His eyes flashed. “A championship doesn’t guarantee me the next level.”
She shook her head. “I can’t win. If you lose the scholarship, you’re gone. If you get the scholarship, you’re gone. You want
me to apologize for my idea, something people are starting to believe in. Most people want to believe in something. Even you.”
He smiled and leaned in, whispering, “I love a good fight. But you do make a guy want to believe.”
“Elvis, I wish you’d dare believe there’s something bigger than you.”
He sat back. “Like you said, halftime’s over.”
F
riday afternoon Elvis hung around after school, flexing his fingers, telling himself his wrist was stronger, that he could
play. He wandered the stadium, watching the pep club hang banners and affix streamers. A couple of hours later, people would
start lining up for the game.
He stood in the shadows near the concession stand and saw that Coach Schuler was also unable to stay away. He unlocked the
field house, spent several minutes inside, then came out, leaving it open. Elvis waited till Coach was out of sight, then
went in and put on his practice uniform. It wasn’t easy alone, especially with a tender wrist.
He retrieved his old football on the way out, the American Leather logo now just a faint imprint. He thought of the day he
got it, and he thought of his dad.
The sky was darkening and someone had turned on the stadium lights. Elvis jogged onto the field, feeling the pain with every
stride. When he felt warm and loose, he ran up and down the field, gingerly switching the ball from hand to hand. He couldn’t
hold it in his right for long, but Rock Hill didn’t have to know that. What would a tackle feel like? What if he landed on
his wrist? Or forgot and used his right hand to push off the ground to get up?
The pep club was gone. A lone figure sat in the stands. Coach. Elvis walked up the stairs and sat a couple of rows down from
Schuler and to his right.
“Looks a lot different from up here,” Elvis said.
“You trying to play tonight?”
“Think of it, Coach. My dad went to one pro game in his entire life and it happened to be the Gayle Sayers game when he was
five years old. One of my favorite memories was listening to him describe that game. He always told me I could play like that
someday. Got one more chance.”
“You know, Jackson, you and I are a little bit alike. Did you know I too was stuck with a first name I couldn’t live down?”
“Seriously?”
“Why you think I go by Buster? You don’t think that’s my given name.”
Elvis shrugged.
“You think ‘Elvis’ is a tough one, try going by ‘Roscoe.’”
“Roscoe?”
“Tell a soul and you’re history.”
Elvis shook his head, smiling.
“But we are alike in other ways too,” Coach said. “When I was a kid, my parents had to constantly keep an eye on me. One winter
day I ran across the street to a neighbor’s frozen pond. The ice couldn’t have been more’n a couple inches thick. My dad had
to stand at the edge and plead with me to get off. The more he pleaded, the more I wanted to stay on. He was just looking
out for me, but I couldn’t see it. My boy never learned that lesson either.
“Son, I don’t know exactly why you’re here. We all play for different reasons. But I’ve never seen anybody who can do what
you do on the field. If you can learn what Jack didn’t, you won’t need his scholarship.”
Elvis closed his eyes. “I didn’t get it, did I?”
“There ain’t a dime in my boy’s fund. Town’s broke. I just found out yesterday. Sorry.”
Elvis couldn’t breathe. He heard Coach stand and sensed he had paused behind him. But then he moved on and down the steps
and disappeared in the tunnel.
R
achel’s dad had told her after school about the scholarship. So that was it then. The petitions meant nothing. She was glad
she hadn’t known earlier. Elvis would have been able to tell something was wrong by the look on her face.
Rachel left the pregame FCA prayer warriors meeting early and, surprised by the chill in the air, sadly moseyed the mile and
a half home to get her jacket. She couldn’t wait till Bev got back. If she had to spend another minute with the vacuous Josie,
she’d scream.
The Rock Hill team bus passed, and the players leaned out the windows, banging on the side and hooting at her. It would be
so great to beat them.
The light was on in the front room when she mounted the steps, making her hesitate. Her dad had to already be at the stadium.
She slowly opened the door and found Elvis angrily stuffing laundry into his backpack.
“What’re you doing?” she said. “You should be at the—”
“Didn’t you hear?” he said. “We both lost.”
“Well, I’m not leaving town.”
“Let’s just say I don’t have what you have.”
“But you could, Elvis! You’re here and it’s all right in front of you.”
“I’m glad I gave you and your school one last go round, but in the end, I got nothing but used.”
“Cause you didn’t get the scholarship? That’s all there is?”
Elvis slung his bag over his shoulder and stuck his face in hers. “Get out of your fantasy world! The Crusaders are going
to get destroyed tonight, and this town will disappear. And God, Schuler, and your silly little petitions aren’t going to
change that!”
He pushed past her and stormed out, slamming the door.
Rachel pulled on her jacket and walked back to school. Cars lined the streets a mile from the field. The band boomed in the
distance. She arrived to a crowd like she’d never seen. Pickups ringed the place, backed up to the fence, tailgates facing
the field, families, dogs, and cats jammed in to watch. Only Rock Hill was on the field, their fans singing, chanting.
She found a spot near the top of the stands where there’d be room for Bev and maybe Kim. And here came Josie. Rachel couldn’t
hide her tears. How long had it been since she had prayed in that end zone? And what had been the answer?
C
oach tells me it’s tradition that he and his assistant wrap players’ ankles themselves before a championship game. Like I
couldn’t remember from my playing days.
The guys, pale and looking terrified, seem impressed. When everybody’s dressed and ready to go, he gathers em and says, “Tell
ya what: Supreme Court or not, I’m praying.” He removes his hat and kneels. “Anyone who wants in, take a knee.”
Afterwards, we head out to an ovation I’d only dreamed about. I wanted to tell the guys to enjoy it, cause it might be the
last of the night. We lose the coin toss and kick off. Within a couple minutes we’re down 7-0, and I gotta tell ya, we look
like a junior high team against the Crimson Tide. It’s like the Raiders are in our backfield. We don’t gain a yard in the
first quarter. Not one.
E
lvis trembled with rage as he marched out of town to the Washington farm. If this was it, if this was all there was, he was
going to do something. He would hitchhike all the way to Indiana, get Jenny out of that orphanage, and fight with his bare
hands anybody he had to.
He climbed into the dark loft to grab as much of his stuff as he could carry. A full moon streamed through the hay mound door,
making him pause. He stepped to the opening. “All right, God,” he said. “You got something to say to me?” He waited a beat.
“Didn’t think so.”
He felt around in the shadows for matches, grabbed a lantern, and slid up the glass top to light the broad wick. When the
light invaded the loft he flinched, noticing something in the corner.
“What the—?” A slew of homemade pies and cakes covered the wood floor. Taped to each were handwritten notes, many written
in crayon by kids.
“Sorry about your arm.”
“Get better soon.”
“Good luck.”
“I’m gonna play like you someday.”
A voice behind him made him jump. “Always nice to be needed.”
Orville Washington was at the top of the ladder.
“How did you know I was—?”
“Got an inkling when the third pie turned up. Finally figured out why I kept getting mail addressed to you from the school.”
“Where’d all this stuff come from?”
“People in Athens City take care a their own. By the way, as your landlord, I took a customary fee.” He smiled and Elvis had
to chuckle at the blueberry filling in his teeth.
Elvis sat on his cot, overcome. People in the diner? Fans? They cared this much?
“Hey, boy,” Mr. Washington said, “you late for the game, ain’tcha?”
“Guess I am.”
“Come on. I’ll give ya a ride.”
I
wish I could tell ya this was one of them Disney movies where we pull off the impossible and some heathen hockey team gets
humiliated by a bunch of thirteen-year-olds. Unfortunately, this was high school football in southern Alabama, and we were
getting it handed to us. I mean, it was a disaster. Only time we had the ball past the 50-yard line in their territory was
after they already had us down 27-zip early in the second quarter. They tried some trick reverse play on one of our punts
and the ball came loose and who should fall on it but Snoot. I think he was sorry he did, with all the piling on. But three
plays later, when we’d lost six more yards, he up and kicks a field goal.
That just irritated these monsters, and their scrubs scored ten more before halftime. Now we’re getting killed 37-3, and that
wasn’t all. If you can believe it, it was worse than it looked. We had nothing going. We couldn’t stop em and we couldn’t
move the ball. We were overmatched on every single play, and you could see it all over every kid. If I was a quitter, I’d’ve
taken em off the field to protect their psyches.
Besides that, Coach and I were actually distracted. We were trying to stay in the game, stick with the plan, call plays, all
that, but we were also peeking into the stands now and then too, cause I hadn’t seen hide nor hair of Bev, and I know Coach
wanted to know she was here so he could be sure Helena was safe and sound at the center. I caught a glimpse of Rachel, but
she was with that airhead—scuse me, girl—she can hardly stand, and I couldn’t even coax a wave out of her.
If ever a game was over at the half, this was it. We get in the locker room, and you can imagine what the guys looked like.
Most of em seemed on the edge of tears and I wouldn’t’ve blamed a one of em if they’d just broke down and sobbed. Coach looked
like he’d been out there himself and got in the way of that killing Rock Hill football machine.
I passed out orange slices and the guys were guzzling water, but mostly they just sat staring at the floor. I mean, some things
can be dealt with and some things you just have to suck up and take. Coach walked over to Sherman. “Coupla great hits, boy.
That quarterback’ll be sore for days.”
He found Nino. “Snoot, nice boot. Really sent that one into orbit.”
He clapped Upshaw on the shoulder pad. “Yash, a nice catch under pressure. Fingers of glue, son.” The poor guy had picked
up maybe two yards on a throw over the middle.
“Gather round, boys,” Coach said, the wind gone from his sails. They shuffled over. “We’re gonna lose, make no mistake. This’ll
probably be the worst rout in Bama play-off history. But this year’s been worth it anyway, and don’t think it hasn’t. I’ve
loved it and been honored to see you boys come together as a unit, one body. You resurrected something that had been lost.
You’ve made me proud.”
“You on empty, Coach?” We all look up. It’s Elvis in street clothes. “Is that all you’ve got?”
Straightening up, Coach smiles. “Y’all started without me,” Elvis continues. “Coach, may I?”
Well, Coach nods, and Jackson takes a deep breath, looking at his teammates. “Look, I think we all know why I came to Athens
City. It wasn’t for this school or even this team. I never believed fifteen players could get this far. And we get here only
to find out that none of us is getting the scholarship, the school’s still closing down, and we’re playing a team we can’t
beat. Doesn’t seem worth it.
“But for some reason the stands are packed, the fans are still cheering, and I’ve got enough ‘Get well’ pies to last a year.
These people are here because they believe in Athens City tradition again, and we had something to do with it. I don’t know
about you, but being part of something like that is new for me.”
Sherman Naters stands and starts pacing furiously.
Brian stands too and says, “When people remember football in Athens City, Alabama, let’s make em think of the next twenty-four
minutes. We got something left!”
“Rock Hill hasn’t been outscored for a half in three years,” Elvis says. “We win this half, we got our pride.”
Now Sherman’s pumping his arms and waving his helmet. “This game starts over right now! Heads up! Act like champions!”
I look at Coach and we shrug. They wanna pretend its nothing-nothing, why not? Coach says, “Awright then, if we’re gonna put
one more half in the books, let’s do it right.” He walks into the coaches’ room, drags out an old trunk, and hoists it onto
the table. I open it and find the crimson jerseys from the state title game of 1988. Who’d a thought?
Coach disappears for a minute, so I start passing out the jerseys. When I give Jackson number 40, he turns to Brian. “Think
I got your number,” he says. Then he mocks Brian’s accent. “Tradition’s real important round here.”
We hear banging on the field-house door. “You guys got thirty seconds!”
Coach reappears and walks up to Elvis with his son’ s jersey out of the display case. “This one’s seen some action, but it’s
got two more quarters in it. My boy’s watching, Jackson. Give it all you got.”
“Coach,” Elvis said. “I just can’t—”
“—turn this down is what you can’t do.”
“Gonna get blood on it.”
“That’s why it’s crimson.”
Brian helps him suit up, then it’s all hands together. Coach says, “Don’t get fancy. Just hit em. Let’s show em some barnyard
football.”
When we get out there, one of the refs has already dropped his flag for delay of game and we were close to getting disqualified.
“Pick up that flag now, John, and I mean it,” Coach tells him. “They don’t need any more help.”