Coleman reached inside and pulled something out to show his buddy. Then put it back inside.
“Why are you carrying a doughnut in your pouch?”
“Emergencies.”
Tickets were waiting as promised. This time Kyle took charge, leading them along the fence in front of the home section until they reached the area behind the Pahokee bench.
“Coach Calhoun!”
Lamar turned. At first there was a lack of recognition.
“It’s me, Kyle.”
Then Calhoun brightened, and a reunion hug. “I heard about your dad. Sorry.”
“Heard about yours, too,” said Kyle. “They were good men.”
“Coach!” A hand extended to shake.
“And you must be Cheyenne.” Lamar lowered his right palm to the height of his waist. “Last time I saw you, you were this tall.”
“The years fly by,” she said. “So you’re back home coaching now?”
Calhoun rested a forearm on the top of the fence. “That’s a complicated story.”
“Where’s this kicker I’ve been reading about?”
“Chris? Right over there. She’s quite something.”
They all looked down the bench at a slender girl with a ponytail, leaning forward with spring-wound intensity.
Then more coiled intensity from another direction. “Coach! I’m Serge! Huge fan!”—shaking hands vigorously—“Can’t tell you how much all of this means to our nation! Connective tissue from Stetson to Zora! This is Coleman . . .”
Coleman waved. “I caught a bunny.”
“Don’t listen to him,” said Serge. “So what’s the big plan for tonight? Razzle-dazzle, Statue of Liberty, flea flicker, fumblerooski, triple-reverse sting operation, bark at the moon to confuse the blitz?”
Calhoun glanced over at Kyle. “You know these people?”
“Actually, yes,” said the young man. “But they’re harmless. Maybe not to themselves . . .”
Cheyenne pointed at the color guard marching out onto the field. “Looks like we’re starting.”
After the national anthem, thunder from the stands as the Devils took the field to kick off. They formed a rigid line. A referee blew a whistle. A ball sailed high under the lights.
The Belle Glade receiver took it on the fifteen and charged straight up the field, waiting for his wall of blockers to form. Then he abruptly swung left, and used ridiculous speed to curl around the end and race up the sideline. The blocking wall held. One by one, the defenders were picked off. The path to the end zone now clear.
Well, almost clear. The kicker was left, outmatched by at least eighty pounds and staring in headlights. Normally a tackle would have been impossible. But the receiver was running down the sideline. It wasn’t necessary to tackle, just knock him out of bounds. So the kicker, as they say, took one for the team. He ran as best he could toward the edge of the field, left his feet and laid out. Which meant just diving and sacrificing his body horizontally in front of the runner.
It was a wincing collision, but it did the trick. Out of bounds at the thirty. The kicker didn’t get up. Coaches ran over. They held fingers in front of his face. They gave him a pop quiz.
The referee leaned in. “What’s the story?”
They shook their heads. “Concussion. He’s out.”
A rare moment of silence in the stands as medics wheeled the stretcher toward the waiting ambulance that had backed up through the gates. Then an eruption of applause from both stands as the player, still prone on the stretcher, raised a fist with a thumbs-up.
That bit of drama was the first of many. Key fumbles and interceptions. Lead swings. Fourth-down pass completions. Safety blitzes and trick plays. Spectators held their stomachs and hearts, not sure how much more they could take . . .
. . . Police officers kept an eye on the darkened parking lots. Every space was taken. Even spaces that weren’t spaces. Vehicles up on curbs, in no-parking zones, blocking fire hydrants. It was the unwritten fine print of a small town: no parking tickets during high school games.
Just after halftime, a pickup truck arrived and drove up and down packed rows until parking on the grass behind a dumpster. The driver bought a standing-room ticket and stood as Pahokee kicked off. But the new spectator wasn’t watching the field. He was looking at the bench.
Chris wasn’t hard to spot. The players on the bench had their helmets off. Just look for the only girl.
Captain Crack Nasty reached into his pocket and rubbed the gold coin he had just purchased at the pawnshop. He smiled to himself and decided to enjoy the rest of the game . . .
With five minutes to go, the Blue Devils were down 27–21 and driving inside the five. But play stalled on a third-down shot out the back of the end zone. They were too close to risk another touchdown attempt and give up the sure three points. They sent out the kicker, who made good: 27–24.
The kicker trotted off the field as teammates slapped his pads in congratulation. Then he suddenly began hopping on his left foot and dropped down on the bench. His helmet came off with a grimace. The trainer arrived, then other staff.
“What is it?” asked the head coach.
The trainer rotated the leg slightly, and the player almost screamed. “Looks like a pulled groin.”
“So how’s he going to be?”
“He’s in no condition for even an onside kick.”
“Are you kidding me?” said the coach. “Can’t you do anything? Tape it up?”
A headshake. “He might even need surgery.”
Teeth gritted; then: “I know, I know. Shouldn’t have even asked. Their welfare comes first.” A frustrated kick in the dirt. “But why in a three-point game? One field goal to tie and send it to overtime? What am I supposed to do?”
“I guess you’re just going to have to try for the touchdown and the win.”
They carefully took off the kicker’s jersey.
Chris was leaning way forward, trying to make out the commotion at the other end of the bench. She saw them removing the shoulder pads of the second-string kicker, who was in obvious agony. She leaned back. “Shit.”
The Devils defense made a clutch stop on third down in enemy territory, and the Raiders had no choice but to punt. The Pahokee offense took the field. Time was running short, so they had to manage the clock. Which meant passing. And Belle Glade knew it. They loaded up deep and played soft for the short, underneath stuff. Pahokee started with a sideline route that went out of bounds for a four-yard gain. Then another for five yards. Then a short pass over the middle for a first down that stopped the clock at just over a minute. It was working, but it was taking far too long.
Chris would have been biting her nails if she did that sort of thing. Instead, her right knee nervously bounced up and down. She glanced over her shoulder at the roaring overflow crowd. She did a double take. She jumped off the bench and ran to the fence. “Coach Calhoun!” She hugged him over the top of the chain link.
“Easy now.”
Chris let him go. “What are you doing here?”
“You kidding? I wouldn’t miss this for anything.”
She hadn’t noticed because of the excitement at seeing the coach, but someone was standing with him. He was home for a break from college.