At Jake and the receivers flanking him. “Outsprint Jewell.”
At Grey, and by extension, me. “Sail above Jewell.”
He lets that sink in, challenge given and clear.
We do have a chance.
But only if we work for it.
We’re ushered back out of the locker room to announcements from the stands about tomorrow night’s dance, and I’m glad I’m not expected to play this half because all of a sudden, visions of Grey in a suit have me just a tad distracted.
We hit the sidelines to warm back up, Grey drilling it to both Brady and myself at different distances for three minutes tops before Shanks snags him and Jake to talk specific scenarios. We’re starting the half receiving the kickoff, and against Jewell Academy, that means score first or be crushed.
“O-Rod! Brady!” Shanks’s big arm motions us to come over.
Brady’s final pass lands in my outstretched fingertips and we jog over, Grey shifting to make room. The circle also includes both tight ends and the secondary, plus Topps for good measure.
“Okay, team, the ground game is still our best bet, but they were plugging the holes at the end of the half—gotta start adding in the pass.” We all nod and Shanks begins circling certain plays with a dry-erase marker on the laminated cheat sheet. “Worthington, let’s start with your best Joe Montana impression and go from there.”
Translated, that means short passes that lead to big runs—the hallmark of Montana’s 49ers days. It’s basicallywhat we do on a normal basis, but Shanks has eliminated passes that go deeper than ten yards. Which is fine with me—the less amount of time Grey has the ball in his hands, the better, because he’s less likely to be drilled.
The drums start and a line of golden uniforms stretches the field. Our receivers, Gonzalez and Chow, are deep, awaiting the ball, bouncing on their toes, speed sparking at their cleats.
The ball is up and high, rocketing toward the end zone. Gonzalez is there, waiting for it to drop at the ten-yard line. He catches it and loops right, snaking down the sideline.
There’s a whistle. A waving of hands. Lots of pointing, the refs saying he stepped out.
I call bullshit because Jaden Gonzalez is a senior and pretty much a professional tightrope walker. But all the Jewell players and coaches are pointing to the spot, down at our fifteen. And the refs are corroborating it.
A golden cheer floats into the night as the Northland bench peters into a frustrated grumble. We now have to get it eighty-five yards downfield on this drive, when Gonzalez was in position to make it all the way down past midfield, well into Jewell territory.
If Grey is daunted, it doesn’t register. He gives me a grin and a piece of a three-way QB fist bump and trots out onto the turf, gathering the offense into a huddle.
Jake gets the first play, snagging it from Grey on a rollout and pushing for four yards when the hole closes on topof him. The next play is a Montana-style dump, barely over the heads of the line, but the target, Tate, falls backward on the plant.
Losing at least a yard.
Meaning we need a yard on the next two plays to keep it moving.
Predictably, Jake gets the next call, barely gaining the needed yard, and audibly chewing out the line for not making room.
Still, the chains move.
But the next two plays aren’t as lucky. Jake gets stuffed both times. Grey goes for another Montana-style dump, but Tate is pushed out of position and the whole thing ends up a fingertip away from an interception.
Grey pulls the offense back into the huddle, and the punter stays on the sidelines, which sort of scares the shit out of me because if we miss the next play, Jewell gains possession inside the thirty. Which means they’ll score in less than a minute—I’d bet every Snickers in Shanks’s freezer.
But Grey holds firm, shouting out White Forty-Two.
A play that is most definitely not on the approved list.
My lungs stutter to a halt as I watch him palm Topps’s snap and rocket back into the pocket, gaining a better view.
Grey’s arm swings back, target in sight: Chow, fifty yards downfield.
Chow dodges his defender and manages to get open. Grey launches the ball toward him, the arc perfect.
But I don’t see if the pass connects.
