It’s what the French do to celebrate, right?”
Aïda jumped in. “Please take us with you.”
Our tackle, Claude Benayoun, emerged from the locker room and asked what we were up to. I looked at Sidi, who was looking at Moose, who was looking toward Aïda and Yasmina.
“Papa’ll kill me if he finds out,” Sidi said.
“How will he find out?” Aïda shot back.
“What about the cops?” Moose said. “They aren’t too keen about guys from this zip code wandering around down there.”
Free laughed. “If it’s cops that are the problem, we’re more likely to get a rough time here in Villeneuve.”
I looked at my cell phone. “It’s not even dinnertime yet; it’s still early. We can play baby-foot at the Chicago Pizza Pie Factory.”
I knew how much Moose and Sidi loved foosball.
But Moose still looked reluctant. “I was already down there once this week, with your father,” he said. “That’s plenty for me.”
“Unless you guys are afraid to go into the big city, that is,” I added.
“Yeah right,” Moose said, but it didn’t mean, Okay, let’s go. He stood there frozen, Sidi beside him, and Claude beside them, looking silently on.
“We’ll just hang out,” Aïda said, her tone defiant, challenging them. “Only for a couple of hours.”
Being called out by a girl was the determining factor.
Sidi said, “Let’s go.”