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Bleachers

By John Grisham

A man delivering a fruit basket to the Rake home heard the whispers, and before long the entire town knew that the Coach had drifted away so far that he would never return.

At dusk the gossip reached the bleachers, where small groups of players from different teams in different decades had gathered to wait. A few sat alone, deep in their own memories of Rake and glory that had vanished so long ago.

Paul Curry was back, in jeans and a sweatshirt and with two large pizzas Mona had made and sent so the boys could be boys for the night. Silo Mooney was there with a cooler of beer. Hubcap was missing, which was never a surprise. The Utley twins, Ronnie and Donnie, from out in the county had heard that Neely was back. Fifteen years earlier they had been identical 160-pound linebackers, each of whom could tackle an oak tree.

When it was dark, they watched as Rabbit made his trek to the Scoreboard and flipped on the lights on the southwest pole. Rake was still alive, though barely. Long shadows fell across Rake Field, and the former players waited. The joggers were gone; the place was still. Laughter rose occasionally from one of the groups scattered throughout the home bleachers as someone told an old football story. But for the most part the voices were low. Rake was unconscious now, the end was near.

Nat Sawyer found them. He had something in a large carrying case. “You got drugs there, Nat?” Silo asked.

“Nope. Cigars.”

Silo was the first to light up a Cuban, then Nat, then Paul, and finally Neely. The Utley twins neither drank nor smoked.

“You’ll never guess what I found,” Nat said.

“A girlfriend?” Silo said.

“Shut up, Silo.” Nat opened the case and removed a large cassette tape player, a boom box.

“Great, some jazz, just what I wanted,” Silo said.

Nat held up a cassette tape and announced, “This is Buck Coffey doing the ‘87 championship game.”

“No way,” Paul said.

“Yep. I listened to it last night, first time in years.”

“I’ve never heard it,” Paul said.

“I didn’t know they recorded the games,” Silo said.

“Lotta things you don’t know, Silo,” Nat said. He put the tape in the slot and began fiddling with the dials. “If it’s okay with you guys, I thought we’d just skip the first half.”

Even Neely managed a laugh. He’d thrown four interceptions and fumbled once in the first half. The Spartans were down 31-0 to a wonderfully gifted team from East Pike.

The tape began and the slow, raspy voice of Buck Coffey cut through the stillness of the bleachers.

Buck Coffey here at halftime, folks, on the campus of A&M, in what was supposed to be an evenly matched game between two unbeaten teams. Not so. East Pike leads in every category except penalties and turnovers. The score is thirty-one to nothing. I’ve been calling Messina Spartan games for the past twenty-two years, and I cannot remember being this far behind at halftime.

“Where’s Buck now?” Neely asked.

“He quit when they sacked Rake,” Paul said.

Nat turned up the volume slightly and Buck’s voice carried even farther. It acted as a magnet for the other players from the other teams. Randy Jaeger and two of his teammates from 1992 came over. Jon Couch the lawyer and Blanchard Teague the optometrist were back in their jogging shoes, with four others from the era of The Streak. A dozen more moved close.

The teams are back on the field, and we’ll pause for a word from our sponsors.

“I cut out all that crap from the sponsors,” Nat said.

“Good,” said Paul.

“You’re such a smart boy,” Silo said.

I’m looking at the Messina sideline, and I don’t see Coach Rake. In fact, none of the coaches are on the field. The teams are lining up for the second half kickoff, and the Spartan coaches are nowhere to be seen. This is very strange, to say the least.

“Where were the coaches?” someone asked.

Silo shrugged but didn’t answer.

And that was the great question that had been asked and left unanswered for fifteen years in Messina. It had been obvious that the coaches boycotted the second half, but why?

East Pike is kicking to the south end zone. Here’s the kick. It’s short and taken by Marcus Mabry on the eighteen, zigs one way back the other, cuts upfield, has some room and is tackled at the thirty-yard line, where the Spartans will attempt to generate some offense for the first time tonight. Neely Crenshaw was just three for fifteen in the first half. East Pike caught more of his passes than the Spartans did.

“Butthole,” someone said.

“I thought he was on our side.”

“Always, but he liked us better when we were winning.”

“Just wait,” Nat said.

Still no sign of Eddie Rake or the other coaches. This is very bizarre. Spartans break huddle and Crenshaw sets his offense. Curry wide right, Mabry is the I-back. East Pike has eight men in the box, just daring Crenshaw to throw the ball. Here’s the snap, option right, Crenshaw fakes the pitch, cuts upfield, sees some daylight, hit hard, spins, breaks a tackle, and he’s loose at the forty, the forty-five, the fifty, and out of bounds at the East Pike forty-one, a pickup of twenty-nine yards! The best play of the game for the Spartan offense. Maybe they’re coming to life.

“Man, those guys hit,” Silo said quietly. “They had five Division One signees,” Paul said, reliving the nightmare of the first half. “Four on defense.” “You don’t have to remind me,” Neely said.

This Spartan team is finally awake. They’re yelling at each other as they huddle, and the sideline is really fired up now. Here they come, Crenshaw points to his left and Curry spreads wide. Mabry in the slot, now in motion, the snap, quick pitch to Mabry, who scoots around left end for six, maybe seven yards. And the Spartans are really wired now. They’re yanking each other off the turf, slapping each other on the helmets. And of course Silo Mooney is jawing with at least three of the East Pike players. Always a good sign.

“What were you saying, Silo?”

“I was telling them that they were about to get their butts kicked.”

“You were down thirty-one points.”

“Yep,” Paul said. “It’s true. We heard him. After that second play, Silo started the trash-talking.”

Second and three. Crenshaw in the shotgun. The snap, a quick draw to Mabry, who hits hard, spins, turns upfield to the thirty, the twenty, and out of bounds at the East Pike sixteen! Three plays, fifty-four yards! And the Spartan offensive line is really moving people off the ball. First down Spartans in the first half they had only five, and only forty-six yards rushing. Crenshaw is calling his own plays now, nothing from the sideline because there are no coaches over there. Slot left with Curry wide, Mabry in the I, Chenault in motion, option right, the fake, the pitch to Mabry, who’s hit at the line, runs over the linebacker, and slams down to the ten-yard line. Clock is ticking, ten-oh-five left in the third quarter. Messina is ten yards from a touchdown and a thousand miles from a state title. First and goal, Crenshaw drops back to pass, a draw to Mabry, who’s hit in the backfield, shakes loose, scoots wide to the right. There’s nobody there! He’s gonna score! He’s gonna score! And Marcus Mabry dives in for the first Messina touchdown! Touchdown Spartans! The comeback has begun!

Jon Couch said, “When we scored, I remember thinking, ‘Nice to have a touchdown, but there’s no way we can come back on these guys.’ East Pike was too good.”

Nat turned the volume down and said, “They fumbled the kickoff, didn’t they?”

Donnie: “Yep, Hindu stripped the ball on about the fifteen, we were swarming like hornets. It bounced around for about five minutes and finally rolled out of bounds at the twenty.”

Ronnie: “They ran the tailback off-tackle right, no gain. Off-tackle left, no gain. Third and eleven, they dropped back to pass, Silo sacked the quarterback on the six-yard line.”

Donnie: “Unfortunately, in doing so he stuffed him into the ground headfirst, fifteen yards, unsportsmanlike conduct, first down East Pike.”

Silo: “It was a bad call.”

Paul: “Bad call? You tried to break his neck.”

Silo: “No, dear banker, I tried to kill him.”

Ronnie: “We were out of our minds. Silo was growling like a wounded grizzly bear. Hindu, I swear, was crying. He wanted to blitz from safety on every play just so he could be sure he hit someone.”

Donnie: “We could have stopped the Dallas Cowboys.”

Blanchard: “Who was calling the defense?” Silo: “Me. It was simple man coverage on the wideouts, knock down the tight end, eight guys in the box, everyone blitzed, everyone hit somebody, clean or not, didn’t matter. It wasn’t a game anymore, it was a war.”

Donnie: “On third and eight, Higgins, that cocky flanker who went to Clemson, cut across the middle on a slant. The pass was high. Hindu read it perfectly, came across like a bullet train, and hit him a split second before the ball got there. Pass interference.”

Paul: “His helmet went twenty feet in the air.” Couch: “We were forty rows up, and it sounded like two cars hitting.”

Silo: “We celebrated. We’d killed one of ‘em. Got a flag for that too.”

Ronnie: “Two flags, thirty yards, we didn’t care. They weren’t going to score, didn’t matter where they put the ball.” Blanchard: “You guys were convinced they couldn’t score?” Silo: “No team could’ve scored on us in that second half. When they finally carried Higgins off the field, on a stretcher I might add, the ball was on our thirty-yard line. They ran a sweep that lost six yards, a draw that lost four, then their little quarterback went to the shotgun again and we just mauled him.”

Nat: “Their punter dropped one on the three-yard line.” Silo: “Yeah, they had a good punter. We, of course, had you.” Nat turned up the volume:

Ninety-seven yards to go for the Spartans, just under eight minutes left in the third quarter, still no sign of Eddie Rake or any of the Spartan coaches. I watched Crenshaw when East Pike had the ball. He kept his right hand in a bucket of ice the entire time, and he kept his helmet on. Handoff left side to Mabry, who doesn’t get much. Both defenses are simply sending everybody, which should set up the pass.

Silo: “Not from the three-yard line, dumbass.” Paul: “Coffey always wanted to coach.”

Pitch right side, Mabry bobbles the ball, then cuts upfield, got some room wide, and he’s out of bounds along the ten.

Couch: “Just curious, Neely, do you know what you called next?”

Neely: “Sure, option right. I read the option, faked to Chenault, faked the pitch to Hubcap, cut upfield for eleven yards. The offensive line was chopping people down.”

First and ten Spartans, who break huddle and sprint to the line of scrimmage. This is a different team, folks.

Paul: “I don’t know why Buck was on the radio. Nobody was listening. The entire town was at the game.”

Randy: “No, you’re wrong. Everybody was listening. In the second half we were trying to find out what happened to Coach Rake, so all the Messina fans had their radios stuck to their heads.”

Handoff to Chenault, who plows straight ahead for three or four. He basically just lowered his helmet and followed Silo Mooney, who is being double-teamed.

Silo: “Just two! I was insulted. The second guy was this little nasty-faced dude, weighed about one-eighty or so, thought he was bad. Came in the game trash-talking. He’ll leave the field in just a minute.”

Pitch to Mabry, wide right again, and he’s got some room, up to the thirty and out of bounds. An East Pike youngster is shaken up on the field.

Silo: “That’s him.”

Blanchard: “What’d you do?”

Silo: “The play swept right, away from us. I chop-blocked him, got him on the ground, then dropped a knee into his stomach. Squealed like a pig. He lasted for three plays. Never came back.”

Paul: “They could’ve flagged us for unnecessary roughness on every play, offense or defense.”

Neely: “While they dragged him off the field, Chenault tells me that their left tackle is not moving too well. Got something wrong, a twisted ankle maybe, the guy’s in pain but won’t leave the game. So we ran at him five straight times, same play. Six, seven yards a pop with Marcus low to the ground, just looking for someone to run over. I’d hand the ball off and watch the carnage.”

Silo: “Turn it up, Nat.”

First and ten on the East Pike thirty-eight. The Spartans are moving the ball but they’re sure eating up the clock. Not a single pass so far in the second half. Six minutes to go. Curry in motion left, the snap, option right, the pitch to Mabry, who swings outside to the thirty! The twenty-five! All the way down to the East Pike eighteen, and the Spartans are knocking at the door!

Neely: “After every play, Mabry sprinted back to the huddle and said, ‘Gimme the ball, bro, just gimme the ball.’ So we did.”

Paul: “And after Neely called every play, Silo would say, ‘You fumble it, and I’ll break your neck.’ “

Silo: “I wasn’t kidding, either.”

Blanchard: “Were you guys aware of the clock?”

Neely: “Yeah, but it didn’t matter. We knew we would win.”

Mabry has carried the ball twelve times already in the second half, for seventy-eight yards. Here’s a quick snap, right side again, not much there. The Spartans are really hammering away at the left side of the East Pike defense. Mabry just follows Durston and Vatrano, and of course Silo Mooney is always around the pileup.

Silo: “I loved Buck Coffey.”

Neely: “Didn’t you date his youngest daughter?” Silo: “I wouldn’t call it dating. Buck darned sure didn’t know anything about it.”

Second and eight, from the sixteen, Mabry again off the right side, for three, maybe four, and it’s a dogfight down there in the trenches, folks.

Silo: “It’s always a dogfight, Buck, that’s why they call it the trenches.”

In the semidarkness, the fraternity had quietly grown larger. Other players had eased over or slid down the bleachers, close enough to hear the play-by-play.

Third and four, Curry wide, full backfield, option right, Crenshaw keeps, is hit, falls forward for maybe two. He really got nailed by Devon Bond.

Neely: “Devon Bond hit me so many times I felt like a punching bag.”

Silo: “He was the one player I couldn’t do anything with. I’d fire off the ball, have a perfect shot at him, and he’d just vanish. That, or he’d hit me a forearm that would rattle my teeth. He was one bad dude.”

Donnie: “Didn’t he make a roster?”

Paul: “Steelers, for a couple of years, then some injuries sent him back to East Pike.”

A fourth and two that is beyond huge, folks. Spartans must score here, because they have a lot more scoring to do. And the clock is really moving now. Three minutes and forty seconds. Full house, now Chenault in motion left, long count by Crenshaw. And they jump! East Pike jumps offside! First and goal Spartans on the five-yard line! Crenshaw gave it the old head fake and got by with it.

Silo: “Head fake my butt.”

Paul: “It was all in the cadence.”

Blanchard: “I remember their Coach going crazy, charging the field.”

Neely: “He got a flag. Half the distance.”

Silo: “That guy was psycho, and the more we scored the louder he screamed.”

First and goal from the two and a half. Option left, here comes the pitch, Marcus Mabry is hit, drives, and falls into the end zone! Touchdown Spartans! Touchdown!

Buck’s voice carried even farther through the still night. Rabbit, at some point, heard it and crept into the shadows down the track to investigate the noise. He saw a crowd sitting and half-lying haphazardly up in the bleachers. He saw bottles of beer, smelled the smoke from the cigars. In another era, he would have taken charge and ordered everyone away from the field. But those were Rake’s boys up there, the chosen few. They were waiting for the lights to go off.

If he got closer he could call each one by name, and number, and he could remember the exact location of their lockers.

Rabbit slipped through the metal braces under the bleachers and hid below the players, listening.

Silo: “Neely called for an onside kick, and it almost worked. The ball bounced around and got touched by every darned player on the field until some guy with the wrong jersey finally found a handle.”

Ronnie: “They ran twice for two yards, then tried a long pass that Hindu broke up. Three and out, except that Hindu leveled the receiver out of bounds. Unnecessary roughness. First down.”

Donnie: “It was a horrible call.”

Blanchard: “We went crazy in the stands.”

Randy: “My father almost threw his radio on the field.”

Silo: “We didn’t care. They weren’t going to score.”

Ronnie: “They went three and out again.”

Couch: “Wasn’t the punt return somewhere around here?”

Nat: “First play of the fourth quarter.”

He turned up the volume.

East Pike back to punt on the Messina forty-one, the snap, a low, hard kick, taken on the bounce by Paul Curry at the five, wide to the right to the ten, cuts back He’s got a wall! A perfect wall! To the twenty, thirty, forty! Cuts back across midfield, picks up a block from Marcus Mabry, to the forty, the thirty, along the far sideline! He’s got blockers everywhere! To the ten, five, four, two, touchdown!! Touchdown Spartans! A ninety-five-yard punt return!

Nat turned the volume down so they could savor one of the greatest moments in Spartan football history. The punt return had been executed with textbook precision, every block and every move choreographed by Eddie Rake during endless hours of practice. When Paul Curry danced into the end zone he was escorted by six green jerseys, just the way they’d been drilled. “We all meet in the end zone,” Rake had screamed, over and over.

Two East Pike players were down, victims of vicious, but legal, blindside blocks that Rake had taught them in the ninth grade. “Punt returns are perfect for killing people,” he’d said, over and over.

Paul: “Let’s listen to it again.”

Silo: “Once is enough. Same ending.”

After the field was cleared, East Pike took the following kickoff and began a drive that would consume six minutes. For one brief period in the second half, they used their superior talent to chew up sixty yards, though every inch was contested. Their seamless execution of the first half was long gone, replaced by stutter steps and uncertainty. The sky was falling. One massive choke was under way, and they were powerless to stop it.

Every handoff drew a furious attack from all eleven defenders. Every short pass ended with the receiver crumpled on the ground. There was no time for long passes; Silo could not be contained. On fourth and two from the Messina twenty-eight, East Pike foolishly went for the first down. The quarterback faked a pitch to the left, bootlegged to the right, looking for the tight end. The tight end, however, had been mauled at the line by Donnie Utley, whose twin was blitzing like a mad dog. Ronnie caught the quarterback from behind, stripped the ball like he’d been taught, flung him to the ground, and the Spartans, trailing 31-21, were in business with five thirty-five to go in the game.

There’s something wrong with Neely’s right hand, not a single pass attempt in the second half. When the defense is on the field he keeps it buried in an ice bucket. East Pike has it figured out they’re in man coverage on the wideouts, everybody else is packed along the line of scrimmage.

Jaeger: “It was broken, wasn’t it?”

Paul: “Yes, it was broken.”

Neely just nodded.

Jaeger: “How’d you break it, Neely?”

Silo: “A locker-room incident.”

Neely was silent.

First and ten from the Spartan thirty-nine, Curry wide right, motion left, pitch right side to Marcus Mabry, who gets four, maybe five very tough yards. Devon Bond is all over the field. Must be a linebacker’s dream, not worrying about pass coverage, just stalking the football. Spartans huddle quickly, sprint to the line, they can hear the clock. Quick snap, dive to Chenault, right behind Silo Mooney, who is just slaughtering people in the middle of field.

Silo: “I like that slaughtering.”

Donnie: “That was putting it mildly. Frank missed a block on a sweep, and Silo punched him in the huddle.”

Neely: “He didn’t punch him. He slapped him. The referee started to throw a flag, but he wasn’t sure if you could be penalized for roughing up your own teammates.”

Silo: “He shouldn’t have missed the block.”

Third and one at the forty-eight, four-twenty to go in the game, Spartans are back at the line before East Pike is set, quick snap, Neely rolling right, a keeper, across the fifty to the forty-five and out of bounds. First down and the clock will stop. The Spartans need two touchdowns. They’ll have to start using the sidelines.

Silo: “Go for it, Buck, why don’t you just call the plays?”

Donnie: “I’m sure he knew them.”

Randy: “Heck, everybody knew them. They didn’t change in over thirty years.”

Couch: “We ran the same plays you guys were running against East Pike.”

Mabry off tackle again, for four yards, hit hard by Devon Bond and the safety, Armondo Butler, a real headhunter. They have no fear of the pass, so they’re really loading up against the run. Double tight end set, Chenault in motion right, option left, pitch to Mabry, who spins forward, keeps chugging, somehow picks up three. It’ll be third and three now, another big play, but they’re all big now. Clock’s counting, under four minutes to play. Ball at the thirty-eight. Curry sprints from the huddle, wide left, split backfield, Neely drops back into the shotgun, the snap, he rolls right, looking, looking, there’s pressure, and off he goes to the far side, and he’s nailed by Devon Bond. A really nasty helmet to helmet collision, and Neely is slow getting up.

Neely: “I couldn’t see. I’ve never been hit that hard, and for thirty seconds or so I couldn’t see.”

Paul: “We didn’t want to waste a time-out, so we yanked him up, got him to his feet, sorta dragged him back to the huddle.”

Silo: “I slapped him too, and that really helped.”

Neely: “I don’t remember that.”

Paul: “It was fourth and one. Neely was in la-la land, so I called the play. What can I say, I’m a genius.”

Fourth and one, Spartans are slow coming to the line. Crenshaw doesn’t feel too well right now, doesn’t look too steady. Huge play. Huge play. This could be the ballgame, folks. East Pike has nine men on the line. Double tight ends, no wideouts. Crenshaw finds the center, long snap, quick pitch to Mabry, who stops, jumps, shovels a pass across the middle to Heath Dorcek, who’s wide open! To the thirty! The twenty! Hit at the ten! Stumbles and falls down to the three! First and goal Spartans!

Paul: “It was the ugliest pass ever thrown in organized football. End over end, a dying duck. Man, was it beautiful.”

Silo: “Gorgeous. Dorcek couldn’t catch the flu; that’s why Neely never threw to him.”

Nat: “I’ve never seen anyone run so slow, just a big lumbering buffalo.”

Silo: “He could outrun your butt.”

Neely: “The play took forever, and when Heath came back to the huddle he had tears in his eyes.”

Paul: “I looked at Neely, and he said, ‘Call a play.’ I remember looking at the clock three forty to go, and we had to score twice. I said, ‘Let’s do it now, not on third down.’ Silo said, ‘Run it up my back.’ “

Only three yards from the promised land, folks, and here come the Spartans, hustling to the line, quick set, quick snap, Crenshaw on a keeper, and he walks into the end zone! Silo Mooney and Barry Vatrano bulldozed the entire center of the East Pike line! Touchdown Spartans! Touchdown Spartans! They will not be denied! Thirty-one to twenty-seven! Unbelievable!

Blanchard: “I remember you guys huddled together before you kicked off, the entire team. Almost got a delay of game.”

There was a long pause. Finally Silo spoke.

Silo: “We were taking care of business. Had some secrets to protect.”

Couch: “Secrets about Rake?”

Silo: “Yep.”

Couch: “Doesn’t he show up about now?”

Paul: “We weren’t watching, but at some point after we kicked off, word spread down the sideline that Rake was back. We spotted him at the edge of the end zone, just standing there with the other four coaches, still wearing their green sweatshirts, hands in pockets, watching nonchalantly as if they were the grounds crew or something. We hated the sight of them.”

Nat: “It was us versus them. We didn’t care about East Pike.”

Blanchard: “I’ll never forget that sight Rake and his assistants at the edge of the field, looking like a bunch of whores in church. At the time we didn’t know why they were over there. Still don’t, I guess.”

Paul: “They were told to stay away from our sideline.”

Blanchard: “By whom?”

Paul: “The team.”

Blanchard: “But why?”

Nat reached for the volume. Buck Coffey’s voice was beginning to crack as the excitement took its toll. To compensate for the fading strength and clarity, Buck was just getting louder. When East Pike walked to the line on first down, Buck was practically yelling into his microphone.

Ball on the eighteen, clock still at three twenty-five to go. East Pike has a grand total of three first downs and sixty-one yards of offense in the second half. Everything they’ve tried has been stuffed down their throats by an inspired bunch of Spartans. A magnificent turnaround, the gutsiest performance I’ve seen in twenty-two years of calling Spartan football.

Silo: “Go for it, Buck.”

Handoff right side, for one, maybe two yards. East Pike is not sure what to do right now. They’d love to burn some clock, but they need to get some first downs. Three minutes, ten seconds, and the clock is running. Messina with all three time-outs left, and they’re gonna need them. East Pike really dragging now, slow to the huddle, slow with the play from the sidelines, play clock down to twelve, they break huddle, slow to the line. Four, three, two, one, the snap, pitch right to Barnaby, who scoots around the corner for five, maybe six. A big third down now, third and three on the twenty-five, with the clock moving.

A car rolled to a stop near the gate. It was white with words painted on the doors. “I guess Mal’s back,” someone said. The Sheriff took his time getting out, stretched, surveyed the field and the stands. Then he lit a cigarette, the flicker of the lighter visible thirty rows up, on the forty-yard line.

Silo: “Shoulda brought more beer.”

Spartans dig in. Wideouts right and left. In the shotgun, Waddell takes the snap, fakes right, then throws left, ball is caught at the thirty-two on quick slant by Gaddy, who is slammed down to the ground by Hindu Aiken. First down East Pike, and they’re moving the chains. Two forty to go, and the Spartans need somebody on the sideline to start making some decisions. They’re playing without coaches down there, folks.

Blanchard: “Who was making decisions?” Paul: “After they got the first down, Neely and I decided we’d better burn a time-out.”

Silo: “I took the defense to the sideline and the whole team gathered around. Everyone was screaming. I get goose bumps thinking about it now.”

Neely: “Volume, Nat, before Silo starts crying.”

First down at the thirty-two. East Pike breaks huddle, in no hurry, split backfield, wide right, the snap, Waddell back to pass, looking right, and he connects on a down-and-out at the thirty-eight. The receiver did not go out of bounds, and the clock is moving at two twenty-eight. Two twenty-seven.

From the gate, Mal Brown smoked his cigarette and studied the crowd of ex-Spartans sprawled loosely together in the center of the bleachers. He could hear the radio and he recognized Buck Coffey’s voice, but he could not tell what game they were listening to. He had a hunch, though. He puffed and looked for Rabbit somewhere in the shadows.

East Pike at the line with a second and four, two minutes fourteen seconds to go in the game. Quick pitch left to Barnaby, and he cannot go! Hit hard at the line by both Utleys, Ronnie and Donnie blitzing through every gap, it seems. They hit him first and the entire team piled on! The Spartans are in a frenzy down there, but they’d better be careful. There was almost a late hit.

Silo: “Late hit, unnecessary roughness, half a dozen personal fouls, take your pick Buck. They could’ve flagged us on every play.” Ronnie: “Silo was biting people.”

Third and four, under two minutes. East Pike stalling as much as they can as the clock ticks away. Back at the line all eleven Spartans are waiting. Do you run and get stuffed, or do you pass and get sacked? That’s the choice for East Pike. They cannot move the ball! Waddell is back, it’s a screen, and the ball is knocked down by Donnie Utley! Clock stops! Fourth and four! East Pike will have to punt! One minute fifty seconds to play and the Spartans will get the ball!

Mal was walking slowly around the track, with another cigarette. They watched him get nearer.

Paul: “The last punt return worked, so we decided to try it again.”

A low punt, a line drive that hits on the forty, takes a big bounce and then another, Alonzo Taylor scoops it at the thirty-five and he has nowhere to go! Flags everywhere! Could be a clip!

Paul: “Could be? Hindu drilled a guy dead in the back, the worst clip I’ve ever seen.”

Silo: “I started to break his neck.”

Neely: “I stopped you, remember? Poor guy came to the sideline crying.”

Silo: “Poor guy. If I saw him now I’d remind him of that clip.”

And so it comes down to this, folks. The Spartans have the ball on their own nineteen, eighty-one yards to go, with one minute and forty seconds left on the clock. Down thirty-one to twenty-eight. Crenshaw has two time-outs and no passing game.

Paul: “Couldn’t pass with a broken hand.”

The entire Spartan team is huddled together on the sideline and it looks like they’re having a prayer.

Mal was walking up the steps, slowly, with none of his customary purpose and banter. Nat stopped the tape, and the bleachers were still.

“Boys,” Mal said softly, “Coach is gone.”

Rabbit materialized from the shadows and loped down the track. They watched as he disappeared behind the Scoreboard, and a few seconds later the bank of lights on the southwest pole went off.

Rake Field was dark.