FOR BOTH FOOTBALL DRAMA and murderous potential, the fourth quarter of the Tomcats/Hombres game deserved a four-star rating.
Attempting a punt, the Tomcats' kicker got clocked on his own twenty-seven yard line. The ball caromed back toward the goal, and just before it rolled out of the end zone one of the Hombres dove on it for the touchdown.
A fluke, but the TV cameras caught a few Hombres' punching the air as if they sensed the possibility of a come-from-behind victory. "See that," said the glint in their eyes. "It’s not over yet!"
Unfortunately the Tomcats' defense missed that message because they softened into a prevent mode and allowed a steady, nine-play drive to result in an Hombres' field goal.
"We knew it wasn't over," Doug recalled, referring to the 21–10 score, "but we thought we were still in control."
Reflecting that confidence, the Tomcats' offensive coach chose the conservative route, directing Doug to hand off to the Tomcats' strongest runner three straight times, a decision that netted only four yards and eliminated a mere two minutes from the clock. On the fourth down punt, the Hombres returned the ball to their own 44 yard line.
"Here's where we switched to a full zone blitz," Doug remarked with a shake of his head. The Hombres promptly executed a weak-side screen pass and took the ball 56 yards to the touchdown.
Too little, too late, I agreed with Doug, although not critically. The mental calculations kept the game every bit as engaging as the execution and were equally as chancy.
Appearing to be content with the probable 21–17 win, the coaches instructed Doug to use up the clock with three more running plays that went nowhere. Riding the momentum, the Hombres returned the fourth down punt and gained excellent field position–again.
"Watch this tackle by Morani," Doug remarked with admiration. "He really saved our bacon."
I stared with awe as the defensive lineman singlehandedly stalled the Hombres' drive by toppling a 295 pound tackle then breaking loose to crush the ball carrier as well.
With all their timeouts remaining and 4:35 left in the game Houston opted for a three-point field goal to make it 21–20. And why not? If their defense held and they regained possession, they had plenty of time left to kick the field goal they needed to win.
The Tomcats' offense managed to run the ensuing kickoff back to their own thirty-eight yard line. Then they earned a couple of first downs to take time off the clock, including a thirty-two yard run on a tailback draw.
At the two-minute warning it was second down with five to go for the Tomcats on the Hombres twenty-five yard line. Another touchdown appeared within reach, or at least a field goal.
Recalling what happened next, Doug wagged his head with disgust. A holding penalty had set his team back ten yards, then a mixup caused a missed handoff that stranded Doug with the ball. He retreated, scrambled, and finally got smothered under a pile of Hombres.
Doug rolled his shoulder as he watched the trainer escort him off the field for the second time that day.
"Still bother you?" I asked.
"Eh, no more than usual. Knocked the wind out of me."
It was now third and twenty-four with the Tomcats on the forty-four yard line. Tim Duffy consulted with Offensive Coordinator Roger Prindel before trotting onto the field to substitute for Doug. I turned the sound back on to hear what the announcers had to say.
"I've never seen Duffy look so intense," the color commentator remarked to himself and a few million viewers. "He really looks hungry."
Duffy's intensity puzzled me. The Tomcats were winning by one point, and with time running out, surely Tim's single objective would be to position his team for a field goal. Three more points would put the game out of the Hombres' reach.
Yet Duffy took the snap, rolled to his right, and shot off a perfect pass to Shifflett, who breezed by everybody and was well on his way toward the end zone.
Touchdown. Tim Duffy trotted off the field collecting congratulations–sadly, for the last time.
The kick went through the crossbars. The crowd cheered and danced in the stands. The Hombres frittered away the last fifty-seven seconds, and the game ended. Final score: 28–20, Tomcats.
Doug laughed and waved his head.
"What?"
"The handicappers did it again."
"What do you mean?"
"The spread was seven and a half, and we won by eight." Meaning that all the water-cooler geeks who had wagered on the Tomcats also won. Anything less than an eight point difference and they would have lost. Doug alluded to how often the professional handicappers managed to get the point spread right.
"Amazing," I agreed.
When I phoned Rip later that night, I mentioned Doug’s observation. "Don't you think that's quite a coincidence?"
"Not a coincidence so much as a science," my husband disagreed. "The spread is supposed to make a bet for either team equally attractive. That way–theoretically at least–the pot will be even on either side. The losing money covers the winners, and the bookies don't lose their shirt."
"So since Sunday's spread was right on, the bookies–whoever or wherever they are–probably made out fine."
"That’s more or less true," he equivocated. "They also take a cut up front." Which meant none of them had much reason to flip out and shoot a second string quarterback.
And yet someone had done just that.
I didn’t dare pick Rip's brain anymore at that hour, so I asked what everybody had chosen to watch after the rerun of Shane ended.
"Professional wrestling," he bemoaned. "Thank goodness they all went to bed." Hint, hint.
We said our goodnights. Then I turned out the light and snuggled in.