“Reggie!” Another hug.
“Chris,” said Calhoun. “There’s time for this later. You need to get your head back in the game.”
“Did you see what happened to our kickers?”
Calhoun nodded.
“What should I do?”
“I suggest you start warming up.”
Chris nodded and dashed off. She found a spot behind the bench away from the others and began stretching.
The Blue Devils continued a consistent march down the field. But it was all still more short stuff, eating up way too much time. Both sides knew what was coming. The quarterback took the next snap and dropped back farther than before to give the receivers time to extend their routes. He looked right and saw tight coverage. He ducked and stepped up in the pocket as a defender leaped and flew by. He reached back with everything he had and launched a perfect spiral with plenty of air. It couldn’t have been more on target, arcing down toward the back corner of the end zone. But Glades Central had time to shift an extra defender, and now the Pahokee receiver was double-teamed. The ball was swatted away.
Fourth and long. At the outer edge of field-goal range. The clock stopped at ten seconds. The head coach glanced at Chris, warming up at the practice net. “Time out!”
The roar of the crowd was a rattling blare of sheer white noise. Nobody had taken a seat for the last fifteen minutes. Even the cops were cheering.
The teams went to their sidelines, panting, gargling water and spitting it out. Nobody could say they weren’t leaving it all on the field. Both sides had nothing left, and that’s when the boys at the lake always found more. The head coach called the play. The players ran back onto the field.
Chris stayed behind the bench at the practice net.
Pahokee lined up identical to the last play. Spectators grabbed their heads and pulled their hair. The ball was snapped. The fastest receivers streaked down both sidelines. The quarterback dropped back deep. He cocked his arm to launch another long one. Then he pulled the ball in. It was a delay play. The tight end threw a block on the right tackle, then slipped over the line five yards. The quarterback stepped forward and hit him running full speed. The defense was covering all the long routes and had left the middle open. Bedlam in the stands. The end raced up the clear middle of the field. Ten yards, fifteen, twenty. The defenders converged. The end tried to get around the left side, but one of the Raiders dove for a perfect ankle tackle. The runner went down right on the hash mark at the fifteen-yard line. A second later, a horn on top of the scoreboard blared. No time on the clock. Final score: Glades Central 27, Pahokee 24.
One side of the field jumped in ecstasy, the other in furious protest. The referees were already huddling. They already knew they had a serious mess on their hands. They realized the implications of what they had to do, and in the back of their minds were thinking how to get out of the parking lot as fast as possible when it was all over. The runner was down, but the scorekeeper up in the booth hadn’t stopped the clock in time. The refs all nodded in agreement, and the head official broke their huddle and signaled to the booth to put a single second back on the clock.
Now emotions reversed in the opposing stands.
The Pahokee coach yelled at a ref and made a T with his hands. “Time out!”
Then he turned. “Chris!”
There wasn’t need for any strategy discussion. It was a straight field goal. If she made it, then overtime. If not . . .
“You got this one, Chris,” said a teammate, slapping her on the butt. “Oops, sorry.”
“Don’t worry about it.”
The crowd was apoplectic. Spectators dug fingernails into each other’s arms. Some gasped for air. Others grabbed their hearts. Coleman reached in his pouch for the doughnut.
The intermission ended, and the players trotted back out under the bright lights.
To this day, almost everyone involved remembers what happened next like the climax of a sports movie, drawn way out in extra-excruciating drama. Not that it needed any more.
Chris stepped up to the holder and addressed where the ball would be placed. Then she took measured steps backward and two more to the left. She shook her dangling arms at her sides to loosen nerves. She looked up at the home stands. Berserk people jumping and clapping. She saw their mouths shouting but she couldn’t hear them. She couldn’t hear any sound. Then a shrill ringing grew louder in her ears, and a pounding heartbeat. She looked toward the holder and nodded. The holder turned toward the blocking line and nodded at the center. People held breaths, prayed.
The ball was snapped.
It was ultra-slow motion. A tenth of a second ticked off the clock. Shoulder pads violently collided. Chris had done this a million times. She began running toward the holder, synchronizing her approach with the arrival of the ball. Click. Another tenth of a second. The ball seemed to hang in the air forever on the way to the holder. More shoulder pads crashed. She saw the linebackers take their first step forward for their leaps to attempt the block.
The ball reached the holder’s hands. Click. She could see individual laces. The ball went toward the ground. Chris took another step and got ready to plant her left foot. There would be another step after that. Her kicking leg would swing.
The holder got the ball to the ground. Click. He spun the laces away.
Chris was suddenly hit in the chest with utter terror.
While spinning the ball, the holder had muffed it. The ball slipped out of his hands and it now lay sideways on the ground. He tried to right it, but too late. Chris was already there. She had to pull up and abort the kick.
The team had a plan for such a misplay. They’d drilled it and drilled it in practice. But it was never conceivably meant with Chris in mind. Nonetheless, she had dutifully gone through all the practices with the other kickers, and now it was the mindless instinct of repetition.
Click. The horn sounded. The clock read zero.
Chris swung out of her kicking approach, running wide right. The holder pitched her the ball. She caught it in stride. The Belle Glade defense had loaded up for the block, and now most of their players were entangled in that snarl of limbs at scrimmage, allowing Chris to round the end. And damn if she wasn’t faster than anyone would have guessed. Rabbits.
But all appeared to be for naught. The Raiders were anything but slow, and a pair of them bounced outside and swept toward her path. The farther one was toward the middle and had a ways to go, but the closer was almost straight ahead and in perfect position.
He’d placed himself to be able to beat her to the sideline. Unless she wanted to run out of bounds and end the game, her only option was to do what he wanted: to veer inside toward the middle of the field, where he’d have help from the other player, and maybe more. She’d easily be tackled.
Either way, checkmate.
She kept running full sprint. Then she did something the defenders didn’t expect. She began curling toward the sideline. Those in the home stands who had been holding their own heads began slapping them. “What’s she doing?” “He’ll run her out of bounds!”
The closest player couldn’t believe his luck. Must be her lack of experience, probably thinks she can beat me to the corner and tightrope it into the end zone. He adjusted his course along with hers. Then Chris surprised him even more. She increased her angle toward the sideline. He thought: Has Christmas come early?