43
BRADY
By the timeI dress and stretch, Waverly is down by seven.
The Bulldogs scored on the opening drive, and when we got the ball, Davis missed a block and Reid got sacked for a loss of six yards. As if that wasn’t bad enough, our offense was three and out.
It was a total shit show and my dumb ass had to watch it on-screen from the locker room.
I can’t fault Davis. The kid is probably a bundle of nerves.
Nothing like being told you’re starting ninety minutes before kickoff.
In a championship game, nonetheless.
It’s hard to believe this is the last time I’ll lace up my cleats, but there’s no time to dwell on it. I grab my helmet and jog to the field, unwilling to delay another second.
Football is a game of inches and a single play can make or break the outcome.
I need to be on the field with my team, doing my part to make sure this game doesn’t become an embarrassment.
Fuck that.
So what if we’re down by seven? It’s one score. We can make it up. This is still anyone’s game.
The air is charged when I step out of the tunnel. The lights are bright, the fans are loud, and the game is hard-hitting. A replay on the jumbotron shows Daniels, our defensive captain, strip the ball from one of Georgia’s receivers.
It’s a damn good play and a deafening cheer goes up from the crowd as Langley recovers the ball on screen.
When I report to the sideline, our offense has already taken the field.
“You warmed up?” Coach Walker asks, studying Georgia’s defense.
“Yes, sir.” I bounce on the balls of my feet. I’m eager to get in the game, but Walker won’t sub in the middle of a drive.
Not when we have momentum.
The ball is snapped and Reid drops back, looking downfield.
Davis has his man and the coverage from the O-line is solid.
Coop cuts to the outside, puts on speed, and Reid fires a bullet down the sideline for a twenty-yard gain.
“Hell, yeah!” I shout, punching my fist in the air.
That’s how you win football games:one down at a time.
Our offense picks up ground on the next two drives, and Davis seems to have shaken his nerves, but they can’t break the twenty. It’s frustrating as hell to watch, but Georgia isn’t the top-ranked team in the country for nothing.
On the fourth down, Coach calls for Special Teams.
Carter jogs onto the field, the tail of her braid bouncing with each step. She can make twenty yards in her sleep, especially on a night like tonight where there’s no wind.
Perfect conditions.
The offense clears the field and my boys join me on the sideline.
“It’s about damn time,” Parker says, grinning as he claps me on the back.
