Painting the Black by Carl Deuker Page B

They had two tailbacks—both of whom were big and fast. One guy would run the ball for three or four downs, then go to the sidelines for a blow while the other guy came in and racked up the yardage. Watching their offense cut through our defense was like watching a tank roll over a doghouse.
    They drove all the way to our six-yard line—every yard gained on the ground. On first down, their quarterback faked a handoff. All our defensive players bit, shooting the gaps to try to stop the run. Their tight end slipped into the end zone. There was no one within ten yards of him when he pulled in the pass. Six minutes into the game we were down 14–0.
    The rest of the first half was a nightmare. It was Ruben, Ruben, Ruben—the guy who couldn’t win. And all the time you could see Josh—the guy who could—standing there, itching to play. When the score reached 24–0, the chanting started: “We want Daniels! We want Daniels! We want Daniels!”
    At halftime everybody had it figured out. Josh was sure to start the second half. Canning had made his point, but enough was enough. Twenty-four points was a ton of points, but if anyone could bring us back, it was Josh.
    But when our offense came on the field in the third quarter, Brandon Ruben was still running the team.
    The O’Dea guys were really teeing off on him. They were overpowering our linemen, just annihilating them. Ruben would take a three-step drop and have about a tenth of a second to throw before some guy was right in his face.
    The score was still 24–0 with about four minutes left in the third quarter when it happened. Ruben had gotten rid of the ball when Number Forty drove him into the ground. From where I was you could see Ruben’s head hit the turf and bounce up. It took about five minutes for Ruben to get up, and it took two guys to help him off the field. Everybody was up and clapping for him, glad to see him moving.
    As Ruben was helped off, Josh trotted on. The applause for Ruben blended with the cheers for Josh, and suddenly the Crown Hill section was alive again. It was only the third quarter. There was plenty of time for Josh to bring us back. He was the miracle worker, the guy who’d turned the season around. Turning a game around would be a snap.
    On his first play he threw a little hitch pass over the middle. Before Santos could pull it in, the O’Dea safety hit him and the ball was jarred loose. That made it third and ten.
    Josh took the snap and rolled to the right to buy some time. But the blitz was on, and before anybody came open, he had to unload. The pass sailed out-of-bounds, and our punter came on.
    I sat back, trying to stay confident. Josh just needed to get the feel of the game, to get loose. Then he’d work his magic.
    But O’Dea took the punt and came after us again, grinding up great big chunks of yardage on the ground and taking precious time off the clock. Four yards. Seven yards. Five yards. Nine yards. Down the field and into the end zone. 31–0.
    It was over. Not even Josh could bring us back from that deficit. The smart thing to do was to pack it in, to run some sweeps or maybe some short passes.
    After what happened later that year, lots of people say that Josh was a coward. They say that only a coward would do what he did. But I don’t see how anybody who saw Josh play the fourth quarter of that game could ever think it was that simple. Because what Josh showed that day was courage. Pure courage.
    Nobody else seemed to be even trying. Santos had pulled himself from the game. Wilsey was just going through the motions. But Josh wouldn’t quit. The O’Dea guys teed off on him every down. Still he’d hold the ball and hold the ball, not letting it go until the last possible second, and then taking the hard shots that came. Time after time Number Forty drilled him. Time after time Josh picked himself up off the turf.
    With three minutes left in the game, Josh