The referee’s arm going out, pointing to the end zone. First down, and the clock stopped.
At their own 45, now. Twenty more yards for a shot at the field goal and overtime. A minute and thirty seconds on the clock.
Pass and catch and get out of bounds. He’d been doing it for twenty years, and he was doing it now. A decoy when the ball didn’t come his way, drawing double coverage, doing his very best to signal that he expected the pass.
Another first down, but barely. Fifty-five seconds. Taking off and running his route, and Williams on him like a bird dog.
Harlan knew the ball was going to his left. He didn’t have to look. He was watching Francis, the safety, seeing the moment when he started tracking his path to the ball. Which would be headed straight toward Darius Smith, the second wide receiver.
Harlan had never been known as a power blocker. This season, he’d worked to change that. Extra time in the weight room. Extra drills. And most of all, extra will.
You did whatever it took. And it wasn’t all about you.
The nurse said, “Getting close now. Let’s turn the TV off. Doctor says she’s five minutes out. You got here just in time, didn’t you?”
“Are you … kidding?” Jennifer gasped. “That’s my … fiancé. Leave it on.”
Dyma said, “Mom.”
“Shut up and hold my hand,” Jennifer said.
“All righty, then,” Dyma said. “Looks like I’m a labor coach. Too bad I have no idea how to be a labor coach.”
“No,” Jennifer said. “I’m waiting for … Harlan.” The urge to push was growing, the pain intense.
It had happened fast. She’d thought, for a while, that they weren’t going to make it. Annabelle had driven like a demon, though. They might be getting a ticket for that one yellow light that had been turning red, but she’d gotten them here.
“Babies don’t wait,” the nurse told her, but Jennifer wasn’t listening. She was watching the TV. Seeing Harlan lower his shoulder pads, get his body down low, shove straight up with his palms, and keep his feet moving. Knocking the charging defender right off the ball, which the other guy, the right guy, caught and ran with. Straight out of bounds.
Dyma gave a whoop. “That’s a block. I didn’t know Harlan could block like that. I didn’t know he would block like that.”
“No guts,” Jennifer said, through the concentric red circles that were squeezing her insides tight, “no glory.”
Dr. Leather Pants coming in, then, masked and gowned and gloved, saying, “Where are we here?”
“Thirty yards from the … goal line,” Jennifer said. “Twenty … seconds on the clock. First … down.”
“Maybe time for two more plays,” Dyma said. “Then they have to go for it.”
“Uh-huh,” the doctor said, wheeling her stool up close. “You know what? I think we’ll just concentrate on this baby instead. I’m going to check you, Jennifer. Little discomfort here.”
She put her hand up there, and it was more than a little discomfort. It was horrible. Dyma said, “Breathe, Mom. Do … whatever the class says. Blow out, I think. I’m a lousy labor coach. Harlan better win soon and get here.”
Jennifer barely heard her. She was in a tunnel of pain. The doctor pulled her hand out and said, “Ten centimeters. We both made it just in time. On the next contraction, you can push.”
“I want to … wait,” Jennifer said. On the screen, the pass was incomplete. One more chance, and then it was the field goal. And overtime.
No overtime, she begged inside. Come on, Harlan. Win. And get here.
“There’s no waiting,” the doctor said firmly. “There’s pushing. You’ve got a boy here who wants to come out, and you need to get him born.”
Jennifer didn’t hear, because she was watching. Harlan, poised behind the line like a deer ready to bolt. His ears would be cocked, his lightning reflexes twitching.
Owen, his sure hands on the ball, ready for the snap. The quarterback, nearly ten yards back, turning his head one way, then the other, yelling out signals, changing the play, The play clock in the corner of the screen, counting down.
Six seconds. Five. Four. Three. Two.
Owen snapped the ball. And Harlan ran.
Two defensive players on him like heat-seeking missiles, but Harlan didn’t seem even to notice them. He was so fast, his feet barely touched the ground, and so sure, all you could do was believe.
The quarterback cocking his arm, throwing the pass like an arrow from a bow, straight down the field.
It seemed to hang there forever.
The crowd on their feet, roaring.
Three bodies jumping, reaching, stretching. One of them jumping those two inches higher, his body bent backwards, his gloved hands closing around the ball. Coming down with it as the two other players tried to wrestle it loose. His body hitting the turf with theirs on top of him.
The replay.
The review.
Another contraction started, the hardest one yet. The doctor and the nurse were chanting, “Push now. Push. Push. Push.”
She pushed. It burned. And she didn’t close her eyes.
Slow motion. Again and again. The crowd with their hands at their mouths, waiting.
The referee’s arms shooting over his head, the whistle blowing.
Touchdown.
Players spilled from the bench, ran onto the field, and the coach ran with them. The crowd was roaring. The whistle had blown. A crowd of men, jumping, hugging, shouting.
The manager, hustling in, pulling Harlan out of the mob.
“What?” he shouted. “I’m fine. I’m good.” He didn’t know if he was or not. The adrenaline was too strong for that.
The trainer put his mouth to Harlan’s ear and yelled the words. “Jennifer’s at the hospital. She’s having the baby.”
Somehow, he made it. He’d tossed his helmet, but he was still in his uniform. Still in his pads. Pulling a gown over the whole thing, wrenching off his cleats and being handed a pair of blue booties instead. Washing his hands, then washing them again, because he was going to be touching his son.
Down the hall and into a room, following the nurse, praying that he wouldn’t be too late.
Jennifer, sitting nearly upright on the bed with Dyma supporting her, her hands behind her knees, calling out with pain that sounded like agony.
He got there fast.
Dyma said, “Thank … god.”
He agreed. He said, “I’ve got this,” got behind Jennifer on the bed, took her shoulders in his hands, kept her upright, and said, “Doing great, baby. You’re doing great. Push.”
Ten more agonizing seconds, and she was lying back against him, panting, shaking. Saying, “H-Harlan?”
He kissed her hair, which was damp with sweat. “Yeah. I’m still in my pads.” He could feel her laugh, and he smiled, too. “Got here just as fast as I could. How are you doing?”
“Oh, you know,” she said, the words coming out in jerks. “Hurting. He’s two weeks … early. How can his head be this big?”
He smiled again, and kissed her again, too, then asked the doctor, “We close?”