Michael Koryta - The Prophet

“What are you doing?” Kent shouted as Damon came off the field, head down. “Where were your eyes? You’re looking in the backfield! Don’t you ever look at Sonnefeld! You know better than that. We don’t make that mistake! ”

Ritter said “Yes, sir,” retreated, and Kent shook his head in disgust and paced away as the extra point sailed in: 7–0. He’d never held a lead against Saint Anthony’s. Not even a lead.

“We’ve still got this ballgame,” he said into the headset, and his assistants nodded, but nobody was looking at him. It was a bad start and they all knew it.

The offense gained one first down on three straight carries by Justin Payne, all part of the script, designed to settle things down, force Saint Anthony’s to respect the running game. When Lorell took his first snap out of the shotgun, he pump-faked, and there was Colin on a hitch route, the ball coming in high and soft and right in stride.

He caught it.

Then bobbled it. Kent had a fist raised already, wild with excitement both for the kid and for the knowledge that this was about to be a tie ballgame, because they would not catch Colin from behind.

But they did. He was juggling the ball, fighting for possession, and his feet went unsteady on the wet turf, and then the cornerback caught him with a sweeping right hand and the ball was out and bouncing free and as Saint Anthony’s scooped it up Kent thought, Please tell me he dropped that one, too, please rule it incomplete.

They ruled it complete. Fumble recovered by the defense on the forty.

Kent went out onto the field to meet Colin, grabbed his helmet, and forced his face up. “You’ll have that play all night long,” he said. “You’re going to make it every other time. You believe that?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you believe that?”

“Yes, sir!”

Kent slapped the side of his helmet and returned to the sidelines and watched Sonnefeld direct a precise, balanced drive that chewed seven minutes off the clock and featured another effective fake, this time on a reverse, and again Chambers chased the ball and forgot their gaps. They held them to a field goal, but it was already 10–0.

“We’re going to get fucking beat,” Kent said through clenched teeth. It was too soft for the players to hear, but his headset microphone was on, and every assistant heard it. He saw their heads snap up, the Kent Austin profanity-free-football-field myth having officially crumbled, and he thought about apologizing but decided against it. Wiped the rain off his face with the back of his hand and walked to the farthest end of the sideline, shaking his head.

43

AS HIS BROTHER PACED AND muttered, Adam circled the field, bumping through throngs of kids with painted faces and ducking an errant trombone slide from a pep band member, trying to reach the opposite end zone and a clearer view. Chelsea came with him, and they stood in the south end zone, where the wind blew cold rain into their faces.

“Some date you are,” she said. “Walked right past the concession stand and you don’t even offer me popcorn?”

“Who wants to eat wet popcorn?”

“Fair point.” She was watching the Chambers sideline. “Your brother doesn’t look happy.”

“He shouldn’t.” Adam folded his arms over his chest, then saw the way Chelsea was ducking against the rain and moved to stand behind her and wrap his arms around her. She leaned back, pressing her weight against him.

On Chambers’s second and third possessions, Scott Bless started rolling his safety down into the box instead of helping over the top on Mears, as if the one fumble had been enough to confirm what he’d hoped was true, that Mears was now an empty threat. Lorell McCoy tested the belief, found Mears three times, put the ball in his hands with each pass, and the kid never came close to holding on to one. Chelsea covered her eyes on the third drop. The Chambers defense had stiffened up, maintaining their gaps, no longer biting on the play action, and they forced yet another punt. When the teams took the field again, the Saint Anthony’s safety was shading four yards farther in and five yards closer to the line of scrimmage, hovering nakedly in the flat. Outright ignoring Mears, trusting their slow-ass cornerback to handle him. It shouldn’t even have been an option. Tonight, though, it was simply the right decision.

Chambers worked the ball downfield patiently, McCoy looking poised, picking up blitzes and moving well in the pocket, gaining first downs on sweeps and veers. Twice he saw Mears wide open, hesitated, and then checked down and threw underneath. Mears stood downfield with his arms up, wanting to know where the ball was. Adam could hardly stand to watch the kid.

The drive stalled on the fifteen and they took a field goal: 10–3. Saint Anthony’s answered with a field goal of their own, making it 13–3 as the rain began to pour. They had control of the game but hadn’t put it out of reach, and with only two minutes left in the half, Adam thought that it wasn’t as bad it could have been.

Then they went for an onside kick, and he said, “Holy shit.”

What a call. What a bold play call. Saint Anthony’s recovered, and while the move had certainly caught Chambers off guard, it also seemed as if two of Saint Anthony’s special teams players had gotten one hell of a jump on the kick, and Adam looked for a penalty flag but didn’t find one. Then Chelsea said, “Uh-oh. Your brother…” and then he saw Kent storming onto the field, screaming, tearing his headset off and hurling it behind him.

“Come on, Franchise,” Adam whispered. “Don’t go down like this. Not like this.”

“That is offsides! He was offsides by five steps! Are you out of your mind? How did you not see that!”

Kent was near midfield now, and he was aware that his headset had shattered when it hit the aluminum bench but didn’t care, he was too focused on fury.

“Coach, go back to the sideline.”

“How did you not see that!” Kent screamed. His face was inches from the official’s, rain stinging his eyes and dripping into his mouth. He spun and kicked the ground and the turf was so wet he tore a furrow through it, sent a divot flying into the air, and drew a roar from the crowd.

“Back… to… the… sideline,” the official repeated.

“You’re standing on the line and you can’t see him jump? Are you kidding me? You’re right on top of it! That is all you need to watch! That is your only responsibility! ” The official was trying to walk away but Kent was keeping pace with him, still screaming, still face-to-face, and when the flag finally came out he should not have been surprised, but it further incensed him.

“This is bullshit! This is absolute bullshit!”

He felt a hand on his arm then, started to tear free from it, but it was Matt Byers and his grip was firm. “Coach, get back now. Don’t get thrown out of this game.”

He let Byers pull him back to the sidelines as the Saint Anthony’s crowd booed and Scott Bless regarded him with what appeared to be genuine surprise. Kent picked up his headset, saw that it was in pieces, none of the indicator lights glowing, and dropped it again. One of his assistants was offering him a new one but he brushed it off and paced away as the chain crew moved their markers another fifteen yards downfield in honor of his penalty. He stood alone with his arms folded, his hat lying somewhere in the mud, and watched as Sonnefeld completed four straight passes and then scored from the one on a quarterback dive as the clock wound down.

20–3 at the half.

“You have got to be kidding me,” Kent shouted, his voice breaking, as he looked at the rain-swept scoreboard. Not again. Not again.