Paralyzed (10 page)

Steve Akins instinctively followed the superb block of his teammate, heading quickly up field. From where I lay on the turf, I could see that only Bryce Clark stood between the Filmore quarterback and the end zone. Bryce moved in on Akins,
lowered his shoulder and ploughed into the Filmore star's chest. The blow knocked Akins off-stride just long enough for three of our teammates to catch up and finish off the tackle. The game was over. We had won.

The entire Lincoln offensive team burst off the sidelines and onto the field. They mobbed a smiling Bryce, who this time had come up with the key play just when we needed it most.

Inside the locker room, Coach Clark walked over to my stall. “Boys, the game ball goes to our defensive leader and middle linebacker, Reggie,” the coach said. “Heckuva game, son.”

I stood up with the ball in my hand. “Thanks, Coach, but I think somebody else in here deserves this more.”

I turned and flipped the football under-hand to Bryce Clark. He had earned it just as much, or more, than me. But it would have been tough for Coach to give it to his own son. Not tough for me, though.
Just like the geese, we all took turns leading on this team.

Bryce beamed my way. “Good to have you back, Stick-'em,” he smiled.

It was good to be back. Nickname and all.

The next month flew by in a blur of football, school and homework. Our Lincoln varsity team romped to easy wins over district lightweights Milton, Peabody, Kline and Jefferson. We now had a record of five wins, zero losses and one tie with only a single game left on the schedule—the makeup contest against the Milbury Miners.

The season was coming to a close in dramatic fashion. Although the Franklin Demons had fallen off the pace with upset
losses to Jefferson and Kline, they had managed to play Milbury to a draw as well. That left the Miners and our team deadlocked, each with 5–0–1 records. The final game of the season would determine the district championship and which team advanced to the regional playoffs.

Everybody at school was keyed up. Unfortunately for us, this was now a road game. Even though we were supposed to have played Milbury at home, the makeup contest was rescheduled for their stadium because ours had been booked for a junior college playoff. Playing on the road would make things tougher on us. But I was confident we could handle Milbury and its home crowd.

Coach Clark was intense all that week, using the third-stringers to run the Milbury offense so that our defense could get a feel for playing against it. The Miners used a formation that resembled something a pro team might run, mainly because Keith
Hobart had emerged as the best passing prep quarterback the city had ever seen.

I could tell Coach Clark was nervous about defending against the Miners' offense. He was a little more edgy than usual during practice. On Tuesday night, when I failed to pick up third-string fullback Terry Roberts coming out of the backfield for a swing pass, he let me have it. “C'mon, Scott, we absolutely need to get on that quicker!”

My ears burned at the criticism, but I understood Coach Clark's intensity. Our school hadn't advanced to the regionals in ten years. Coach was itching to end that streak. We all were.

As the week went on, I woke up progressively earlier each morning. I was so pumped for the Milbury game that I could barely concentrate on school. It seemed like Friday would never come.

On Friday morning, my clock radio read 5:45
AM
as I headed downstairs. I heard the paper land with a thud on the step as
I approached the front door. It wasn't often that I beat the paperboy to the punch.

I opened the door and picked up the
Times.
I knew there would be an article setting up our game tonight. It was the biggest prep football matchup of the season. Everybody in the city would be keeping an eye on Miner Stadium.

Milbury hosts prep grudge match
, the headline read. Underneath, a smaller secondary headline declared:
Miners seek revenge tonight for fallen teammate
.

My heart sank. Instead of previewing the great collision between the league's top two teams, it looked like the
Times
was trying to dredge up what had happened to Nate Brown. What was the point of that?

I read the story below. It didn't really back up the headlines. Milbury coach Phil Carter had said,
“We miss Nate in our lineup, and we're looking forward to seeing Lincoln again.”
That was it. Nobody had said anything about there being a grudge between the teams. None of the players
or coaches quoted had mentioned the word “revenge.”

I showed Dad the newspaper. “What's with these guys?” he said, shaking his head. “Nate's injury has nothing to do with this game. It's a pretty cheap way to sell papers.”

I had to agree. No matter what, I wasn't going to let this bother me. Not now. Tonight's game was too important.

At noon, Lincoln hosted the biggest pep rally I had ever seen. Former Lincoln varsity football players were there, so were city councilors and school board trustees. Channel 5 sportscaster Rick Santiago showed up with his camerawoman to interview Coach Clark and Lance Turner. That's when I knew that we had officially hit the big time.

Once again, we dressed at Lincoln and boarded the school bus for the ride to Milbury. This was only going to be a short trip. Milbury was just three miles away, on the eastern edge of the city. We were
neighboring schools. The Miners and the Lions had always been huge football rivals, no matter how our respective seasons were going. The fact that we were both undefeated and on a collision course for the district title made the rivalry that much more exciting.

There was a traffic jam outside the parking lot at the Milbury stadium. Instead of waiting until the driver could pull in, Coach Clark told us to grab our helmets and get off the bus. As we walked through the parking lot, there were hundreds of Milbury fans, milling about portable barbecues and lazing on lawn chairs, enjoying a massive tailgate party. I'd never seen an atmosphere quite like this for a high school game.

The stands were packed, and the stadium lights were on by the time the officiating crew called our three co-captains to midfield for the coin toss. We won, electing to receive the ball first. Milbury chose to defend the south goal.

Just before the kickoff, the Milbury announcer said, “Ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls. Welcome to Miner Stadium, home of your Milbury Miners.”

The crowd erupted. The cheerleaders waved their pom-poms. The giant Miner mascot swung his pickaxe menacingly toward our side of the field. Our over-stuffed Lion roared back at him through his megaphone.

“Before we begin tonight's game, I'd like to have your attention for a special introduction,” the announcer continued. The crowd hushed. “Please welcome back to Miner Stadium to take the ceremonial kickoff, Milbury's own Nate Brown!”

The crowd went wild. Everybody in the stadium, including the close to two thousand Lincoln fans dressed in black and white, stood and applauded. Nate Brown came from the Milbury sideline, walking with the aid of a cane. I couldn't believe how quickly he made it out to midfield.

Nate waved at the crowd on both sides of the grandstand. Then he hobbled up to the football and gingerly tapped it off the tee a few yards with his right foot. Again, the fans roared. For a kid who had recently been lying in a hospital bed wondering if he'd ever walk again, he'd come a long way.

The Milbury co-captains shook Nate's hand and tousled his hair. I knew what I had to do. I broke ranks with my co-captains and trotted toward Nate. He extended his hand, and I grabbed it, pulling him toward me for a bear hug. Again the crowd cheered. “It's great to see you here, man,” I said into his ear.

Nate grinned at me. “Thanks,” he said. “The only thing better would be playing. But the district is letting me save my senior season for next fall. They're giving me an extra year of eligibility.”

“That's awesome,” I said. “Good luck tonight...but not too much luck.”

Nate smiled again. “We don't need luck here at Milbury,” he said with a wink.

The contest that followed lived up to the excitement created by the pre-game drama. Both teams wanted desperately to win, and both of us played like it. Heading into the fourth quarter, it was tied 21–21. The game had already featured plenty of hard-hitting defense and awesome offense.

Each team had a couple of promising fourth-quarter drives end prematurely. Milbury's faltered when Bryce Clark intercepted a Keith Hobart pass at our thirty yard line, snuffing out a great scoring chance for the Miners. Just a few minutes later, a Lincoln drive was stopped when Lance Turner fumbled at the Miners' forty.

The teams then exchanged fruitless possessions that ended in fourth-down punts. With two minutes left in the fourth quarter, Milbury had the ball at its own ten yard line. The Miners' bench called a time-out.

Coach Clark huddled us all together, the defense immediately around him and the offense circling us. “Boys, this has been a heckuva game,” he said. “We're going to see if we can stop these guys one more time. If we're lucky, we'll get the ball back and pull this thing out. But first we've got to stop them.”

Coach Molloy went over the defense. He was putting us in the “prevent” once again. I knew we'd be susceptible to short passes and runs, but at least we wouldn't give up anything long. It was a smart strategy. As I took the field with my teammates, I just hoped it worked.

Milbury was clearly expecting our tactic. Keith Hobart expertly squeezed a handful of first downs out of our defense. He passed to his speedy receivers on short routes, just inside our defensive coverage, and handed off to his backs. He was mixing things up like a master, probing our defense just enough to get the first downs his team needed.

With thirty seconds left, Milbury had the ball at our thirty yard line. Coach Clark called our final time-out. He looked across the field as he addressed us for the last time. “They're sending out their field-goal unit,” he said. “Let's go for the block. We can't afford to let them make this kick. It's our only choice.”

The coach set up a play that called for our line to open up a hole directly to the left of their center. I was to blitz hard through that hole and jump as high as I could. The timing had to be just right if I wanted to get a piece of the football.

Sure enough, Milbury went into their field-goal formation. Keith Hobart barked out the signals. Milbury's center snapped the ball crisply to Hobart, who brought it toward the turf to set up for Jerry Ryan's place-kick.

I watched all of this play out as I jetted through the hole our defense had opened up on the Milbury line. I planned to be nearing Hobart just as Ryan stepped into his
kick. That would give me the best chance to block it.

It happened in a millisecond, before I could comprehend what was going on. As Keith Hobart began to pull the football toward the turf, he suddenly stopped, popped up, pivoted and took off at full speed to his left. It was a fake field goal.

By this time, I had already committed to going for the block. All I could do was watch helplessly as Hobart turned the corner and headed for the end zone. Everybody else on our defense had been fooled too. The smooth Milbury quarterback waltzed across the goal line untouched. The Miners had won. The crowd went crazy.

I pulled myself up from the turf slowly, looking over to the Milbury sidelines. The Miners had already dumped a barrel of Gatorade over the head of Phil Carter, their head coach. The Miners were jumping up and down, their hands stretched toward the sky. In the middle of the pack, doing
his best to summon up a jump was Nate Brown.

I felt badly for my teammates and for Coach Clark. But something about seeing Nate on his feet and celebrating a football victory almost made up for the deep disappointment I felt.

I put my arm around Bryce Clark, who had played his heart out. He was crying, now that we had fallen just short. “You'll be back here next year,” I said to him. “And you'll win that one.”

Everybody on our team had already headed into the locker room for the post-game talk. I was about to join them, when I heard my name being called from the near-empty Lincoln sidelines. I spun around. It was Dr. MacIntyre. With him was a tall man in a gray suit carrying a black notebook.

“Hey, Reggie, great game,” Dr. MacIntyre said, approaching me. “Look, I know you're busy but I just want you to meet someone really quick.”

“Sure,” I said, stepping toward the man in the gray suit, my sweaty hand outstretched.

“This is Milt Black,” Dr. MacIntyre said. “He's from the Tech football program.”

Instantly, I was nervous. I'd never talked to a college recruiter before. Come to think of it, I'd never even seen one.

“Dr. Mac has told me a lot about you, Reggie,” the man said. “I just wanted to meet you and let you know that we've been watching you a lot this season. If you're interested, we'd like to talk to you seriously about playing some more football after high school.”

My head was spinning. I was still bitterly disappointed by the loss, but at the same time totally exhilarated about having a Tech football scout actually interested in me.

“Sure.” I grinned. “I'd love that.”

“I'll give you a call this week,” Mr. Black said. “Now, you'd better scoot into
the locker room. I know Coach Clark likes everybody in there as soon as possible.”

I thanked both men and jogged quickly to join my teammates. The room smelled like a mixture of tears and sweat. The mood was about what you'd expect from a bunch of kids who had worked their butts off only to fall one play short.

Coach Clark kept his wrap-up talk to five minutes. It was all positive. This wasn't a time to criticize or to dwell on what might have been, he said, but to celebrate. “I'm proud of each one of you boys,” he concluded. I felt bad for Coach. He had come so close to making his first trip to regionals as a head coach.