Hometown Favorite: A Novel (4 page)

He slapped Jake's back as a signal that the speech was over
and that Jake should return to the front with him. Jake rose
and took one last look at the trio. Words failed him, and he
had to trust they understood his pride in them as he lumbered
back to his seat.

In the stadium, no one was left sitting in his seat. All were
on their feet. Dewayne had scored two touchdowns: the first, a down-and-out pattern where he outran his coverage; the
second, a leaping catch in the end zone. Sly had scored one
with a quick dash into the end zone from the five-yard line.
Jesse recovered a fumble and ran it back sixty-five yards for
his touchdown. He had never run so far and so fast in his life.
In spite of these scores, the Tigers were still up by only four
points.

The Red Devils from southern Mississippi, a team with
equally impressive players and an undefeated season coming
into this game, had come back to score every time the Tigers
had made it into the end zone. The last time, however, the
Tigers had held the Devils in the red zone and forced them to
kick a field goal from fifteen yards. With less than two minutes
remaining on the clock and a score of 28 to 24, the Devils kept
the Tigers from getting a first down, forcing them to punt. The
return was a twenty-two-yard gain, leaving a mere forty-four
yards from the Devils' line of scrimmage to the goal line. The
first play Dewayne had blocked the expected pass. On a blitz in
the second play, Jesse had sacked the quarterback for a threeyard loss, his third sack for the game.

From the Tigers' side of the stadium, there was chaos, enough
noise to travel through the cold and damp night air like a howling army. From the Devils' side, there was an overwrought
silence except for mumbled prayers for divine intervention
and jinxes against the Tigers. For every soul on their feet, life
outside the confines of this stadium had ceased to exist.

Dewayne spotted the play as soon as the Devils came to the
line on third down. The running back had taken his position
out behind the tight end.

Dewayne whirled around to the team, shouting, "Judas!
Judas! Judas!"

The defense made the instant adjustment.

Dewayne looked at Jesse one last time to make sure he had
heard the call and saw his teammate stepping toward the outside and giving him a thumbs-up. It was a short count, and as
soon as the center snapped the ball, Dewayne rammed into the
tight end, forcing the Devils' running back toward the hole.

After the quarterback had made the quick pitch to the running back, he began to sprint in the opposite direction. When
the running back caught the ball, he hesitated, and from the
corner of his eye as Jesse dashed toward the open hole made
by the Devils' tight end, he saw the quarterback moving away
from the action to the open field. The unexpected move surprised him.

Confident it was a pass option off the pitch, Jesse made a
snap decision to follow the quarterback, expecting the Devils'
running back to pass it to the quarterback for a clear shot to
the end zone. When Jesse changed his route and followed the
quarterback, the Devils' running back saw the clearing ahead
of him and sprinted through the scrambling bodies into an
open field.

Dewayne managed to touch the running back's heel with the
tips of his fingers as he fell to the ground from the tight end's
forceful resistance, but his touch had no effect. He watched
from his helpless position on the ground, the weight of the
tight end draped over his stomach, as the Devils' running back
raced toward the end zone, outrunning a helpless Jesse not fast
enough to chase him down.

Within seconds, the pent-up anxiety on the Devils' side of
the stadium over a sure defeat erupted into pandemonium. On
the Tigers' side, the vision of a silver-and-gold-plated trophy
encased in the main hall of the high school was shattered glass.
Screams meant to confuse the Devils became cries of horror
and lamentation. The town of Springdale had performed all the proper rituals and offered all the right prayers to prevent
this outcome. Where had the system broken down? A cruel
joke had been played upon them. Now all that remained was
the mourning.

Time enough remained on the clock for a Devils' kickoff
and a Tigers' return. Springdale fans were delirious with momentary hope as the kickoff return placed them at the thirtyyard line, but the Devils' defense solidified. Two desperation
passes from Sly to Dewayne, each one blocked by the Devils'
triple-team coverage of Dewayne. Then a final forty-sevenyard field goal attempt. The ball nicked a Devil's helmet and
never had the chance to fly toward the uprights. It bounced
to the ground and lay dead until snatched by a jubilant Devil,
who tossed it into the air. The coveted game ball seemed to
float for a few seconds above the field, buoyed on the Devils'
euphoric shouting. The fact that this object would forever be
in possession of the Devils was too bitter a consequence for
every Springdale citizen.

The trip back to Springdale was like that of a routed army returning home after a long and exhausting war. All movement
was painful, not from the punishment of combat, but from
the ache of defeat. Discreet tears flowed only when the bus
had pulled away from the stadium, and in its dark and silent
interior boys hid their faces and allowed disappointment to
flow from their eyes. This time could never be repeated, only
replayed again and again in their memories, a continual loop
of heartbreaking highlights.

There were great moments to revel in, but the Tigers could
enjoy only the minutes leading up to the final two. Up to that
point their lead had never been overtaken, their potential victory not in serious jeopardy. But to a player, breaching the
memory threshold of those last two minutes was perilous, a
thorny punishment with a difficult recovery. The head coach
stood in front of the bus hoping to pour the balm of comfort
on his broken team with some reassuring words, but he needed
comfort in order to give it. Silence was best. He simply waved
into the darkness of the bus's interior and sat down.

Surrounded by empty seats, Jake sat alone, staring into the
melting ice in the plastic cup he held. He had finished one drink
in the privacy of a locker room toilet and picked up a second
cup of ice as he left to board the bus. He opened his briefcase
and used the lid to screen the odorless, colorless vodka he
poured into his cup. After draining his drink in short, rapid
swallows, he closed the lid on all the physical evidence.

When Jake's wife had left him because she was craving a bigger city with more opportunities-at least that was how she'd
described it in the note Jake found when he came home from
a late practice-he turned to alcohol. Only sips at first to aid
with sleep, to deaden the pain of loss, the feelings of rejection
and inadequacy, and to bolster false courage. He was not sure
when his use of alcohol for medicinal purposes had become
an addiction.

Jake pulled himself out of his seat and into the aisle, pausing long enough to make sure he could maintain his balance.
He held on to the seats as he made his way past the players
slumped down and dejected, quiet and still as though tossed
in these positions by a heartless fate.

When he arrived at the back of the bus, only Dewayne looked
up at him. Sly and Jesse kept their eyes on the images flying by
their windows. Jake needed to make this fast. The alcohol was
making its ascent to his brain, and he would need to return
to his seat. He leaned over and patted each boy on the knee before he turned around. The gesture brought Sly and Jesse to
their senses, and they turned their heads from the windows.
All three watched as Jake descended back into the darkness
toward his seat.

Each boy knew the pat on the knee was a gesture of departure. Their friend and mentor was releasing them to future
success or failure with the hope that what paternal wisdom
he might have provided them through his coaching would be
remembered with fondness.

The three boys had been the first on the bus after the game
and had retaken their seats in the back, each clutching his duffle
bag to his chest like a protective shield. They had slouched
across the seat like rag dolls, motionless, no one willing to
speak, all three cross at even having to breathe. When the silhouette of Coach Hopper disappeared into his seat, Jesse broke
the barrier between them.

"I swear I thought it was a pass option off the pitch."

"You thought. You thought. You thought," Sly repeated in a
contemptuous mantra.

"The running back hesitated and I thought-"

"You thought. You thought. You thought:" This time Sly's
voice was louder, and his hand sprang into the air, flapping
his fingers together to mimic a bird talking.

"We played a full game, not just two minutes;' Dewayne
said.

"Don't defend this chump;" Sly shot back.

Jesse's mouth pulled back in a grimace as though a large hand
was squeezing his gut, but he put his hand over his mouth to
cover it, to stifle any words he might blurt out in his defense.

"I dropped some passes;' Dewayne said. "You fumbled
once.

"And I recovered it. Two-yard loss. Big deal," Sly said.

"The game is forty-eight minutes, Sly"

"And it was lost in two. Stop taking up for him. All he needed
to do was play by the rules. We know all the plays. We know
where each one is going to be. He broke the trust, man. He
didn't have your back. Where was he? Where was he? Chasing rabbits"

Jesse pretended to be invisible. It was better to hear a friend
say these things so he would not have to suffer hearing his
own voice repeatedly cast these accusations against him. It
was better that his friend try to deflect the slings and arrows
so there would be no additional wounds to compete with the
self-inflicted ones. Dewayne's defense relieved him from having to speak, from having to move.

"Lay off now before you go too far," Dewayne said.

"Too far;" Sly said. "The rules of life are made for people
like him, but he don't have to play by the rules. The white boy
makes his own kind of rules."

Jesse kicked out his leg, as though trying to kick off his shoe,
his first sign of life in several miles.

Dewayne shifted in his seat. "Careful, Sly..

"You be careful. He has every advantage while you and I
have to fight for everything we get."

"This ain't the time or the place, Sly," Dewayne said, looking
into Jesse's trembling face.

Sly began to shake his head, starting a swaying motion in
his body. Dewayne laid his hand on the back of Sly's neck, but
Sly knocked it away with his arm.

"I can't believe you're taking up for him;' Sly said, leaning
forward and pointing his finger at Jesse. "You and I are going
places, D. We're leaving Springdale, and we're shaking the dust
off our feet. We're leaving this fool behind"

Jesse twisted his head from the window to look at Sly, tears
streaming down the solemn-stoned bust of his face. In Sly's
cruel words, Jesse saw his immediate and distant future play
out before him: he would be scorned and despised by the good
people of Springdale for a time, though most of the citizens
would hide the true face of their contempt for his split-second
decision that cost them their coveted state championship behind
a strained but civil mask. The Springdale Leader would write
about the play that lost the game, and every reader would fill
his name in the blank. Who would remember that Jesse Webb
had been the best linebacker in the history of the Springdale
Tigers? In time, the town's disdain would pass; the population
would find new reasons to hold a grudge, new people to scorn,
and this spirit of disparagement would pass from everyoneexcept perhaps from Jesse, a compartment of his heart holding
the contemptible memory like a cold stone, creating an invisible
deformity every bit as real as a clubfoot or withered hand.

"We could have had it, man," Sly said, his head hung low.
"We could have had it"