Friday Night Lights: A Town, a Team, and a Dream (54 page)

Just before the team had left to fly to Austin, a final message
of inspiration had been placed on the bulletin board of the field
house. It came from Don Meredith, who had been an AllAmerican quarterback at Southern Methodist University and
an All-Pro quarterback with the Dallas Cowboys. But the game
he felt proudest of took place when he had played quarterback
for the Mount Vernon Purple and White Tigers in the homecoming game against Sulphur Spring.

I knew at that moment I'd given everything I had to give, total commitment. Not holding back anything. Like being truly clean and truly free
as far as maximum effort. It's an emotional feeling, an emotional high
that is basically unparalleled.

There wasn't a player in that locker room who didn't innately understand exactly what lion Meredith was talking
about. They had felt that feeling before, and they knew in their
hearts they would feel it today in the gray drizzle of Memorial
Stadium. As they huddled around Gaines, there wasn't one who
didn't think that Permian, somehow, some way, would win.

That was their great cutting edge. That's what made them different. And they would not give it up, not against the Carter
Cowboys with their 4.4 flyboys and their All-American hotshots
and the wild-eyed fervor of their fans fueled by all those Kafkaesque court battles to stay in the playoffs, not against anyone.

""There's four teams left in the state of Texas, and the
Permian Panthers are one of those four," Gaines softly told his
players moments before it was time to take to the field. They
huddled around him on one knee, their faces so earnest, so
filled with nervousness and hope, and they truly did seem like
a family, the bunch of brothers that Gaines had talked about so
long ago before the Odessa High game. It seemed corny then,
the kind of sentiment coaches always tried to invoke. But it
didn't now. They were together, white and black and Hispanic,
rich and poor, and they would stay that way for as long as they
were a team, as long as they had another game to play.

"We got to go out with the attitude that we are not going to
get beat," said Gaines. "We are not going to accept anything less
than a win. That's the attitude that we have to have. They've
played some good football teams but I don't think they've
played anybody capable of getting after 'em for forty-eight
minutes like we're capable of getting after em."

Everything was in place for that to happen. Nothing was absent, not even the painful retching of Ivory Christian.

His heaves echoed in the locker room as if lie was choking,
the sounds more horrible and violent than usual, but by now
they had become reassuring, an encouraging vital sign.

It meant that he, like everyone else, had come too far and
been through too much not to win it all, not to go to State.

III

"Fuck you ... motherfucker ... bitch ..."

The words came out of Derric Evans in a frothing torrent,
anything he could think of, it didn't really matter what it was,
just as long as he whispered something every time he fell over Mike Winchell, just as long as it was foul and filthy, just as long
as he let Winchell know that every time he took the snap from
center there would be Derric Evans again, the All-American
High School Hit Man, ready to hold him up again and whisper
sweet nothings into his ear. It was all part of the rite, all part of
the image, all part of the Intimidation Trip.

"Pussy ... bitch ..."

It defined the savage spirit of the game.

The Carter defense was every bit as good as the college scouts
said it would be. Slivers of space closed instantaneously. Comer
was buried under by five, six, seven Carter Cowbo) s as he tried
to cut up to the outside. Billingsley, despite a noble effort,
looked like a Lilliputian trying to block defensive ends and linebackers who were seven inches taller and forty pounds heavier.
They were too big, too quick, too fast as he dove in front of
them, Hinging his body in a vain effort to stop them. Sometimes
he got a piece of them, but most of the time they just sidestepped him like toreadors or pushed him away as though he
was a bothersome younger cousin.

Winchell was having tremendous difficulty throwing the ball,
and it was hard to know why-the rain, or the nervousness of
playing in Memorial Stadium, or his own silent prophecy of
failure. The ball skittered off his hand, underthrown, overthrown, nowhere near its intended target.

For the first time all season, Permian was having trouble moving the ball at all, punting on three of its first four possessions.
But so was Carter.

Compared to Carter, the Permian defense had no individual
talent at all except for Ivory Christian at middle linebacker and
Hill at safety. But that didn't matter. Like an exquisite machine,
the defense fell for nothing, not the play fakes, not the flea
flicker, not the three receiver-side formations or any of the
other seventy-odd formations that Carter had run during the
course of the season. The Permian players had been trained
and molded to perfection, every ounce of skill extracted and
made into something, and it showed stunningly.

It was going to be a football game after all, a mean, relentless,
thudding fight in the gray and the rain.

With about three minutes left in the second quarter and the
game scoreless, Permian faced a second and thirteen from the
Carter 31. Comer got the ball on a pitch and moved around
the right side. McDougal hung up the defensive end with a
good block. Billingsley, using his entire body, momentarily
wrapped up Derric Evans. Comer had daylight to the outside
with Hill and Winchell running interference ahead of him. Hill
got a piece of one defensive back. Winchell dove into another
one and wiped him out. Comer was off now, the legs pumping,
in full stride, furious, strong.

A Carter player came from behind and lunged, grabbing
hold of his jersey. Comer refused to go down, dragging the
player along for several yards to the 15. The grip finally came
loose, the player slipping to the ground as if he was sinking into
a swamp, and Comer broke off into the end zone.

The extra point was no good, but that was all right, because
each of the Permian fans who had driven on icy, dangerous
roads to come to Austin knew at that very moment that the only
thing in the world better than the vaunted Carter Cowboy defense was the magic of Mojo. The Carter side fell silent, pulling
out umbrellas to ward off the miserable rain that now started
falling again. The only sounds came from the band, not spirited or militaristic, but an almost mournful wail.

The Cowboys came right back, moving fifty-eight yards in a
minute to tie the score, the touchdown coming on a seventeenyard pass from quarterback Robert Hall to flanker Marcus
Grant.

The Cowboys' extra point was good, giving them a 7-6
lead, and the Carter side reverberated with newly discovered
enthusiasm:

"MO JO! YOU GOT TO GO! MOJO! YOU GOT TO GO! MOJO! YOU GOT TO GO!"

Permian got the ball back at its own 20. Aided by a twenty five-yard scramble on third down by Winchell and an interference penalty against Carter, it moved down to the Carter 14
with four seconds left before the half.

Alan Wyles, a talented kicker who absolutely hated to kick,
came in to trv a thirty-one-yard field goal. The kick reflected
his angst. It fluttered painfully, like something in slow motion,
taking forever to reach the crossbar. Finally, the referees gave
the signal. It was wide to the left.

Permian was down by a point with two periods left to play.

McDougal walked through the locker room at halftime with an
almost frantic look on his face.

""This is it!" he yelled, angry, his eyes ablaze, filled with a mixture of venom and fear. "You want your last game to be here?
These punks are just askin' to be rocked! Let's rock 'em and go
home! What else do you have to do over Christmas holidays?"

"Play football," several players answered back.

The defense had performed wonderfully, holding Carter to
14 yards on the ground and 117 passing. On offense, Comer
had already gained 109 yards. But Winchell was only 2 of 16
passing for 42 yards and 1 interception. He was losing the
struggle to the old, familiar demons.

Right before the second half began, Gaines gathered the
players around him once again, his voice rising as he spoke.

"We gotta hammer 'em. We gotta keep hammerin' at 'em.
Our conditioning's gotta pay off for us. Our discipline's gotta
pay off for us. Our mental toughness has to pay off for us.

"Keep diggin'! Keep scratchin'! Keep clawin'! Give a fanatical
effort this second half! That's what it's gonna take! A fanatical
effort! Better than you've ever given in your entire life! You all
understand ?"

"Yes sir. "

Comer fumbled to begin the second half. The Cowboys took
over at the Permian 49 but couldn't move the ball and had
to punt.

The kick was blocked by Steve Womack.

Permian had a first down at the Carter 17.

"MO JO! MO JO! MO JO! MO JO!"

The cries from the soaked-to-the bone fans carried to the
heavens.

But the Permian drive sputtered and it was time for Wyles to
agonize his way through another field goal, this one from the
30 instead of the 31.

The kick fluttered painfully, just like the last one. It took forever to reach the crossbar, just like the last one. But it was good.

Permian had regained the lead, 9-7.

The defense played with even more fire, swarming, running
for their lives. A reverse snuffed out perfectly by Ivory Christian for no gain. Billy Steen, who bore no resemblance whatever to a football player but had become one through sheer
will, fighting off an offensive lineman four inches taller and
fifty pounds heavier to sack the quarterback. Felipe Davila looping around a lineman thirty-five pounds heavier than he was to
force the quarterback into an off-target throw. Chad Payne diving to trip up a running back and stop a draw play from going
all the way. The Carter offense was fidgety, nervous, rattled.
But so was the Permian offense.

Billingsley on a pitch and immediately smothered by the two
All-Americans, Armstead and Evans, for a loss of two. Comer
on a pitch, smothered by defensive end Joseph Tips. Evans
sacking Winchell and lying on top of him after the play so he
could whisper into his ear, let him know that he was a pussy, a
motherfucker, a sissy bitch. Hill open for the first down over
the middle but the ball floppy and fluttering and out of his
reach.

The third quarter ended with Permian still ahead by two
points.

Carter's Hall dropped back to pass with a first and ten at the
Permian 48. The rain was falling in sheets, and there were
puddles all over the field. He threw deep and the ball sliced through Marcus Grant's fingers and fell to the turf, but Grant
deftly cradled the ball in as if he had caught it. Television replays unquestionably showed that the ball had been dropped.
But the official in charge of making the call ruled it a completed
pass. It gave Carter a twenty-five-yard gain and a first down at
the Permian 27. Permian supporters, accurately noting that the
official had never been in position to see the play in the first
place, later grumbled that he made it the way he did because
he was black and favored Carter. Whatever happened, the
Cowboys had just gotten a wonderful gift.

The beat of drums started up from the Carter side. With a
second and ten, Hall dropped back to pass. He made a spin
move to escape outside linebacker Greg Sweatt on a blitz and
then threw a little dump-off pass to fullback David ]ones. He
got the block he needed and ran untouched down the left sideline for a touchdown. He knelt down to pray afterward in the
end zone before several delirious teammates went to pull him
up. The extra point was good.

Carter led 14-9 with eleven minutes left.

Permian got the ball, stalled, and punted. Carter got the ball,
stalled, and punted. Permian got the ball, stalled, and punted.
Carter got the ball, stalled, and punted. Permian got the ball at
its own 48-yard line.