to send the receivers wide and go from the shotgun. On first down I scrambled for about ten.”
Nat: “Eleven. It was first down at the twenty-one with thirty seconds to go.”
Neely: “With Bond out of the game, I knew I could score. I figured two more scrambles and we’d be in the end zone. In the huddle, I told them to make sure they put somebody on the ground.”
Silo: “I told ’em to kill somebody.”
Neely: “They blitzed all three linebackers and I got nailed at the line. We had to burn our last time-out.”
Amos: “Did you think about a field goal?”
Neely: “Yeah, but Scobie had a weak leg—accurate but weak.”
Paul: “Plus, he hadn’t kicked a field goal all year.”
Silo: “The kicking game was not our strongest suit.”
Nat: “Thanks, Silo. I can always count on you.”
The final play of the miracle drive was perhaps the most famous in all of the glorious history of Spartan football. With no time-outs, twenty yards to go, eighteen seconds left, Neely sent two receivers wide, and took the snap in the shotgun. He quickly handed off to Marcus Mabry on a draw. Marcus took three steps, then abruptly stopped and pitched the ball back to Neely, who sprinted to his right, pumping the ball as if he would finally throw it. When he turned upfield, the offensive line released and sprinted forward, looking for someone to level. At the ten, Neely, running like a madman, lowered his head and crashed into a linebacker and a safety, a collision that would have knocked out a mere mortal. He spun away, free but dizzy, legs still churning, got hit again at the five, andagain at the three where most of the East Pike defense managed to corral him. The play was almost over, as was the game, when Silo Mooney and Barry Vatrano slammed into the mass of humanity hanging on Neely, and the entire pile fell into the end zone. Neely sprang to his feet, still clutching the ball, and looked directly at Eddie Rake, twenty feet away, motionless and noncommittal.
Neely: “For a split second, I thought about spiking the ball at him, but then Silo flung me down and everybody jumped on.”
Nat: “The whole team was down there. Along with the cheerleaders, the trainers, and half the band. Got fifteen yards for excessive celebrating.”
Couch: “Nobody cared. I remember looking at Rake and the coaches, and they didn’t move. Talk about weird.”
Neely: “I was lying in the end zone, getting crushed by my teammates, telling myself that we’d just done the impossible.”
Randy: “I was twelve years old, and I remember all the Messina fans were just sitting there, stunned, exhausted, a lot of them crying.”
Blanchard: “The folks from East Pike were crying too.”
Randy: “They ran one play, didn’t they? After the kickoff?”
Paul: “Yeah, Donnie blitzed and nailed the quarterback. The game was over.”
Randy: “All of a sudden, every player with a green jersey was sprinting off the field—no handshakes, no postgame huddle, just a mad rush to get to the locker room. The entire team vanished.”
Mal: “We thought y’all’d gone crazy. We waited for a spell, thinkin’ you had to come back to get the trophy and all.”
Paul: “We weren’t coming out. They sent someone to retrieve us for the ceremony, but we kept the door locked.”
Couch: “Those poor kids from East Pike tried to smile when they got the runner-up trophy, but they were still in shock.”
Blanchard: “Rake had vanished too. Somehow they got Rabbit to walk out to midfield and accept the championship trophy. It was very strange, but we were too excited to care.”
Mal walked up to Silo’s cooler and pulledout a beer. “Help yourself there, Sheriff,” Silo said.
“I’m off duty.” He took a long sip and began walking down the steps. “Funeral’s Friday, boys. At noon.”
“Where?”
“Here. Where else?”
Thursday
Neely and Paul met early Thursday morning in the rear of the bookstore, where Nat brewed another pot of his
Nat: “Eleven. It was first down at the twenty-one with thirty seconds to go.”
Neely: “With Bond out of the game, I knew I could score. I figured two more scrambles and we’d be in the end zone. In the huddle, I told them to make sure they put somebody on the ground.”
Silo: “I told ’em to kill somebody.”
Neely: “They blitzed all three linebackers and I got nailed at the line. We had to burn our last time-out.”
Amos: “Did you think about a field goal?”
Neely: “Yeah, but Scobie had a weak leg—accurate but weak.”
Paul: “Plus, he hadn’t kicked a field goal all year.”
Silo: “The kicking game was not our strongest suit.”
Nat: “Thanks, Silo. I can always count on you.”
The final play of the miracle drive was perhaps the most famous in all of the glorious history of Spartan football. With no time-outs, twenty yards to go, eighteen seconds left, Neely sent two receivers wide, and took the snap in the shotgun. He quickly handed off to Marcus Mabry on a draw. Marcus took three steps, then abruptly stopped and pitched the ball back to Neely, who sprinted to his right, pumping the ball as if he would finally throw it. When he turned upfield, the offensive line released and sprinted forward, looking for someone to level. At the ten, Neely, running like a madman, lowered his head and crashed into a linebacker and a safety, a collision that would have knocked out a mere mortal. He spun away, free but dizzy, legs still churning, got hit again at the five, andagain at the three where most of the East Pike defense managed to corral him. The play was almost over, as was the game, when Silo Mooney and Barry Vatrano slammed into the mass of humanity hanging on Neely, and the entire pile fell into the end zone. Neely sprang to his feet, still clutching the ball, and looked directly at Eddie Rake, twenty feet away, motionless and noncommittal.
Neely: “For a split second, I thought about spiking the ball at him, but then Silo flung me down and everybody jumped on.”
Nat: “The whole team was down there. Along with the cheerleaders, the trainers, and half the band. Got fifteen yards for excessive celebrating.”
Couch: “Nobody cared. I remember looking at Rake and the coaches, and they didn’t move. Talk about weird.”
Neely: “I was lying in the end zone, getting crushed by my teammates, telling myself that we’d just done the impossible.”
Randy: “I was twelve years old, and I remember all the Messina fans were just sitting there, stunned, exhausted, a lot of them crying.”
Blanchard: “The folks from East Pike were crying too.”
Randy: “They ran one play, didn’t they? After the kickoff?”
Paul: “Yeah, Donnie blitzed and nailed the quarterback. The game was over.”
Randy: “All of a sudden, every player with a green jersey was sprinting off the field—no handshakes, no postgame huddle, just a mad rush to get to the locker room. The entire team vanished.”
Mal: “We thought y’all’d gone crazy. We waited for a spell, thinkin’ you had to come back to get the trophy and all.”
Paul: “We weren’t coming out. They sent someone to retrieve us for the ceremony, but we kept the door locked.”
Couch: “Those poor kids from East Pike tried to smile when they got the runner-up trophy, but they were still in shock.”
Blanchard: “Rake had vanished too. Somehow they got Rabbit to walk out to midfield and accept the championship trophy. It was very strange, but we were too excited to care.”
Mal walked up to Silo’s cooler and pulledout a beer. “Help yourself there, Sheriff,” Silo said.
“I’m off duty.” He took a long sip and began walking down the steps. “Funeral’s Friday, boys. At noon.”
“Where?”
“Here. Where else?”
Thursday
Neely and Paul met early Thursday morning in the rear of the bookstore, where Nat brewed another pot of his
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