Out of the Pocket (27 page)

“Heavy . . .” I said.

He laughed. “Well, as I said, that’s just me. Perhaps over time that will mean more to you.”

I smiled at him. “I get what you’re saying, I just . . . well, I get it.”

He looked at me for a moment, and a smile poured over his bearded face.

“Yes, I really believe that you do,” he said.

250

It had to be a rematch with La Habra. To get to the title game, we’d beaten Western, a great team that had knocked us out of the playoffs the previous year. It had been a real defensive struggle. I played well, but neither team could do much offensively. With less than a minute to go, Rocky split the uprights with a short field goal, and winning 16–13 felt better than some of the blowouts we’d had earlier in the year.

We were not surprised at all to see who we’d be playing next. We should have known, after that September classic—the one we’d won on Rahim’s blocked kick—that we’d be seeing La Habra again in the playoffs. At the time, it would have been hard to imagine that the rematch would be the championship game.

I barely slept the night before the game. Instead, I talked on the phone with Bryan deep into the night.

“Wish I was there to calm you down,” he said, his voice soft.

251

“You only think that,” I said. “I’m not particularly good company right now. I don’t even want to be with me.”

“Well, I do,” he said.

“Their defense is tough,” I said. “I have to be just about perfect or we’ll lose.”

“It’s a team sport, Bobby. Don’t put it all on you.”

“I’m not. Coach is,” I said. Coach had told me that I needed to make good decisions in this game. Mendez, he told me, could have an off game and it wouldn’t matter. It was up to what I did with the ball when chased out of the pocket, because, as he said, that would happen all day long with these guys.

“Will you be okay? I need to get some sleep,” Bryan said.

“Yeah,” I mumbled. “I’ll be fi ne.”

“I love you, Bobby.”

He had never said that to me before. My thoughts flew and I couldn’t breathe.

“Bobby?”

I had no words. He was kind and caring and handsome and I loved spending time with Bryan. And the new things. All great.

Maybe I do love him, but isn’t it too fast? And on the phone?

Should I say it back?
Thoughts flooded through me and it took a while to speak.

“You too,” I fi nally said, and I hated how lame that was.

He exhaled. “You too, what? There are two roads here, Bobby.

Pick one.”

“I’m sort of freaked out tonight, okay?” I swallowed hard. “Give me time.”

He was silent for a moment. “Fair enough,” he said. “I’ll be there tomorrow.”

I liked this angle better. “I wouldn’t have it any other way,” I said.

252

He laughed gently. “Good. Well, either way, I love you, Bobby.

Sweet dreams.”

In the locker room before the game, I called the team together and gave a little pep talk. I hadn’t done it in a while, but it felt like the right thing to do.

“This is it, you guys,” I said. “I know one thing. I could never ask for a better bunch of teammates. You stuck with me through a lot of stuff this year. But I don’t want to go there. All I want to say is I wish we could always be teammates. Let’s go out the best way we know how, and win this thing!”

“Yeah!” I heard as the cheers began. “All the way! All the way!”

The team began to chant and the energy in the room went through the ceiling.

“Whose house is it?” yelled Rahim.

“Our house!” screamed our underclassmen.

“Are you ready to conquer?” Rahim yelled.

“Hell yeah!”

“Lock and load!” Rahim shouted, pretending to aim a rifl e.

“Open fi re!”

We’re going to win the title game.

“Can you beat La Habra?” asked a television reporter as we ran onto the field. The championship game was being televised, which had our team pretty excited and me pretty nervous. Last time I’d played my way out of a televised game.

“Hope so,” I said, truly excited.

Another reporter got in front of me and shoved his microphone in my face. “How has it been, being the openly gay leader of this team?” the man asked.

I frowned. “After the game, please,” I said.

The La Habra crowd was trying to taunt me, but it wasn’t work253

ing. Somehow, the few calls of “faggot” that came from the stands were not affecting me at all.

The game started, and what was expected to be a defensive struggle was the opposite. Both teams drove down the field with little trouble. Our line held theirs in check for the most part, and though I was chased a bit, I kept on making good choices and finding the open man. I completed my first nine passes, two for touchdowns. At the half, it was 28–21 in our favor.

By late in the third quarter, both defensive lines looked worn out.

Their star running back, Frank Ritzi, was approaching two hundred yards, and had scored twice. We had to settle for a couple of field goals, and at the start of the fourth quarter, they led, 35–34, and were about to get the ball again.

“We gotta slow them down, defense!” yelled Rahim on the sideline, before our defense took the field again. I looked at our guys.

They looked exhausted.

On the first play from scrimmage, the Matadors went deep, going after Dennis, who was covering their flanker. I held my breath, worried that he wasn’t energized enough to make a play.

The ball came down and I watched as the flanker in green and gold went up for the ball. Slightly after he jumped, up went Dennis.

He outtimed and outjumped the receiver, and took it away from him.

The flanker fell down, and Dennis sprang to life. He ran like I’d never seen him run before; holding on to the ball with two hands, he juked and pivoted around a couple Matadors before finding a path to the end zone. He had blockers ahead of him. I watched him zigzag past one last defender before diving into the end zone. We were leading once again.

Coach decided to go for two. If we made it, we’d be up by seven.

He called for a play we’d only run a handful of times in practice. I’d bootleg to the left, with two running backs behind me like an option 254

play. Austin would pretend to block ahead of me, and at the last moment he’d go out for a quick pass. An easy two points, I figured. I liked the call.

I took the hike and sprinted left. The Matadors shadowed me. If it were a true option, where I could either run or flip the ball back to a running back, we were dead. Just before I crossed the line of scrimmage, Austin snuck into the end zone. I tossed him a chest pass, afraid to give it away by raising my arm like I was throwing.

My chest pass was weak, and sailed low on Austin. He came back for the ball and caught it at the two. He was tackled before he could stretch back to the end zone. We’d failed. Our lead was 40–35.

“Tough luck,” Coach said as I trotted back to the sidelines. I nodded. It was my fault, but I knew we’d have another chance.

La Habra took its time with their next drive, giving us a heavy dose of Ritzi left, Ritzi right, and Ritzi up the middle. We couldn’t stop their ground attack. They took a full eight minutes off the clock, and the drive ended with Ritzi heading off tackle left into the end zone for his third score. They tried for two as well to give themselves a three-point lead, but couldn’t convert. They led 41–40, with six minutes remaining.

We huddled on the sidelines. “This is where we need to be smart about time management,” Coach said, his arms around me on one side and Rahim on the other. “This is where we take our time heading down the field. Don’t take it for granted, but take your time, guys.”

We nodded. It was the right idea. If we scored too quickly, they’d get the ball back. This game would be won by whichever team scored last.

We started the drive at our twenty-five-yard line. We took our time and with a nice mix of running and passing we approached midfield with less than four minutes to go. Then, on a third-down 255

play, I dropped back and found Austin on a little button-hook route.

He expected to be hit immediately, and when he wasn’t, he rambled down to the thirty-fi ve. There were now just three minutes left.

I felt my chest expanding. If we just took care of business, we were going to win the title game. My breathing quickened.

We took the clock down to the two-minute warning with some nice runs to the outside. The Matadors fans were making more noise than I’d ever heard fans make, aside from that nightmare homecoming game. I pitched the ball back to Somers and he sped around the left side and had he not tripped at the twenty, he would have probably scored or gotten really close to the end zone.

“Way to go, Bobby! Somers!” Coach was screaming like I’d never heard before and I saw our guys on the sidelines jumping up and down. I looked and saw Rocky warming up to kick. The clock was ticking down to under a minute and a half. We were out of time-outs, and so were the Matadors.

We stalled on a run on first down, and on second down, Jessie Montoya, our fullback, dropped a pass. “No harm done,” Rahim said as we huddled again. It was third-and-ten with thirty-nine seconds remaining. We were at their nineteen-yard line. Coach called in the play. It was a run up the middle, a safe call. Coach must have fi gured we’d run the clock down, pick up a few yards, and have the ball right in the center of the field. I called the play, we clapped in unison, and headed to the line.

I looked out at the defense, and was amazed. On third-and-long, it’s a passing down, and I had expected they’d play their safeties deep to avoid getting beat by Rahim and Austin. Instead, their coach must have realized that we’d focus on running out the clock. Their linebackers braced to blitz the run. I gulped and tried to catch my breath. If we were stuffed, Rocky would have a tough kick for the game winner. I looked left, looked right. Rahim and I caught each 256

other’s eye in what must have lasted all of a millisecond, but it was enough. I called an audible.

“C-thirty-four!” I yelled. “C-thirty-four!” That told the team to shift into tier formation. Somers hustled from where he had been, wide left on the line of scrimmage, to behind Mendez in the backfield. It was the first time I’d ever changed into the tier. It also alerted Rahim and Austin that they would be my targets. The defense crept up closer to the line, figuring Somers would act as another blocker.

Bingo! We got ’em! I did it!
Bolleran hiked the ball into my hands and I faked the handoff to Mendez. The entire defense bought it.

Their linebackers rushed through our line and one second after the fake, Mendez was blasted by two defenders at about the twenty-fouryard line.

I hurried back into my four-step drop and saw Rahim facing single coverage on a down-and-out. He ran forward and then made a razor-sharp cut to the sideline. I drilled him with a perfect spiral.

He caught it at the fifteen and the defender fell in front of him, trying to knock down the pass. Rahim looked downfield and made the split-second decision to head for the end zone, knowing that he had just one man to beat, the free safety, who raced toward him from the middle of the field. Rahim pivoted, faking like he was heading toward the middle of the field. It was a smart move, because if the defender bought it, Rahim could head outside and step out of bounds if he wasn’t going to score. But the defender didn’t buy his fake. The guy forced Rahim inside, knowing there were linebackers to help him there. I could feel it in my heart, what Rahim was feeling. He lunged back outside, hoping to power his way through, but the defender held on. Rahim’s a big guy. He wouldn’t go down, but instead tried to carry the defender out of bounds with him at around the twelve-yard-line to stop the clock.

The whistle blew. He was still in bounds by inches.

257

A whistle means forward progress is stopped, the tackle is made.

We were short of the first down, meaning it was now fourth down, and the clock was ticking, less than twenty seconds remaining. Coach called for the field goal. The offensive players not involved in the kick sprinted off the field, and Rocky and his holder sprinted on.

I looked up at the clock. Eighteen, seventeen. We were going to be okay. He could make this kick.

“Spectacular,” Coach said to me quietly as I got off the field.

I smiled and was thinking about it when Rocky, running onto the field, slipped and fell. A collective gasp came from our sideline. The clock was down to ten seconds. He quickly hopped to his feet and got into position as quickly as he could. The ball was snapped with about four seconds to go. We all held our breath.

The ball was snapped, and I watched as Rocky strode gracefully toward the ball. On the final step, his left foot slipped, and his right one, as it came toward the ball, ever so slightly nicked the ground first. We watched from the sideline as the ball hung in the air and seemed to lose momentum, falling just short of the crossbar.

The crowd roared, and I watched in disbelief as the La Habra fans rushed the fi eld and hoisted some of their players into the air. I watched as Frank Ritzi was carried around, pumping his fists wildly, and felt my chest shrivel. Had the kick been made, that would have been me.

After all I’d been through, didn’t I deserve that?

I put my head in my hands and willed the world to stop. High school football was over for me, and we had lost. I felt like crying. A hand clamped onto my back.

“You did one helluva job, Framingham.”

It was Coach. I stood up in front of him and looked up into his eyes, expecting to see the anger I felt in my chest reflected there. I 258

did not see it. Instead I saw a glimmer in his eyes that looked to me a lot like pride.

It shocked me. I was certain he’d be angry, but he didn’t look it.

“Thanks,” I said tentatively. I searched for the right thing to say in the situation, but nothing came.

The crowd was deafening, but I could hear Coach clearly. “I will never forget this season, ever,” he said. “I’m proud to have known you, Bobby Framingham.”

I looked away, ashamed that I had missed the moment. This was the last game I’d play with Coach leading the way. I gulped back the emotion in my chest and hugged him tight. He hugged me back.