Chapter Three
Cade
I drape a towel over my head and inhale deeply to gather myself. The third quarter is seconds away from starting and we’re down 3-21. It was not what any of us were expecting, getting our asses handed to us in the first half. I'm angry, not at my guys or myself, but the circumstances. It's not that we've played bad; we're playing our game, but the breaks just aren't going our way. I want to win for the new guys, for the rookies, for Jake and Malcolm.
The whistle blows, and I take the field with the rest of my offensive line. In the huddle, I relay the play to the others and we break, lining up on the field. I look over at the defense for Carolina, glaring at each of them, when something in my mind ticks. With a gleaming smile, I get into position and call an audible.
The ball snaps to me, and I search for my favorite receiver, Gibson. He’s wide open, and I spiral a perfect pass to him as he takes off running, no one covering him since my audible has their defense scrambling. Incredibly, Gibson makes it 65 yards before he is taken down. Two plays later we’re in the end zone, and with the score on the extra point, it’s 10-21.
On the sideline, the team is abuzz with an unmistakable energy as I jog over and take my helmet off. We’re in it. Take no prisoners, in it to win it, whatever you want to call it, but we are in the zone. It is exactly the start we need for the second half.
On the field, Carolina snaps the ball, but our defensive line reads the play perfectly and sacks the quarterback. They gain seven yards on their next play, and ten on the play after that.
And then it happens.
I rise to my feet, everything happening in slow motion as Carolina’s quarterback throws the ball and Malcolm jumps up, snatching the pass from the air and running towards our end zone. It is an incredible play, and I can hardly believe it when the kid reaches the end zone. I hold my breath as we set up for the extra point. We’re playing outdoors, and the wind has picked up from even five minutes ago. I know it might be a problem, hell, everyone in the stadium knows it might be a problem. Lee Smith has been our kicker longer than I’ve been the Condors quarterback, and his success rate is close to perfect.
Time seems to stand still as the ball sails through the air, every one of us on the sideline is willing the ball to go between the posts. A groan runs down our sideline as the ball goes just left of the post. No good. 16-21.
The rest of the quarter passes in a blur until we’re in the fourth quarter, still down. I move the ball down the field, and Carolina’s defense is right there with us, keeping us from the end zone. They move the ball down field, and our defense keeps them from scoring. It’s become like a chess game, trying to anticipate the other guy’s next move, trying to score, trying to keep them from scoring.
I’m pretty sure this game has taken a year off my life, but I’m too wrapped up into it to care. I want this for my team. We have a goal, and now we need to achieve it.
The clock ticks down until there is less than ninety seconds left in the game. We have the ball, but we’re 95 yards from the end zone. In the huddle, I call the play, and we line up on the line of scrimmage. I exhale a breath, yell out at my offensive. “Hut, hut!”
The ball is snapped into my hands, and I’m looking for an open receiver – any open receiver – but there are none. There's only one option for me here: run.
I run like the devil, tearing down the middle of the field as the defense scrambles, my receivers doing everything in their power to stop them from reaching me. I hear the roar of the crowd in my ears, and I have tunnel vision on the end zone. I barely hear the whistle as my feet cross the line, the ref’s arms shooting up in the air. Touchdown.
I just scored a ninety-yard touchdown. In the Super Bowl. A winning ninety-yard touchdown. It’s another record that will have my name on it. The special teams are on the field and setting up for the extra point. The celebrating is already starting on the sideline, guys slapping me on the back, hugging each other. When the extra point is good, there’s more hugging and yelling. We’ve won, 23-21.
I give interviews on the field, but I don’t remember any of them. When they announce the MVP of the game, I’m excited, but not overly surprised to hear them say my name. I accept my award, the cheering crowd deafening, and look around at my teammates and the joy in their smiles. I smile, too, but it almost feels forced. My teammates are celebrating, and I see Jake and Malcolm whooping it up together. I remember those days, I think.
On the big screen, I see the camera pan to Josephine Lowell — blonde, beautiful, bombshell, A-list Hollywood actress — also known as my girlfriend. She’s waving and blowing kisses. Lapping up every moment of the attention, even though she hates football and her agent had to force her to come.
I look away and catch sight of some of my married teammates interacting with their wives and kids. I've played for seventeen years, and while the accolades I've earned have always been nice, there's a feeling in the pit of my stomach I can no longer shake. I yearn for something different. I want something more. I want something football doesn't offer, but I just don't know what it is yet.
Or maybe I do, I just don’t know if I’ll ever get it.