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: “Hell, 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 ass.”
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.
______________
Most of the Spartans sitting quietly in the bleachers did not know Messina without Eddie Rake. And for the older ones who were very young when he arrived as an unknown and untested twenty-eight-year-old football coach, his influence on the town was so overpowering that it was easy to assume he’d always been there. After all, Messina as a town didn’t matter before Rake. It wasn’t on the map.
The vigil was over. The lights were off.
Though they had been waiting for his impending death, Mal’s message hit them hard. Each of the Spartans withdrew to his own
memories for a few moments. Silo set his beer bottle down and began tapping both temples with his fingers. Paul Curry rested his elbows on his knees and stared at the field, at a spot somewhere around the fifty-yard line where his Coach would storm and fuss, and when a game was tight no one would get near him. Neely could see Rake in the hospital room, green Messina cap in hand, talking softly to his ex–all-American, concerned about his knee and his future. And trying to apologize.
Nat Sawyer bit his lip as his eyes began to moisten. Eddie Rake meant much more to him after his football days. “Thank God it was dark,” Nat thought to himself. But he knew there were other tears.
Somewhere across the little valley, from the direction of the town, came the soft chimes of church bells. Messina was getting the news that it dreaded most.
Blanchard Teague spoke first. “I really want to finish this game. We’ve been waiting for fifteen years.”
Paul: “We ran flood-right, Alonzo got about six or seven, and made it out of bounds.”
Silo: “Woulda scored but Vatrano missed a block on a linebacker. I told him I’d castrate him in the locker room if he missed another one.”