The Heartbeat of Halftime (10 page)
Read The Heartbeat of Halftime Online
Authors: Stephen Wunderli
TACO BELL'S CRASH
“F
our teams make the play-offs,” Darrel explained to us. “They try to set it up so that number one and number two end up in the championship game. You guys are number four. That means you're supposed to be an easy win for the first-place team, so they can coast into the championship game. Two and three play at the same time you do. Most of the time two wins, so they play one for the championship. But you never know. A team like you guys can come into the play-offs with a lot of momentum and mess everything up, surprise everyone by kicking butt and taking the whole thing. That's what's so fun about the play-offs. Anyone can win.”
our teams make the play-offs,” Darrel explained to us. “They try to set it up so that number one and number two end up in the championship game. You guys are number four. That means you're supposed to be an easy win for the first-place team, so they can coast into the championship game. Two and three play at the same time you do. Most of the time two wins, so they play one for the championship. But you never know. A team like you guys can come into the play-offs with a lot of momentum and mess everything up, surprise everyone by kicking butt and taking the whole thing. That's what's so fun about the play-offs. Anyone can win.”
We were on our way to Bud's Sporting Goods. Darrel was glad to drive his little brother anywhere then, long as it had something to do with football.
We were on our way to buy tape for Bam's ankle. I found out later that Bam never really had a sore ankle. He just had this Johnny Unitas trading card that he taped to his ankle every game for good luck. Bam was the most superstitious of all of us, and he wasn't about to change anything for the play-offs.
We were on our way to buy tape for Bam's ankle. I found out later that Bam never really had a sore ankle. He just had this Johnny Unitas trading card that he taped to his ankle every game for good luck. Bam was the most superstitious of all of us, and he wasn't about to change anything for the play-offs.
“Hey, Wing,” Darrel said. “Can you pull off a win here in the first round?”
“Yeah,” I said, not wanting to play Darrel's psychology games. He was always playing coach with us, trying to push us. It didn't sit well with me. It was like he was trying to be a part of something that wasn't his.
“I know you will,” he said. “We just got to find a way to get you mad before the game.” Then he laughed. He didn't understand. He'd known about my father all season and still he didn't understand. He thought it was only about winning. It wasn't. It was about not losing. It was about not wanting to lose anything anymore. But Darrel didn't understand that. He just hadn't lost enough in his life.
“Whatever,” I said, looking out the window.
“You're a hard one to figure, Wing,” he said.
“You just don't get it, do you?” I said angrily.
“I guess not,” Darrel said.
We got Bam's tape, and when we got home, Darrel threw us the ball for a while before practice started. That's when we found out about Taco Bell. We were standing in the street when Katie rode her
bike up and stopped beside us. She'd been crying, and she had this worried look on her face.
bike up and stopped beside us. She'd been crying, and she had this worried look on her face.
“Tyler's hurt,” she said, calling Taco Bell by his real name. She was trying not to cry again. “He's really hurt.”
“What happened?” Bam asked.
“He crashed his bike,” she said. “Bad.”
“Where is he now?” I asked her.
“He's home, but I think they're going to take him to the hospital.”
Taco Bell didn't live too far from Bam. We could cut through a few yards, hop a couple fences, and we'd be there.
“We'll meet you there,” I said to Katie as we jogged away.
I thought about Taco Bell's mom on the way over. She was always against football. Said it was too dangerous. Poor Taco Bell had to take piano lessons just to make her happy. She's big, like him; and she can make your life miserable if she doesn't like you. And she doesn't like Bam. She blamed her son's “football fascination,” as she called it, on Bam.
“Your ancestors must've been barbarians,” she said to him one time when he was waiting for Taco Bell to finish up a lesson.
“Yes, I think they were,” Bam said, thinking she meant they cut hair. He was just trying to be polite. But ever since then, she hasn't liked him. And she's never liked football. She said Tyler would get hurt
someday, it was only a matter of time. Well, I wanted to rush into his house and tell her he'd never been hurt playing football and that this was proof that football was safer than just about anything else he could be doing. I wanted to tell her that if he'd been playing football instead of riding his bike, he'd be fine, no injuries, no hospital, nothing.
someday, it was only a matter of time. Well, I wanted to rush into his house and tell her he'd never been hurt playing football and that this was proof that football was safer than just about anything else he could be doing. I wanted to tell her that if he'd been playing football instead of riding his bike, he'd be fine, no injuries, no hospital, nothing.
When we got to Taco Bell's, Bam stopped on the porch and sat down.
“I'll wait here,” he said.
I was about to knock on the door, but it opened. It was Taco Bell's mother and she was helping her banged-up son limp out the door to the car.
“Excuse us, please,” she said.
Taco Bell wasn't wearing anything but his underwear. His whole left side was scraped and red. His mother had scrubbed the wounds and put some kind of salve on them, and they were shiny and raw.
Taco Bell whimpered. He was in so much pain, he didn't pay attention to us at all. I'm not sure he could see us anyway. The side of his face was scraped pretty bad and his eye was nearly swollen shut. He winced with every step.
“Is he gonna be all right?” I asked his mother.
“That's what we're going to find out,” she said dramatically.
Then she loaded him carefully into the car. He
looked at us through the window, his eyes red and dry from crying too much. He didn't try to wave, or say good-bye. He just looked at us. It was strange because we didn't know what he was thinking.
looked at us through the window, his eyes red and dry from crying too much. He didn't try to wave, or say good-bye. He just looked at us. It was strange because we didn't know what he was thinking.
“Guess he won't play the piano for a while,” Bam said.
None of us laughed. We just stood there in the driveway, not knowing what else to say. Finally, Katie said what we were all thinking.
“What about footballâdo you think he'll be able to play?”
Bam didn't say anything. He looked at me for an answer.
“He'll play,” I said, not really believing it myself. “He'll play.”
THE BIG SCAB
T
aco Bell didn't make it to a practice that whole week. He even stayed home from school the first two days, and his mother wouldn't let us even see him until Wednesday. When she finally let us in the house, Taco Bell was sitting at the piano, staring at a music book. When he saw us, he quickly moved to the couch and sat down. He looked like a villain in a Batman comic book. Half his body was a scab, the other half was perfectly normal. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, so we could see most of his scabs. They were the biggest scabs we had ever seen.
aco Bell didn't make it to a practice that whole week. He even stayed home from school the first two days, and his mother wouldn't let us even see him until Wednesday. When she finally let us in the house, Taco Bell was sitting at the piano, staring at a music book. When he saw us, he quickly moved to the couch and sat down. He looked like a villain in a Batman comic book. Half his body was a scab, the other half was perfectly normal. He was wearing shorts and a T-shirt, so we could see most of his scabs. They were the biggest scabs we had ever seen.
“Let's see you eat one of those,” Bam said.
Taco Bell laughed. “My mom won't let me,” he said.
“We brought you these,” I said, handing him a
pack of doughnuts. “You can save the scabs for later.”
pack of doughnuts. “You can save the scabs for later.”
“Doughnuts!” he said excitedly. Then he tore the end off the box and had one eaten before he even knew what kind they were.
“Are you going to make it to Saturday's game?” I asked him.
Just then his mother walked by.
“Thanks,” he said looking sideways at his mother. “I could use some help with my homework.”
When she was gone, he leaned forward and whispered to me.
“She won't let me out of the house.”
“We gotta have you,” I said. “We've been working Farts all this week but he's not getting it.”
“Farts is too slow to pull,” Taco Bell said.
“Tell me about it,” Bam said. “He don't block much either. I'm gettin' killed in the scrimmages. You know what it'll be like in the game?
Bam!
⦠That's what it will be like.”
Bam!
⦠That's what it will be like.”
“You gotta make it,” I said. “It's the play-offs.”
Taco Bell touched the scab on his cheekbone softly and gave us this worried look. Then his mother called him from the other room.
“Tyler,” she said, “you need to finish practicing.”
“I will,” he answered.
“Find a way,” I said. “Find a way.”
When Bam and I left, neither one of us believed
Taco Bell would make it to another game that season. We went through our last practice on Friday pushing Farts as hard as we could, but he just wasn't getting it. He wasn't fast enough to pull for the lead block; instead he just got in the way. And when he blocked straight ahead, he couldn't move sideways fast enough to pick up the stunts the defense was throwing at him. He was slow and confused. But he had a lot of desire. We tried to get him up for it, tried to make him believe he could do it. But it was no use. He'd get all excited and shake like a true believer overcome with the spirit of football; then his feet would get all tangled up and he'd fall over on his can. He'd lie there, spit his mouthpiece out, and moan, “I can't do it, I just can't do it.”
Taco Bell would make it to another game that season. We went through our last practice on Friday pushing Farts as hard as we could, but he just wasn't getting it. He wasn't fast enough to pull for the lead block; instead he just got in the way. And when he blocked straight ahead, he couldn't move sideways fast enough to pick up the stunts the defense was throwing at him. He was slow and confused. But he had a lot of desire. We tried to get him up for it, tried to make him believe he could do it. But it was no use. He'd get all excited and shake like a true believer overcome with the spirit of football; then his feet would get all tangled up and he'd fall over on his can. He'd lie there, spit his mouthpiece out, and moan, “I can't do it, I just can't do it.”
Poor Farts. He just didn't have it. We decided we'd have to run everything to the left side and hope that he could hold off his man long enough for us to get a play off. We would also have to score early, because once they figured out where the weak spot was, they'd pound it all day long.
That night, after we had piled into an old station wagon at Spray Can's and driven to the field to mark our territory, we stood at midfield and tried to figure out how to beat West. West was the first team we had played that season. They had beaten us badly. We were sure they were counting on an easy win. That was about our only advantage. That
and the forces of nature. Nothing else seemed to be going right. First off, Ray finished the '57 Bel-Aire, so our cruiser was gone and we were stuck with this station wagon that was in for a muffler. Then when we got to the field, nobody could go. Me and Heat marked both end zones ourselves. Luckily his dogs were there or it would've been a pretty poor offering to the gods of nature.
and the forces of nature. Nothing else seemed to be going right. First off, Ray finished the '57 Bel-Aire, so our cruiser was gone and we were stuck with this station wagon that was in for a muffler. Then when we got to the field, nobody could go. Me and Heat marked both end zones ourselves. Luckily his dogs were there or it would've been a pretty poor offering to the gods of nature.
That made me think. So we didn't have the cruiser. It hadn't been big enough to get us all in anyway, at least not including Heat's dogs. The wagon had enough room. It wasn't fancy, but it got the job done. Maybe our offense for the next day had to be the same way. So Farts was slow. That just meant he wasn't as fancy as Taco Bell. But Farts was big, bigger than Taco Bell. He ate more too, which gave him tremendous gas. That's why we called him Farts. So maybe we just had to figure out a way to get the job done without pulling; you know, just basic plug-up-the-hole blocking. We didn't need Farts downfield, or to pull around the corner on the sweeps. We just needed him to keep the defense out.
We set up the offensive line right there in the dark. Then I marked off Fart's territory.
“Nobody gets through this part of the field,” I said to him. “All you have to do is keep people out.”
“And we don't care how you do it,” Bam added. “Just stop 'em,
bam!
, like that. Every play.”
bam!
, like that. Every play.”
By the look in Fart's eyes, I could tell that a huge burden had been lifted from his shoulders. He didn't have to keep track of which direction he had to pull, or how to pass block, or who to pick up downfield. All he had to do was keep people out of the backfield.
“Hold your ground,” Heat said. “That's all we want you to do.”
When we got back to the station wagon, I looked at it proudly. “This will work,” I said to myself. “This will work.”
THE FIRST PLAY-OFF GAME
I
was up early the next day. I had been getting up earlier on Saturdays ever since my father went to the hospital. At first I did it because he wasn't there to get my gear ready. But I think the real reason I did it was to be alone with him again. Even though he wasn't there, I could think about him. I sat that morning thinking about the talks we used to have on Saturday mornings. It would've been nice to talk about the things that were going right. I had worked so hard to win, and when it finally happened, Pop wasn't there to see it. So I spent the time anyway, thinking of what I would say to him. “We're getting good blocking on the sweeps. We could use more time on the pass plays and I wish the timing on the counters was better.” But he wasn't there to hear any of it.
was up early the next day. I had been getting up earlier on Saturdays ever since my father went to the hospital. At first I did it because he wasn't there to get my gear ready. But I think the real reason I did it was to be alone with him again. Even though he wasn't there, I could think about him. I sat that morning thinking about the talks we used to have on Saturday mornings. It would've been nice to talk about the things that were going right. I had worked so hard to win, and when it finally happened, Pop wasn't there to see it. So I spent the time anyway, thinking of what I would say to him. “We're getting good blocking on the sweeps. We could use more time on the pass plays and I wish the timing on the counters was better.” But he wasn't there to hear any of it.
Darrel picked me up again. He drove a lot, since
Mom was so busy. She said she had an appointment that day and would try to make it. She said it so quick, it made me wonder if she really did or if there were just other things she would rather do.
Mom was so busy. She said she had an appointment that day and would try to make it. She said it so quick, it made me wonder if she really did or if there were just other things she would rather do.
“Can you get a ride with Darrel?” she asked me the night before.
“Yeah, sure,” I said. That was about as much as we talked then.
When we got to the field, Coach cut our warm-ups short and gathered us together in the end zone for one of his talks. As always, he fiddled with his glasses, which were falling apart. He talked about the Romans, and he talked about honor. But none of it really made sense. I think he was more nervous than we were.
The band started playing then. We didn't realize it at first; we thought they were still warming up, but then we could almost recognize a melody. We waited for the flip. Spray Can and Bam went out to midfield as the captains. We watched from the sideline. Every one of us could see the coin float through the air, catching pieces of the sun as it turned slowly and dropped to the ground.
We lost the flip and West would receive. Another bad sign.
Heat kicked it deep and it rolled into the end zone, where the return man downed it. The ball came out to the twenty and the defenseârather, Spray Canâwent to work. He was everywhere. He
made three unassisted tackles in the first series. We were all wondering what had gotten into him. On fourth down they punted deep and I returned it to about midfield. Maybe it wasn't as bad as it seemed.
made three unassisted tackles in the first series. We were all wondering what had gotten into him. On fourth down they punted deep and I returned it to about midfield. Maybe it wasn't as bad as it seemed.
Then our offense took the field. On the first play we lost three yards. On the second we lost seven. On the third it was another two. Heat punted on fourth down, and he barely got the ball off. Not only was Farts an open door, but the rest of the line wasn't doing much either. The whole first half we gained only seven yards. But West wasn't scoring either. So at halftime we got the “Prove it” speech again. It did help some, but we missed Taco Bell pulling ahead of the sweeps. You just gotta have that one lead block to bust it open. We figured the only thing we could do was throw the ball to keep the linebackers from crashing. I grabbed Farts by the face mask in the huddle on our first possession of the second half.
“Plug the hole,” I said. “That's all you gotta do!”
He nodded his head. He was already tired. It was the most football he had played in his entire life. On first down Bam launched a deep pass. He had to rush it, so he overthrew me by five or six yards. But it worked. It spooked the defense and they adjusted to play the pass. We threw short the next play, a little slant-out to Heat, and he turned the corner for a first down. Farts was plugging the hole. Bam was getting just enough time to throw the ball. We
completed one more pass before Bam threw the interception. It seems like everybody who's ever played football has one play they replay in their heads for the rest of their life. They tell it over and over to whoever will listen to it. It's the first story they tell someone they just met, and they tell it every Christmas no matter how many times it's been told before. That's how this interception will be remembered by Farts. Every time he tells it, it will get bigger and bigger until it's the only thing he remembers about football.
completed one more pass before Bam threw the interception. It seems like everybody who's ever played football has one play they replay in their heads for the rest of their life. They tell it over and over to whoever will listen to it. It's the first story they tell someone they just met, and they tell it every Christmas no matter how many times it's been told before. That's how this interception will be remembered by Farts. Every time he tells it, it will get bigger and bigger until it's the only thing he remembers about football.
I ran a deep post. Heat ran a deep flag, and Flame cut across the middle. Bam fired the ball to Flame, but the middle linebacker stepped in front of him and picked off the ball and started running straight upfield. We were helpless; no one was even close. Except for Farts.
Farts got a bead on him early. The linebacker was running madly, waving the ball out in front of him like he knew he had a touchdown. He had a clear alley all the way to the goal line. He had to get by only one man, the biggest man on the field, the player who had finished dead last in the hundred-yard dash every time he had ever run it: Farts. Our whole season, everything we had hoped for, dreamed of, punished ourselves for, now rested on a kid whose only claim to fame was that he once ate eleven pies at the state fair in seven minutes.
Farts seemed the Goliath about to be humiliated by a quick-footed David. As the linebacker sped toward Farts, Farts could do only one thing: guess. He wasn't quick enough to react. To get the jump, Farts would have to guess which side the linebacker would cut to, then lunge in that direction. Somehow, we all knew this. We were frozen, watching each step as if it were in slow motion. At the last second, Farts threw his big body to the left. A good guess, since it was the linebacker's right. Most ball carriers prefer to cut right, including this linebacker. He cut at almost the exact same time Farts threw himself. When the linebacker realized his mistake, he tried to hurdle the huge mound that had rolled in front of him. But it was too late. Farts hit him in the knees and the linebacker went head over heels before slamming into the turf.
Farts seemed the Goliath about to be humiliated by a quick-footed David. As the linebacker sped toward Farts, Farts could do only one thing: guess. He wasn't quick enough to react. To get the jump, Farts would have to guess which side the linebacker would cut to, then lunge in that direction. Somehow, we all knew this. We were frozen, watching each step as if it were in slow motion. At the last second, Farts threw his big body to the left. A good guess, since it was the linebacker's right. Most ball carriers prefer to cut right, including this linebacker. He cut at almost the exact same time Farts threw himself. When the linebacker realized his mistake, he tried to hurdle the huge mound that had rolled in front of him. But it was too late. Farts hit him in the knees and the linebacker went head over heels before slamming into the turf.
That's how the third quarter ended, all of us cheering and slapping Farts. He had saved the game. Farts had saved the game.
The fourth quarter was all defense again. Spray Can was still playing out of his head. Our offense moved the ball with the short pass, but we couldn't get another first down. The linebackers were pounding us. We couldn't move the ball on the ground, either, and our line wasn't giving Bam enough time to throw it deep. So on our last offensive possession, Coach called time-out.
“Drastic times call for drastic measures,” he said. “They may be bigger and faster than we are, but they're not smarter.”
Then he drew up a play that wasn't like anything we had ever seen before. He lined up the whole team on the right side of the ball. The receivers were all wide right, nearly on the sideline. When the ball was snapped, they all ran straight up the field. Bam lined up for the deep snap like we were going to punt. He'd look to the right first, then throw left. See, with everybody on the right side of the ball, that makes the center the left end; it makes him eligible as a receiver. And no one expects the center to go out for a pass. When we asked Coach about it later, he didn't say if it was legal or not, only that it was worth a try. And I guess he did it with so much confidence, the referees figured it was all by the book. We never did look it up.
Anyway, Cobra was a tall, skinny kid. He played basketball and had great hands. He made a good center because he was quick on his feet for a big kid, and he handled the ball well. His eyes lit up at the thought of scoring a touchdown. We charged out onto the field after that time-out knowing we would win the game. When we broke from the huddle and everybody lined up on the right side, it put the defense into instant confusion. They were jumping around, not knowing what to do. At the last second they all shifted to the same side of the
field we were on, figuring it was a fake punt. Cobra snapped the ball. It seemed the whole world rushed to the right side of the field, except for Cobra. He ran a few steps left and Bam dumped the ball off to him before being smothered by the rushing defense. Cobra snatched it out of the air with one hand like he would a rebound and ran down the left sideline while everybody on West's team stood there wondering if we could really pass to the center. The West coach was furious. He stomped around, screaming and throwing things for the rest of the game. But it was no use. We had won. And no matter how many times the referees explained it to him, he still wouldn't believe it. We had robbed him. We had beaten his team with a second-string guard who had made a lucky guess and a backyard play drawn up in the grass that had made our center a receiver. We had snuck in as the underdog and stolen away their chance at the championship game. It wasn't football at its finest; it was desperation, it was trickery, it was brilliant. The least likely team to win a game at all had made it to the championship. It was the year of “the holy transformation,” as Coach kept saying when the season was over. It was a miracle and we all knew it.
field we were on, figuring it was a fake punt. Cobra snapped the ball. It seemed the whole world rushed to the right side of the field, except for Cobra. He ran a few steps left and Bam dumped the ball off to him before being smothered by the rushing defense. Cobra snatched it out of the air with one hand like he would a rebound and ran down the left sideline while everybody on West's team stood there wondering if we could really pass to the center. The West coach was furious. He stomped around, screaming and throwing things for the rest of the game. But it was no use. We had won. And no matter how many times the referees explained it to him, he still wouldn't believe it. We had robbed him. We had beaten his team with a second-string guard who had made a lucky guess and a backyard play drawn up in the grass that had made our center a receiver. We had snuck in as the underdog and stolen away their chance at the championship game. It wasn't football at its finest; it was desperation, it was trickery, it was brilliant. The least likely team to win a game at all had made it to the championship. It was the year of “the holy transformation,” as Coach kept saying when the season was over. It was a miracle and we all knew it.
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