Skylake maintainedtheir lead. With two minutes left in the game, Brett ran the ball in himself to score another touchdown and reduce the deficit to three points again.
Instead of celebrating, Brett rallied the team around him and called the next play.
An onside kick.
Skylake saw it coming, and zeroed in on the ball and the Eastline players chasing after it. Player after player piled on top of it, but when therefs got to the bottom, Ren had the ball.
Eastline had recovered with less than two minutes to score. If we got a field goal, we went into overtime. But a touchdown would win the game.
The Skylake defense came back onto the field angry and gunning for Brett. The first play ended with a vicious sack that made me forget to breathe.
Brett was slow to get up, but he shook his head and waved offthe coaches. Ten seconds later, he’d called the next play and threw a twenty-yard pass to Sanchez.
The clock kept ticking away, and with ten seconds left on the scoreboard, the offense was still thirty yards away from the end zone. Brett lined up for the next play, scanned the defense, and called time out.
I clutched Richard’s arm in excitement. “He must see something,” I murmured, wonderingif all those hours reviewing films had paid off.
Brett treated football like a game of chess. To him, it was more than just lobbing the ball up into the air and praying someone on his team caught it. He studied defenses, picked apart their weaknesses, and took advantage of them. When he called the time out, he ran back to the sidelines to talk to his coach. A few seconds later, Sanchez and therest of the offense joined him, their helmeted heads nodding at various times as Brett spoke. The huddle ended with a clap of their hands and a “Go Eagles!”
Skylake’s defense had used the time out to form their own little huddle, and when they lined up, every pair of eyes seemed to zero in on Brett.
Brett lined up as he usually did in the shotgun formation. Just before the ball was snapped,the running back, Ren, dashed in front of him and took the ball from the center, Fata Tauaalo.
“Wildcat!” Richard shrieked in excitement. I had no idea what it meant, but it seemed that the pressure was off Brett for a few seconds.
But the initial shock faded from the Skylake defense, and they closed in around Ren. The clock continued to tick down to the final seconds. Just when it looked likehe’d be tackled to end the game, Ren tossed the ball back to Brett, who was running toward the end zone.
It was a sloppy pass—a wobbly spiral that Brett had to jump in the air to catch as he crossed the goal line. A Skylake defender slid into Brett at full throttle, knocking him off his feet, but Brett managed to hold onto the ball. The trick play had worked, and the refs called the winningtouchdown as the clock hit zero. Eastline had won, but the initial cheers of victory ceased when one player didn’t rise from the turf to join his teammates in the celebration.
Brett remained on the ground, his body stiff with pain, and my heart refused to beat. Then he rolled over and pounded his fist into the ground. He was conscious, but obviously hurt.
I dashed down the stands, not caringthat I knocked people out of my way. But the same metal fence I’d pressed against earlier to give him a good-luck kiss now kept me from rushing to his side.
Players on both teams took a knee while the coach and the team doc ran out onto the field.
I held my breath and offered a silent prayer that he would be okay, that he’d just had his bell rung and he would pop back up in a second and jogoff the field as the hero of the game. But as the seconds slowly passed, he didn’t move.
A large hand clamped on my shoulder and squeezed it. I looked up to see Brett’s dad standing beside me, his face sick with worry. At nearly six foot four, he towered over most of the players blocking my view of Brett, and I asked him what was going on.
“It looks like they’re working on his
Instead of celebrating, Brett rallied the team around him and called the next play.
An onside kick.
Skylake saw it coming, and zeroed in on the ball and the Eastline players chasing after it. Player after player piled on top of it, but when therefs got to the bottom, Ren had the ball.
Eastline had recovered with less than two minutes to score. If we got a field goal, we went into overtime. But a touchdown would win the game.
The Skylake defense came back onto the field angry and gunning for Brett. The first play ended with a vicious sack that made me forget to breathe.
Brett was slow to get up, but he shook his head and waved offthe coaches. Ten seconds later, he’d called the next play and threw a twenty-yard pass to Sanchez.
The clock kept ticking away, and with ten seconds left on the scoreboard, the offense was still thirty yards away from the end zone. Brett lined up for the next play, scanned the defense, and called time out.
I clutched Richard’s arm in excitement. “He must see something,” I murmured, wonderingif all those hours reviewing films had paid off.
Brett treated football like a game of chess. To him, it was more than just lobbing the ball up into the air and praying someone on his team caught it. He studied defenses, picked apart their weaknesses, and took advantage of them. When he called the time out, he ran back to the sidelines to talk to his coach. A few seconds later, Sanchez and therest of the offense joined him, their helmeted heads nodding at various times as Brett spoke. The huddle ended with a clap of their hands and a “Go Eagles!”
Skylake’s defense had used the time out to form their own little huddle, and when they lined up, every pair of eyes seemed to zero in on Brett.
Brett lined up as he usually did in the shotgun formation. Just before the ball was snapped,the running back, Ren, dashed in front of him and took the ball from the center, Fata Tauaalo.
“Wildcat!” Richard shrieked in excitement. I had no idea what it meant, but it seemed that the pressure was off Brett for a few seconds.
But the initial shock faded from the Skylake defense, and they closed in around Ren. The clock continued to tick down to the final seconds. Just when it looked likehe’d be tackled to end the game, Ren tossed the ball back to Brett, who was running toward the end zone.
It was a sloppy pass—a wobbly spiral that Brett had to jump in the air to catch as he crossed the goal line. A Skylake defender slid into Brett at full throttle, knocking him off his feet, but Brett managed to hold onto the ball. The trick play had worked, and the refs called the winningtouchdown as the clock hit zero. Eastline had won, but the initial cheers of victory ceased when one player didn’t rise from the turf to join his teammates in the celebration.
Brett remained on the ground, his body stiff with pain, and my heart refused to beat. Then he rolled over and pounded his fist into the ground. He was conscious, but obviously hurt.
I dashed down the stands, not caringthat I knocked people out of my way. But the same metal fence I’d pressed against earlier to give him a good-luck kiss now kept me from rushing to his side.
Players on both teams took a knee while the coach and the team doc ran out onto the field.
I held my breath and offered a silent prayer that he would be okay, that he’d just had his bell rung and he would pop back up in a second and jogoff the field as the hero of the game. But as the seconds slowly passed, he didn’t move.
A large hand clamped on my shoulder and squeezed it. I looked up to see Brett’s dad standing beside me, his face sick with worry. At nearly six foot four, he towered over most of the players blocking my view of Brett, and I asked him what was going on.
“It looks like they’re working on his
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