Michael Koryta - The Prophet

Adam stepped away from Chelsea as the team jogged toward their locker room, heads down all around, and his brother remained on the sideline, his chin resting on his right hand as he studied the scoreboard as if it were a code he could not decipher. Adam wanted to go to him, say something. He didn’t know what. He just wanted to speak to him.

But he couldn’t get to him. Kent had walked out to the middle of the field, into the jeers and boos from the Saint Anthony’s fans. In the Chambers bleachers, the crowd was silent. Stunned by the score and by the meltdown from their always-impassive head coach. Adam could see Beth sitting with the kids, one on either side of her, the three of them nestled in the center of the friendly crowd. He stopped trying to reach his brother and stood at the fence, watched as Kent crossed the field and found the officials. A hand was extended to the one who’d missed the call and received the tirade, a few words whispered in his ear, a quick pat on the back. The official nodded, apology accepted. The Chambers fans applauded; Saint Anthony’s fans continued to boo. Kent walked off the field with his head down, alone in the pouring rain, and Adam’s throat tightened as he watched him go.

“Good for you, Franchise,” he said. “Good for you.”

Damn it, he was proud of him.

The rest of the coaches were waiting for him outside the locker room. They usually spoke there while the kids caught their breath alone inside, talked about potential adjustments. Tonight Kent walked straight for the door.

“We are not done,” he said. Those were the only words he had for his staff.

Usually the locker room hushed when he opened the door; tonight it was already silent. He went to the whiteboard, took one of the markers, and wrote the number 3 as large as he could. Turned and faced the team and said, “What’s that mean to you?”

“How many points we’ve got,” Lorell McCoy said.

Kent shook his head. “How many touchdowns we need. Now let me show you one more number.” He turned and wrote another 3 on the board. “Anybody know what that one is?”

Silence.

“That’s the fewest amount of touchdowns we’ve scored all year,” he said. “The most is eight. The average is five. The average is five. Does anyone doubt we can get three?”

Nobody did. He put the cap on the marker and set it down and said, “We will win this football game, gentlemen. They played a good half. We will play a better one now. And we will not lose composure. I’ve done that for you. I apologize. You need to be better than me now, understand that? You need to be better than me.”

Intense eyes watched him from every corner. He took a deep breath, cleared his throat, and said, “They’ll keep throwing the ball. Bless will not take his foot off our throats until it’s out of reach. With our offense, he cannot feel that it’s ever out of reach. And he is correct. Agreed?”

They agreed.

“We are going to get downfield and put that ball in the end zone on the first possession,” he said. “Two-score game then. And when they get it back, we are bringing the house. Linebackers, are you ready to hit?”

Shouts of “yes, sir!” echoed around him. He nodded. “Blow those kids up, understand me? Blow them up. Does a blocker get credit for a tackle or a gained yard?”

“No.”

“Does a blocker make the play happen?”

“Yes, sir.”

“If we don’t leave people on the ground, we don’t deserve to be on this football field.”

There was some fire coming back, he could see it, could feel it.

“We are not taking a loss from this team tonight,” he told them. “It’s not happening.”

They were shouting now, clapping, and Matt Byers was grinning in the back of the room, and Kent was almost frightened by just how good he felt, how alive.

“I want to see hitters out there,” he told them. “I want to see hitters.”

Adam had feared a blowout was in the offing, but what he saw was aggression and execution. They didn’t look hurried, didn’t look bothered by the deficit, Lorell McCoy so calm in the pocket you would have thought he’d just emerged from meditation. He got hit twice for losses, and twice Mears dropped balls that could have been big gains, but each time McCoy came back without a trace of frustration and converted. They scored to cut it to 20–10, and then the defense stunned Adam and everyone else in the stadium—including Sonnefeld—by blitzing on three straight downs. Saint Anthony’s punted, McCoy drove Chambers right back, and as the fourth quarter started, it was 20–17.

“Ball game here,” Adam whispered in Chelsea’s ear. “We’ve got a ball game here.”

Saint Anthony’s regained momentum with a pair of first downs but then Damon Ritter blew through the middle, sacked Sonnefeld, and forced a fumble. Chambers came out in the shotgun immediately and scored on one play. The extra point was good: 24–20, Chambers.

The crowd was going insane, and Adam heard Chelsea laughing and looked down.

“What?” he said.

She held her arm out, pulled up her shirtsleeve. Goosebumps. He smiled, squeezed her shoulders, and said, “Let’s see if he can finish.”

Kent knew they’d score again. His defense was playing superbly, swarming to the ball, but Scott Bless had not coached his way to two state titles without a few tricks up his sleeve.

He used one now, a double reverse that gained forty yards, and then on the next play Sonnefeld rolled right, looked downfield, and found nothing. He was a half-step away from a sack when he cut back inside, seeing a hole that only great players see, and then he was free and into the end zone.

“We’re all right,” Kent said. “We’re all right.”

He believed it, too. They were dominating this half in the way Saint Anthony’s had the first, and the extra point was going to make it 27–24, meaning they only needed to get into field goal range to force overtime. Then Saint Anthony’s came out and lined up to go for two, and Kent looked at Matt Byers and said, “Is he serious?”

If they didn’t make the two-point conversion, Chambers could win on a field goal. Bless had no interest in overtime, it seemed. He was ready to finish it, one way or the other.

Saint Anthony’s scored on a jet sweep, blocking perfectly, the running back never touched: 28–24. Touchdown mandatory now. Across the field, Scott Bless leaned forward, hands on his knees, impassive, and Kent felt a wild desire to tip his cap to the man.

“They asked for it,” he told his offense in the huddle, “now let’s give it to them. That was a risky play call, and do you know why they made it? Because they’re scared of you, gentlemen. They’re scared. Show them why.”

When Saint Anthony’s got into the end zone for two, Adam said, “Son of a bitch,” lowered his face, and buried it in Chelsea’s hair.

“I thought they’d kick it,” she said.

“Yeah.” Her and everyone else. Chambers had to put it in the end zone now, and with that clock running, they’d have to pass to do it.

“I hope he makes a play,” Adam said, looking up again. “Damn, I hope he makes a play.”

“Rachel’s boyfriend?”

“Yeah.” His mouth was dry. He’d forgotten just how much it could mean, this game, had forgotten the way your heart raced and your fingertips tingled and your lungs couldn’t fill. He wanted to be out there, he wanted to make a hit, and he was forty damn years old. Was that wonderful, or was that sad?

“Let’s go, Franchise,” he said. “Don’t panic. You got time.”

Chambers took the field with Colin Mears split out wide right, tensed and ready. It was clear that he still thought he would make the catches. He really did. It could break your heart, watching him.