Chapter 77: Matriculate the Ball Down the Field

Standing in the locker room before kickoffs had become one of Tim’s favorite things about playing football. The anticipation was grueling, though. Some guys think they won’t worry about it until they get out in front of the student body, but the moment when any football player anywhere in the world realizes, “If I fuck up, everyone will know and let ME know all about it for the rest of the week!” was usually followed up by a visit to vomit can. The student managers and trainers understood to select one of the many steel trash cans placed in the locker room by the stadium staff, put a trash bag in it, put it to the side, away from everyone, and don’t look inside until time to clean up.

An equal number of guys wound themselves up so tightly that, by the time it was almost kickoff, they had hair triggers setting them off on anything. Usually, seeing and hearing a teammate puking into a trash can in the corner forced them to quickly gather beside him and begin ’shouting for Huey.’

Then there were players who had “been there and done that,” so they didn’t mention it to the others. Basically, you kept to yourself and tried not to get in anyone’s way who seemed to be finding the quickest way across the locker room. Bad games were when one or two guys didn’t quite make it to the trash can. Those games had become bad voodoo for that night’s game. An unwritten rule was to make sure no one was standing by the vomit can if they didn’t need to. The captains put it on themselves to move guys blocking paths to the far corner.

This night, a second can was added after the original nearly overflowed from frequent use.

It was the first time for the Rough Riders to play in the Alamodome. San Antonio’s largest football stadium was unofficially built to lure an NFL team to move to the city. That didn’t happen. The Alamodome had served as the home for the San Antonio Spurs of the NBA for several years before they built their own stadium. The closest to the NFL the Alamodome got was in the aftermath of Hurricane Katrina when the New Orleans Saints played two “home” games before returning to the Big Easy.

This evening the Alamodome hosted the hometown favorites, the Roosevelt Rough Riders, in a battle against the Austin Vandergrift Vipers. Vandergrift, as a school, had only recently opened, and their football program had not seen its first decade. Yet, each football season so far had seen them reach deep into the playoffs. The previous season saw the Vipers reach the state quarterfinals, and this new team returned nearly all starters from last season’s team. They had quite a head start against other schools playing on the football field. They would not be an easy team to beat.

This high school football playoff game had been placed on a neutral field since both teams have large cheering sections, and both have been traveling well for games. The two stadiums considered were the Alamodome and the stadium for the University of Texas at Austin. A coin flip between the two head coaches with representatives from the University Interscholastic League offices who oversaw the coin flip as Big John Fontana called for heads and guessed correctly. So the game was to be played at the Alamodome with the UTSA Roadrunner logo painting on the field since the Roadrunners were on the road that weekend.

The nerves of several players were getting the better of them, and they needed to frequent the vomit trash before the start of the game. Tim felt fine, but he did notice the nerves of the team overwhelming everyone’s thoughts.

“Shit. Frank. I’m getting worried about the team,” Tim whispered to the team’s senior middle linebacker and defensive captain.

Frank was lying on his back on top of the UTSA Roadrunner mascot painted on the fifty-yard line of the field. He was trying to calm himself by counting the number of lights hanging from the roof of the domed stadium.

“Ain’t no big thing, Mayhem. I feel it. We’ll have to say something to the fellas before we come out here for warm-ups,” Frank answered nonchalantly before throwing his legs over his head and rolling into sitting Indian-style and continuing his conversation with the star of the team. Frank stood and gestured for Tim to stand as well. “Besides, I got something very philosophical and important to tell these assholes before the game. You want a preview?”

Tim looked around, saw no one within twenty yards of the duo, and nodded.

Frank stood a little taller staring right at Tim’s face. He leaned in closely, never taking his eyes away from Tim’s, and let loose an awe-inspiring belch and proceeded to blow the remnants of the pregame meal right in Tim’s face. It was loud enough to be heard by anyone standing on the field and started a chorus of laughs and attempts at besting it from several players. Tim was waving his hands in front of his face and feigning gasping for air before throwing himself onto the field and rolling onto his back. He then threw his legs straight up at the hips and faked death from exposure to toxic fumes.

A familiar double whistle tweet blaring out from the entrance to the locker room signaled the ending of the get-acclimated phase of the pregame. Tim took a moment before rolling himself off the floor to notice the many hanging lights himself and could not stop from beginning to count the lights hanging from the ceiling.

The online high school sports experts all pointed to this game being the first real test for the Rough Riders. Vandergrift featured a team with several players already earning football scholarship offers. Sure, many of those were for smaller schools, but still, most high school football players do not receive offers to have their higher education fully funded by said institutions.

The stand-out players were mainly on the Vandergrift defense. The defense started with their three-time All-State Middle Linebacker, Hunter Hunter. His first name was Hunter, and his last name was also Hunter. His friends called him Double-H. This season featured prominently around where Hunter would decide to play college football. He did what the experts expected him to do by choosing to stay close to home and play for the University of Texas Longhorns.

Wearing a white and burnt orange onesie and sleeping underneath a University of Texas banner adorning the length of his crib, Hunter Hunter was indoctrinated almost from birth to attend the University of Texas. His father, Richard Hunter, played fullback in the early 1990s for UT and reveled with each chance he got to show people the picture of baby Hunter in that crib.

Hunter was happy to be going to UT, but Double-H’s deepest desire at this time was to lead his team to a state title in his senior year. In the past three seasons, the Vandergrift Vipers had lost in the area round, failing to go all the way.

The students and fans of Vandergrift were not convinced, and a sense of helplessness was palpable. They had seen the footage of Tim Murphy and the Rough Riders destroying every other team they played against this season. They’d read the reports from other teams after playing against the Rough Riders. Even Hunter had secretly worried about having to play against a team that seemed to have figured out how to destroy their opponents. The main outcome that had Hunter worried was how every team seemed to be so defeated by the Rough Riders that nearly every team who lost to the Riders also lost the next game the following week because they could not get over their previous loss.

Hunter led a stout defense, and their offense was nothing to sneeze at. Its spread option attack was ranked statewide in offenses all season for overall points scored, and the Vipers did it without any true superstars on the offense. The quarterback was ranked a solid three-out-of-five star athlete by the recruiting experts on the internet. He was expected to go to a smaller school and was considered at a coin-flip from there as to whether he could recreate the offensive numbers from high school in college.

They had two wide receivers racking up over one thousand yards in receptions this season alone. The two were both ranked as high two-star receivers by the same recruiting experts.

Beau Brewster was a bruiser of a running back. He got the tough yards. He ran with authority and surprisingly fast for a man his size. He was also six feet four inches and weighed 230 pounds —enormous for a running back, even by professional standards. His running style could best be described as a battering ram.

Jamal Flores was the polar opposite of his teammate; he was lighting in a bottle. Not only was he fast, but he was quick thinking, changing directions in an instant to exploit surprise holes opening up before him. Flores was also a member of the Vandergrift Viper Track and Field team, on which he held the state championship time in the 100-meter dash of 10.22 seconds. He said in several media interviews that he would be finished playing football when he finished high school. He was going to continue his track and field career. Therefore, no big college football programs were recruiting him, but track programs were hunting him eagerly.

The students and fans of Vandergrift were not convinced of the team’s chances, and a sense of helplessness was palpable. They had seen the footage of Tim Murphy and the Rough Riders destroying every other team they played against this season. They’d read the reports from other teams after playing against the Rough Riders. Even Hunter had secretly worried about having to play against a team that seemed to have figured out how to destroy their opponents. The main outcome that Hunter worried about was how each team appeared to be so defeated by the Rough Riders that nearly every one who lost to the Riders also lost their next game because they could not get over their previous loss.

The kickoff to start the game served as a great focus-grabber for the Rough Riders. It immediately got the players concentrating on the game rather than where it was being played. Even the coaches, who would have never admitted their nervousness prior to kickoff, woke up and focused.

Juan Cano was as reliable as ever and booted the opening kickoff deep into the end zone. The Riders’ special team immediately believed the Viper kick returner would “take a knee” in the end zone, so the game would begin on the Vipers’ twenty-yard-line. Unfortunately, to a man, the Rough Riders all slowed down before the play was over. With the Rough Riders’ attentions elsewhere, no one, not even the Roosevelt coaches, seemed to notice the Vipers’ normal kick returner was not in the game – not until Jamal Flores caught the kick with ease and began running the kick back at the Riders.

Thinking the Vipers would take the ball on their twenty-yard-line, the Riders’ special teams naturally slowed their pursuit of the returner. Why run when not necessary? The screams from coaches and other players on the sideline and the fans in the stands were the first indications of something wrong with their assumptions.

Flores juked and spun his way down the field, dodging tackler after tackler. The Rough Riders had never run into speed like this their entire football season. With Vipers fans cheering on their star running back, Jamal Flores was drifting toward his right side as he evaded and ran past Rider after Rider. When he crossed the fifty-yard line, the number of Riders between him and a possible touchdown had dramatically fallen.

His kick stayed roughly in the middle of the field, and he had been taught as the kicker that he needed to hold back rather than run full-speed to tackle the kick returner, so Juan Cano appeared to be the only Rough Rider player doing his job correctly. He needed to hold back and act as the last line of defense to keep Flores from running for a touchdown.

Juan Cano was always willing to tackle, but luckily, he had never needed to do so since rising to the varsity squad as a junior. He had made several tackles as a freshman when his original position on the football team was as a free safety. Being the dedicated athlete he was, he had often practiced his tackling technique.

Cano used his instincts from soccer to help him in this sport. He realized the runner was headed toward the sideline, so he initially drifted toward that side of the field. When he noticed the runner’s uptake in speed, Juan sped himself up and worked the geometry in his head to where he could meet the runner before he scored a touchdown. Unfortunately, just like every member of his team, Juan Cano had never seen speed like that before. He realized he would probably be too late to reach the kick returner.

Juan Cano did the only thing he could and braced himself to make a last-ditch jump at the back legs of the speedy runner in the black and silver school colors of Austin Vandergrift. Before making the leap, he noticed the long, black dreadlocks of the young man poking out from under his helmet and collecting down the middle of his back. Cano decided for those as a target rather than just trying to tangle his legs. In mid-air, Cano adjusted himself to reach first for the dreadlocks as high as he could, and if he missed, he could aim for the legs.

Cano grabbed a firm hold of the dreadlocks and pulled toward himself with all his might. A loud scream indicated the kicker had the runner’s attention, and his head was pulled violently back. When the speedy legs comically fired into the air and could no longer hold onto the ground, the two high schoolers tumbled hard into the ground and rolled into several Viper players standing along the sideline.

Juan released his hold of the hair when he made contact with the ground. He soon smiled to himself after seeing he had had done his job. The Vipers on the sideline, including Flores, lifted themselves off the ground, and Juan took an offered hand in front of his face.

“Shit. My dad always joked to me that was gonna happen someday. Nice grab, kicker,” Jamal Flores smiled while helping Juan Cano up from under a few Vipers.

“It was all I could reach,” Juan admitted. No interference came from either Vipers or a few of the closer Riders players who had moved to collect their kicker. With none worse for wear, both sides separated and jogged off to prepare for the first offensive play of the playoff game.

The other four special teams players jogging with Juan back to the Rough Rider sideline were initially smiling because they stopped a possible touchdown, but what they returned to was not what they expected.

Francine “Franny” Fontana was getting ready to leave for her husband’s football game when she noticed the lights on the back porch were shining brightly. She peeked out the back door and saw her husband seated quietly, admiring the nature scene of their backyard.

“Hey, John, what’s the matter?” she asked from behind the screen door.

Big John Fontana, the athletic director and Head Football Coach at Roosevelt High School, was staring out into nothing while sitting on the couple’s outdoor swing and sipping from his favorite coffee cup. The swing was made by Big John himself more than twenty years earlier so the couple could share some quiet time alone while watching mother nature at work on the lake 100 feet from their back porch.

He didn’t hear his wife say anything. “Hey John, what’s the matter?” This time, she was on the porch with him, and he reacted to her light touch on his shoulder.

“Oh! Hey, Franny. Did you need me for something?”

“No,” she said while taking her spot on the swing next to her husband. “But I am wondering what exactly you are doing here when you’ve got an important football game to go get to ... don’t you,” she questioned.

Big John smiled as he reached for his wife’s hand when she sat down. “Oh, I still got some time.” He pulled her hand up to his mouth and gave it a small.

“I’m not complaining, but what brought that on?”

“I dunno,” Big John answered honestly. “I’m actually a little worried about how the kids are gonna play today. I mean, there is nothing I can quite pin my feelings on that happened this week. In fact, every practice this week was great. I should be feeling very happy about this week’s game. If there is a direct correlation between how well a team practices the week before a football game and how well they are going to play in that game,” he paused his explanation. “Well, let’s just say I’d be worried for these Austin Vandergrift kids.”

Franny politely giggled at her husband’s explanation. “But you don’t think that is gonna happen this week?” she asked.

“No. Nothing specific. Just years of experience trying to slap me across the face.” Franny giggled again. Big John liked it whenever he could make his wife laugh. He even liked it when she laughed at him rather than with him.

“So, you’ve got some nerves for tonight’s game?”

Big John nodded and looked out over the calm waters of the small lake behind their home.

“Well, okay then. You get to wallow in your self-pity for a few more minutes, then you’re gonna get up off this swing, give me one of your nuclear hot kisses, and then get your ass to the school and lead those boys to a victory – kicking and screaming if necessary.”

Big John smiled as his worries seemed to instantly dissolve. He did as instructed, but while kissing his wife, he picked her up off the swing as well. Then, in a dramatic fashion, he swung his arm in a huge arch from high above his head and smacked his wife right on her left buttock. When she looked up at him in surprise, Big John simply winked at her and quickly headed through the house and out the front door.

Franny was still smiling and remembering every other time the love of her life had done that to her. She also worried about her hubby since she could not remember the last time he had come home after school before a game. He always stayed after the final bell and worked on the playbook until it was time to go to the stadium where they were playing.

“Why did he come home?” Fanny asked herself as she put his coffee cup in the dishwasher, set the security alarm, and left for the stadium. She liked to greet the other coaches’ wives at the stadium, and they all sat together for the games.

Driving to the Alamodome downtown, she asked herself again, “Why did he come home?” She eventually put it down to big-game nerves and excited herself, knowing she would be getting much more time with the love of her life once the football season ended. At least in a couple of weeks — after the state championship game was played. Win or lose, she was getting more time with her love back home. She smiled at that thought.

When Juan Cano and four other special teamers jogged back to their own sideline after stopping the surprising near touchdown run on the kickoff, the air surrounding the Rough Riders was confusing and restricting at the same time. On the sideline, Big John Fontana was having a yelling fit. Even his fellow coaches were shocked at the ferocity of the drumming-down coming from the normally stoic and reserved head coach.

“I don’t know where the hell you stupid sons of bitches think you are! This is the Texas High School football playoffs! The team on the other sideline does not expect to lose to a team of upstarts from a worse football town than theirs! That team doesn’t think they are going to win; they know they are! They have practiced! They have prepared! They are doing all the right things for an all-out bloodbath tonight! They don’t care how many times you get on TV for stuff you’ve done in the past! They know, deep in their bones, that y’all ain’t never seen anything like them.

“That kickoff just showed it. They were ready. You weren’t! They will win if you don’t get yourself ready for what’s ahead!” Big John was frothing at the mouth. The veins in his neck and forehead pulsed and protruded from underneath his skin. The contrast between his dark suntanned skin and those rarely-seen anger veins was frightening to everyone. His son, the offensive line coach, was on the other side of the sideline and was quickly marching his way toward his father behind the rest of the team.

“Cano!” Big John yelled when he sensed the return of his all-star kicker jogging up behind him with the other special teamers.

“Yeah, coach!” the senior placekicker barked back.

“After you fell into the other players on the tackle, did they start any shit with you?” Big John’s question was unwavering, and his use of profanity was another shock to the team – first, because he was an educator, but also because he famously considered it a lack of strong vocabulary. “Did you have to get ready to fight your way away from the sideline?”

“No, sir. They were all matter-of-fact like. Seemed like they were surprised I made the tackle,” Juan Cano answered and quickly added, “Sir.”

Big John raised his voice to an even higher volume than his previous yells. “You see? They don’t need to show off about making a great play because they know there’s fixin’ to be a whole bunch of better plays coming right up! Why tell your opponent you’re better than them when you can just frigging’ show it?”

Big John seemed to catch his breath, and his son stepped toward his father through the team, but Big John stared an arrow straight between his eyes. The arrow told his son to stand down and that his father knew what he was doing. During his pause, the ref could be heard from the mid-field, “Coach, let’s go. Get your defense on the field.”

“Time out, ref.”

The referee looked confused momentarily then shook his head and blew his whistle, indicating the time-out called by the Rough Riders.

“Defense. On me, please.” The head coach and athletic director was back to the slow, confident, and even-keeled authority figure they had known. “I want you to listen to me. I want you to take back control of this game.” He paused and stared intently into the eyes of each starting player, taking a moment to show his seriousness to each of the eleven pairs of eyes he was looking into. “I want you to do something so unbelievably incredible on a football field ... I want people all over the country to go ‘holy shit’ when they watch the highlights on TV.” Big John paused again, but then he noticed the building rage in the eyes of each player. “Stay within the rules. Stop the offense! Get me that ball back!”

Big John took a step back from the defense as they all looked at each other, pounded shoulder pads, and slapped each other in the helmets to hype each other up even more.

“Do it within the rules, and bring the ball back for the offense. Who are you?” Coach O’Shaughnessy yelled at his defense but spoke loud enough for the entire team to hear him.

“Rough Riders!”

Big John brought his voice to his normal confident tone and continued. “He asked, ‘Who are you?’”

“Rough Riders!”

“Who?”

“Rough Riders!”

Coach O’Shaughnessy took the initiative, understanding precisely what Big John wanted. “Robinson!” The defense turned to see their defensive coordinator standing right behind them. “You know what to do. Kill everybody! Let the paramedics sort them out!”

The defense knew what to do.

Without waiting, team captain and middle linebacker Frank Robinson, so charged up he could have upended a 100-year-old oak tree with his bare hands, yelled out the defensive plan of attack for the first play from the Vipers’ offense. “Coach O watching old movies again, y’all! Kill everybody!” He turned his head to the other side of the defensive huddle. “Kill everybody! Ready!”

The defense barked it right back. With clapping hands or slapping their thigh pads, “Break!”

The defensive play known as “kill everybody” was a full-blown blitz from each player, concentrating on Tim Murphy and the push from his side of the defensive line. Whenever this defense was called in the past, Coach O’Shaughnessy had stressed absolute effort from each defender. It stressed doing everything in your power to tackle whoever held the ball. No stopping until the whistle.