The Prophet (35 page)

“High bond.”

“You didn’t mention that to me.”

“My mind’s not really been on business, Chelsea. You know that.”

She was watching him skeptically.

“Are you in more trouble, Adam?”

“I intend to leave all my troubles behind me. You know this.”

She didn’t pursue the question any further. He looked at the clock.

“You about ready to head out?” he asked.

“To the
game?
It’s four hours away. We’re going to stand in the rain for three hours waiting on a football game?”

“We’ll grab an early dinner. I’d like to get over to Murray Hill, hit one of those little Italian places. Haven’t been there in a while.”

“It’s four hours away,” she repeated.

“When I played, the buses left at three thirty. That’s my tradition. Humor me?”

“My mission in life,” she said, and slipped on her jacket.

The game was a sellout, more than ten thousand tickets claimed by Friday morning, and the weather would not scare them away. Not in northeastern Ohio. Plenty of people would travel from Chambers, but the crowd would be largely hostile, and loud. Saint Anthony’s fans were used to seeing wins, particularly against Chambers. They would feel blood lust watching the Cardinals take their field with an undefeated record and a number-one ranking.

Kent intended to give the team the standard fare in the locker room. To keep things balanced and steady.
Head down, head down, head down.
It felt wrong tonight, though. So in the final moments before they took the field, after he gave them his usual reminder—
Know how lucky you are right now, about to play the best game ever invented with the best friends you’ll ever have—
he challenged his seniors.

“You’re going to take your uniforms off at some point this season for the last time,” he said. “You’ll never wear them again. Realize that. Every autumn has its end. Now let’s make sure you leave a trophy in the case before this one does.”

The team roared.

Chambers won the coin toss and Kent elected to defer the kickoff. Ordinarily he preferred to take it. He liked to put points on the board early, forcing the opponent to play from behind, but he expected this to be a close game and that extra second-half possession might be valuable.

Also, truth be told, he was worried about Colin botching the return.

Kent paced the sidelines, nodding at his players and slapping helmets and telling them they had to play fast and smart. Opposite him, on the Saint Anthony’s sideline, Scott Bless conferred with Rob Sonnefeld, his quarterback, and Kent couldn’t help but glance at them, thinking,
Let’s get this started, let’s see what you’ve got.

It was raining steadily, the wind coming in gusts, the temperature in the forties. Weather that was better suited for the power game of Saint Anthony’s, but that was fine, Kent wasn’t in the business of making excuses. His team was prepared to win in any conditions, and should.

Five snaps later, the confidence was already ebbing. Sonnefeld
had passed four times, completed three of them, and the ball was at the Chambers twenty-five. So much for the power game. Kent had expected Bless to use two tight ends and test the Chambers front line, so instead Bless had spent the whole week spreading the field and preparing to test their secondary.

On the sixth snap Sonnefeld went with a play-action fake and Ritter, Damon-the-best-linebacker-Kent-had-ever-coached Ritter, bit on it, jumped away from the number-two receiver, his coverage responsibility, who promptly caught the ball behind him and then six points were on the board, Chambers losing already.

“What are you doing?”
Kent shouted as Damon came off the field, head down. “Where were your eyes? You’re looking in the backfield! Don’t you
ever
look at Sonnefeld! You know better than that.
We don’t make that mistake!
”

Ritter said
“Yes, sir,”
retreated, and Kent shook his head in disgust and paced away as the extra point sailed in: 7–0. He’d never held a lead against Saint Anthony’s. Not even a
lead.

“We’ve still got this ballgame,” he said into the headset, and his assistants nodded, but nobody was looking at him. It was a bad start and they all knew it.

The offense gained one first down on three straight carries by Justin Payne, all part of the script, designed to settle things down, force Saint Anthony’s to respect the running game. When Lorell took his first snap out of the shotgun, he pump-faked, and there was Colin on a hitch route, the ball coming in high and soft and right in stride.

He caught it.

Then bobbled it. Kent had a fist raised already, wild with excitement both for the kid and for the knowledge that this was about to be a tie ballgame, because they would not catch Colin from behind.

But they did. He was juggling the ball, fighting for possession,
and his feet went unsteady on the wet turf, and then the cornerback caught him with a sweeping right hand and the ball was out and bouncing free and as Saint Anthony’s scooped it up Kent thought,
Please tell me he dropped that one, too, please rule it incomplete.

They ruled it complete. Fumble recovered by the defense on the forty.

Kent went out onto the field to meet Colin, grabbed his helmet, and forced his face up. “You’ll have that play all night long,” he said. “You’re going to make it every other time. You believe that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Yes, sir!”

Kent slapped the side of his helmet and returned to the sidelines and watched Sonnefeld direct a precise, balanced drive that chewed seven minutes off the clock and featured another effective fake, this time on a reverse, and again Chambers chased the ball and forgot their gaps. They held them to a field goal, but it was already 10–0.

“We’re going to get fucking beat,” Kent said through clenched teeth. It was too soft for the players to hear, but his headset microphone was on, and every assistant heard it. He saw their heads snap up, the Kent Austin profanity-free-football-field myth having officially crumbled, and he thought about apologizing but decided against it. Wiped the rain off his face with the back of his hand and walked to the farthest end of the sideline, shaking his head.

A
S HIS BROTHER PACED AND
muttered, Adam circled the field, bumping through throngs of kids with painted faces and ducking an errant trombone slide from a pep band member, trying to reach the opposite end zone and a clearer view. Chelsea came with him, and they stood in the south end zone, where the wind blew cold rain into their faces.

“Some date you are,” she said. “Walked right past the concession stand and you don’t even offer me popcorn?”

“Who wants to eat wet popcorn?”

“Fair point.” She was watching the Chambers sideline. “Your brother doesn’t look happy.”

“He shouldn’t.” Adam folded his arms over his chest, then saw the way Chelsea was ducking against the rain and moved to stand behind her and wrap his arms around her. She leaned back, pressing her weight against him.

On Chambers’s second and third possessions, Scott Bless started rolling his safety down into the box instead of helping over the top on Mears, as if the one fumble had been enough to confirm what he’d hoped was true, that Mears was now an
empty threat. Lorell McCoy tested the belief, found Mears three times, put the ball in his hands with each pass, and the kid never came close to holding on to one. Chelsea covered her eyes on the third drop. The Chambers defense had stiffened up, maintaining their gaps, no longer biting on the play action, and they forced yet another punt. When the teams took the field again, the Saint Anthony’s safety was shading four yards farther in and five yards closer to the line of scrimmage, hovering nakedly in the flat. Outright ignoring Mears, trusting their slow-ass cornerback to handle him. It shouldn’t even have been an option. Tonight, though, it was simply the right decision.

Chambers worked the ball downfield patiently, McCoy looking poised, picking up blitzes and moving well in the pocket, gaining first downs on sweeps and veers. Twice he saw Mears wide open, hesitated, and then checked down and threw underneath. Mears stood downfield with his arms up, wanting to know where the ball was. Adam could hardly stand to watch the kid.

The drive stalled on the fifteen and they took a field goal: 10–3. Saint Anthony’s answered with a field goal of their own, making it 13–3 as the rain began to pour. They had control of the game but hadn’t put it out of reach, and with only two minutes left in the half, Adam thought that it wasn’t as bad it could have been.

Then they went for an onside kick, and he said, “Holy shit.”

What a call. What a bold play call. Saint Anthony’s recovered, and while the move had certainly caught Chambers off guard, it also seemed as if two of Saint Anthony’s special teams players had gotten one hell of a jump on the kick, and Adam looked for a penalty flag but didn’t find one. Then Chelsea said, “Uh-oh. Your brother…” and then he saw Kent storming onto the field, screaming, tearing his headset off and hurling it behind him.

“Come on, Franchise,” Adam whispered. “Don’t go down like this. Not like this.”

“That is offsides! He was offsides by five steps! Are you out of your mind? How did you not see that!”

Kent was near midfield now, and he was aware that his headset had shattered when it hit the aluminum bench but didn’t care, he was too focused on fury.

“Coach, go back to the sideline.”

“How did you not see that!”
Kent screamed. His face was inches from the official’s, rain stinging his eyes and dripping into his mouth. He spun and kicked the ground and the turf was so wet he tore a furrow through it, sent a divot flying into the air, and drew a roar from the crowd.

“Back… to… the… sideline,” the official repeated.

“You’re standing on the line and you can’t see him jump? Are you kidding me? You’re
right on top of it! That is all you need to watch! That is your only responsibility!
” The official was trying to walk away but Kent was keeping pace with him, still screaming, still face-to-face, and when the flag finally came out he should not have been surprised, but it further incensed him.

“This is bullshit! This is absolute bullshit!”

He felt a hand on his arm then, started to tear free from it, but it was Matt Byers and his grip was firm. “Coach, get back now. Don’t get thrown out of this game.”

He let Byers pull him back to the sidelines as the Saint Anthony’s crowd booed and Scott Bless regarded him with what appeared to be genuine surprise. Kent picked up his headset, saw that it was in pieces, none of the indicator lights glowing, and dropped it again. One of his assistants was offering him a new one but he brushed it off and paced away as the chain crew
moved their markers another fifteen yards downfield in honor of his penalty. He stood alone with his arms folded, his hat lying somewhere in the mud, and watched as Sonnefeld completed four straight passes and then scored from the one on a quarterback dive as the clock wound down.

20–3 at the half.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Kent shouted, his voice breaking, as he looked at the rain-swept scoreboard. Not again. Not again.

Adam stepped away from Chelsea as the team jogged toward their locker room, heads down all around, and his brother remained on the sideline, his chin resting on his right hand as he studied the scoreboard as if it were a code he could not decipher. Adam wanted to go to him, say something. He didn’t know what. He just wanted to speak to him.

But he couldn’t get to him. Kent had walked out to the middle of the field, into the jeers and boos from the Saint Anthony’s fans. In the Chambers bleachers, the crowd was silent. Stunned by the score and by the meltdown from their always-impassive head coach. Adam could see Beth sitting with the kids, one on either side of her, the three of them nestled in the center of the friendly crowd. He stopped trying to reach his brother and stood at the fence, watched as Kent crossed the field and found the officials. A hand was extended to the one who’d missed the call and received the tirade, a few words whispered in his ear, a quick pat on the back. The official nodded, apology accepted. The Chambers fans applauded; Saint Anthony’s fans continued to boo. Kent walked off the field with his head down, alone in the pouring rain, and Adam’s throat tightened as he watched him go.

“Good for you, Franchise,” he said. “Good for you.”

Damn it, he was proud of him.

The rest of the coaches were waiting for him outside the locker room. They usually spoke there while the kids caught their breath alone inside, talked about potential adjustments. Tonight Kent walked straight for the door.

“We are not done,” he said. Those were the only words he had for his staff.

Usually the locker room hushed when he opened the door; tonight it was already silent. He went to the whiteboard, took one of the markers, and wrote the number 3 as large as he could. Turned and faced the team and said, “What’s that mean to you?”

“How many points we’ve got,” Lorell McCoy said.

Kent shook his head. “How many touchdowns we need. Now let me show you one more number.” He turned and wrote another 3 on the board. “Anybody know what that one is?”

Silence.

“That’s the fewest amount of touchdowns we’ve scored all year,” he said. “The most is eight. The average is five. The
average
is
five.
Does anyone doubt we can get three?”

Nobody did. He put the cap on the marker and set it down and said, “We will win this football game, gentlemen. They played a good half. We will play a better one now. And we will not lose composure. I’ve done that for you. I apologize. You need to be better than me now, understand that? You need to be better than me.”

Intense eyes watched him from every corner. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and said, “They’ll keep throwing the ball. Bless will not take his foot off our throats until it’s out of reach. With our offense, he cannot feel that it’s ever out of reach. And he is correct. Agreed?”