The Walk On (32 page)

“What do you think?”

“Dad, scramble 5 is our only chance,” Matt said. “Alex has to make a fast choice—throw one to the sideline quickly and hope we get out of bounds in time, or go for it all.”

Coach Gordon was nodding; so was Coach Brotman.
Alex too. Scramble 5 was one step short of the old Hail Mary in terms of desperation. The Hail Mary meant you threw the ball into the end zone and hoped against hope one of your guys came down with it. Scramble 5 meant you sent five wide receivers down the field. Two would run short routes to the sideline. If Alex thought he could get the ball to either of them and be close enough for a field goal
and
the receiver could get out of bounds before the clock hit zero, he would throw the ball there. The other three receivers would run deeper, to the end zone. Two went down and out, and the third ran a straight post pattern, literally running down the middle toward the goalpost. If Alex decided the short receivers were not open, he would have to go long. But if he did that, the clock would run out by the time the play was complete. There’d be no second chance. When they ran the play in practice, it took anywhere from five to six seconds to complete … when it worked.

“Okay,” Coach Gordon said after what felt like an eternity. “Scramble 5.”

Coach Brotman was waving the extra wide receivers over, saying to each, “Scramble 5, let’s go.”

Coach Gordon put his hand on Alex’s shoulder. “They won’t rush more than three, maybe only two. That will give you time to go deep, but you
must
decide right away if you want to go short. You know that, right?”

Alex nodded. He knew. Boy, did he know.

The official was telling them to get back on the field. “Starting the play clock now, Coach,” he said.

The play clock was no longer an issue. The play was already called. They just had to make it work.

Matt, who hadn’t said a word to Alex throughout the fourth quarter, grabbed him as he started back.

“You can do this, Goldie,” he said. “No one else—you.”

Alex thought his eyes looked wet, but it might have been the snow, which had started again. He ran to the huddle. “You heard,” he said, stepping in. “Scramble 5. Fitzgerald, Revere, run those short cuts tight. On three.”

Calling for the snap on the third sound didn’t matter one way or the other with the clock stopped. Alex just wanted one extra deep breath once he was standing in the shotgun behind Allison.

They came to the line and Alex heard nothing—even though he knew everyone in the stadium was on their feet.

“Red!” he shouted—the first sound. Then, “White!” He was in a patriotic mood. Finally: “Blue!”

The ball came back to him as if on a string. He took a quick step back and looked for Fitzgerald and Revere. The safeties and an extra linebacker were all over them. He would have to force the ball to get it to one of them.

No, he thought, can’t do it. He dropped another step. As Coach Gordon had predicted, he had time—Chester had only rushed two players. He could almost
hear
his heart pounding as he looked down the field.

All he could see for a moment was a crush of bodies in red tops and white tops going in all different directions. Then, suddenly, he saw Jonas running straight for the goal line, his arm in the air.

He saw a white uniform right in front of Jonas and two
waiting for him on the goal line. Still, Alex had no choice. He stepped up and threw the ball as hard as he could, hoping to hit Jonas in stride just behind the first defender and—somehow—just in front of the two waiting at the goal line.

He knew he had thrown it as well as he could as he stepped into it, and he saw the ball speeding at Jonas. Then, one of the Chester defenders got a hand on his legs and the two of them went down in a heap.

Alex heard a roar, but he couldn’t really tell what direction it was coming from. He and the Chester defender untangled and sat up. Alex heard a profanity come from the defender’s mouth. Squinting down the field, he saw Jonas rising from the ground, the football in his hands. The official had his arms in the air, signaling a touchdown.

OH MY GOD, Alex thought, scrambling to his feet. A split second later, he was buried again—this time by a red wall of his teammates screaming his name. A moment later, he was on their shoulders. Jonas was getting the same ride in the end zone.

He looked down and saw Matt Gordon right there, holding his left leg. There were tears streaming down Matt’s face. Alex knew they had nothing to do with the snow.

It wasn’t until the next morning that Alex got to see what had happened on the last play. As he had thought when he released the pass, he had thrown the ball as well as he possibly could. It had just cleared the grasping hand of a defender at about the four-yard line and had whistled into Jonas’s hands as he reached the two-yard line going full speed. Even though
the two defenders who were no more than a half step from him were right in front of him, his momentum had forced them backward just enough to get him across the goal line.

Alex was watching Comcast SportsNet–Philadelphia, which always repeated its late-night sports show in the morning. “Watch this remarkable throw by freshman quarterback Alex Myers,” the anchor said as the replay came up for a second time. “If the Eagles had a quarterback who could throw with that kind of accuracy, they wouldn’t be three and five!”

Alex laughed, but he loved the line. The anchor then said, “Let’s go now to our Lisa Hillary, who spoke to the man with the golden arm after the game.”

Alex had talked to a lot of people after the game, but he remembered Lisa Hillary, in part because of whom she worked for but also because she seemed both pretty
and
smart. The latter of which, as his dad often pointed out, wasn’t always a criterion for getting a job in TV.

“I’m with Alex Myers, who will be forever remembered at Chester Heights for what happened here tonight,” she said in her opening. Then, turning to Alex, she said, “Were you surprised when Coach Gordon sent you in to take Matt Gordon’s spot for the last series?”

Alex’s answer was honest. “Yeah, a little bit,” he said. “Matt got us to the point where we had a chance to win the conference tonight. I think it was just a matter of time on the clock and our need to throw the ball.”

“What kind of nerves come into play when you’re put into a situation like that?”

Alex smiled. “Honestly, none. You don’t have time to be nervous. You just have to do it.”

“Coach Gordon told us that it was up to you whom to throw to and whether to go deep or short and try for the field goal. Why did you decide to throw the ball to Jonas Ellington? Your coach said it was probably the toughest throw of the options open to you.”

Alex nodded. “Well, the short throws just weren’t open,” he said. “When I looked downfield, Jonas had his arm up and I saw a little seam in the defense. He’s made tough catches all season. I just thought it was our best chance.” He paused. “I haven’t seen the catch because I got knocked down, but I’m pretty sure the real hero is Jonas.”

Hillary thanked him, then turned back to the camera. “Neil, as you can tell, being a hero has
not
gone to Alex Myers’s head. Back to you.”

Alex replayed the final play and the interview three times before his mother walked into the room. She was holding the phone.

“It’s your dad,” she said.

Alex had seen a text—one among what seemed like hundreds—from his dad the night before and hadn’t answered, not because he was angry but because he’d had so much to do in the aftermath, including the entire team going back on the field in uniform to take a picture in front of the scoreboard.

He took the phone from his mom.

“Congratulations,” his dad said. “I texted you last night.”

“I know, Dad, sorry. There was just so much going on.”

“I can imagine. Your mother said if I was a good father my first question would be about your French quiz yesterday.”

Alex laughed. “Believe it or not, I think I did well,” he said. “I’m getting better.”

His dad, having done his duty, came back to football.

“Do you think you’ll start the playoff game next week?” Alex hadn’t thought about that. “I don’t even know who we play,” he said. “We’ll find out tomorrow. I would think Matt will start, and if I’m needed—”

“To bail Matt out …”

“Dad, Matt Gordon’s a really good quarterback. Plus, he’s been my biggest supporter all season. You haven’t been here, so you don’t know. Don’t put him down.”

He was surprised at how sharply the words came out of his mouth.

“I’m sorry,” his dad said. “You’re right. And I’m sorry I haven’t been there more. That’s going to change—soon. And I mean it, not just more empty words.”

Alex didn’t say anything, so his dad plowed on. “I have to go to Chicago this Friday to see a client. But if you guys win, I’ll be there the next week.”

“That would be nice, Dad.”

His mom was standing in the kitchen doorway when he hung up.

“You barked at your dad a little bit there,” she said. “Mom, he hasn’t been here at all; he doesn’t get it,” Alex answered.

“I know, I know. But your dad and I are
both
responsible for this. I’m sorry it’s been tough for you and Molly.”

She changed the subject suddenly, pointing at the TV,
where Alex and Lisa Hillary were frozen on the screen at the point where Alex had hit the pause button.

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” she said.

Alex looked again. “She looks like you, Mom.”

“Oh come on, Alex, I don’t look anything like that.”

She turned and walked back into the kitchen, not wanting to return—no doubt—to the conversation about his father but smiling at the thought that she might look like Lisa Hillary.

Alex looked back at the TV. He wondered if his dad was dating anyone. He hoped not, although he couldn’t say why he felt that way. It didn’t really seem to matter that much one way or the other.

He hit rewind again and watched the throw for a fourth time.

The only problem Alex had when he went back to school on Monday was trying to get from one class to another on time. Every single person in the place—teachers, students, janitors—had to stop him to congratulate him, tell him they knew all along that he could do it and exactly what they were doing at the moment he threw the pass to Jonas.

And they all wanted to know, “How good is York Central?”

Alex had no idea. All he knew was that their opening playoff game would be played on Friday at eight o’clock at home, the starting time moved back an hour because Comcast–Philly had decided to televise the game, not just because of the amazing finish the previous Friday but also because Chester Heights was now the number eight team in the country according to the
USA Today
poll. Alex found that amusing, since his team had been one miraculous play
away from finishing the season unranked and not in the postseason at all.

Everyone had received a text on Sunday night telling them that the team would meet at noon—with lunch being brought in from outside—to go over the plans for the coming week.

“How’s
your
day been, Goldie?” Jonas asked when they were en route to the meeting.