Payback Time (14 page)

Because they led by eighteen, Bothell's coach figured Horst would be passing on every down trying to score quickly, so they dropped seven guys into coverage. McNulty saw it, and he switched to the running game. Shawn Warner carried the ball five straight times and reeled off at least five yards on every play, breaking the last for a twelve-yard run to Bothell's thirty. The success on the ground forced Bothell to pull the extra defensive backs. McNulty spotted the defensive change and called the perfect play. Horst faked a pitch to Warner, dropped back, and hit Lenny Westwood for a scoring strike.

Bothell 28, Lincoln 17.

That TD knocked the cockiness out of those Bothell guys. Time was on their side—the third quarter was nearly over—but they needed one more touchdown to seal the game, and they needed at least a couple of first downs to change the momentum.

But Angel devastated their line on both first and second down, stopping the tailback both times for no gain. That made it third and ten. The whole stadium was up—the Bothell fans begging for a first down, the Lincoln fans trying to spur the defense to one more great play.

Bothell huddled, then stepped to the line of scrimmage. Angel inched up, ready to blitz. Bothell's quarterback spotted him and changed the play. He took the snap and quickly fired to his tight end over the middle. It was the right call against a middle linebacker blitz—only Angel hadn't blitzed. After his initial step forward, he'd dropped back into coverage. His big hand reached out and tipped the pass. The ball fluttered, far short of the receiver, into the arms of our cornerback. He juggled it for an instant before securing the interception. Four Bothell guys gang-tackled him immediately, but Lincoln had the ball back, deep in the Cougars' territory.

The next drive was like watching a Swiss clock tick off the seconds. Warner sweep right: eight yards. Horst to Westwood on an in route: twelve yards. Warner over right tackle: six yards. Horst on a quarterback draw: seven yards for the touchdown.

Bothell 28, Lincoln 24.

Angel was playing out of his mind on defense; Horst was playing out of his mind on offense. Bothell had no answer for either of them.

And right then, when it seemed certain that Lincoln would pull off the stunning comeback, Bothell started moving the ball again. It made no sense. Angel was still Angel. He was still flying all over the field. So what had changed?

As I watched, I figured it out. Bothell would fake something to the middle, forcing Angel to hold his position for a count, and then they'd run the play away from him. Simple, but effective. Somebody besides Angel was going to have to make a play.

Bothell marched down the field, five yards on one play, six on the next, then another for eight. They were protecting the lead and they were running time off the clock. Six minutes left, then five, then four. Still the Cougars controlled the ball.

Bothell had worked the ball inside the twenty and was facing third and four when McNulty rolled the dice, sending both safeties on a do-or-die blitz. The Cougar quarterback saw them coming, stepped up, avoided the tackle, and slung a bullet to his wide-out, who was running a post pattern over the middle. The guy caught the ball, took two steps, and then was crushed by a savage hit. The ball bounced onto the turf, and a Lincoln player fell on it. The Bothell guy stayed down for a long time, but finally he was helped to his feet and managed to walk off the field on his own. As he did, fans all around the stadium stood and applauded. Then the ref blew his whistle and Lincoln's offense came on the field. Two minutes left. Score a touchdown and they were headed to the playoffs. Anything less and the season was over.

Right when he needed to be at his best, Horst threw his worst pass of the season. The pass hit the Bothell safety right on the numbers—absolutely a cinch interception. Maybe it was too easy; maybe that's why the guy dropped it, or maybe the guy was on defense because he had stone hands. When the ball hit the ground, the safety put his hands to the side of his helmet and dropped to his knees as the groans of the Cougar fans echoed through the stadium.

That was the one bit of luck Horst needed. His next pass was a bullet for a gain of seventeen. After that Horst found Westwood on an out pattern for another nine yards, pushing the ball past midfield. Horst then ran for twenty-two yards on a quarterback draw before he was dragged down. First down—but with only thirty-three seconds on the clock. The Bothell guys were doing everything they could to kill the clock. Would there be time?

The crowd was up as Horst brought the guys to the line. I thought he'd throw the ball to the sideline so the receiver could get out of bounds and stop the clock. Instead, he hit his tight end over the middle for eight yards. Bothell was in no hurry to unpile. Nineteen ... eighteen ... seventeen. Horst was jumping around, calling his last time-out, but the ref didn't blow his whistle until the game clock was down to fourteen.

During the time-out, McNulty pulled Horst over to the sideline. He gave him the play, then put his hands on Horst's shoulder pads, and looked him in the eye. I knew what he was saying, even though I was fifty yards away. The ball had to go into the end zone. Anything short and the game clock would tick off the final seconds before there'd be time to run another play.

The ref blew his whistle; Horst trotted back onto the field. The crowd was roaring—Bothell's fans screaming for a stop; Lincoln's begging for a touchdown.

The huddle broke, and now Horst was under center. The ball was snapped. Horst rolled right, toward the wide side of the field, holding the ball as if he might throw, but also as if he might at any second tuck it under his arm and run. The cornerback ran parallel with him, holding back, holding back. Pass or run? Pass or run? Which was it?

Horst seemed to tuck the ball and take off. The cornerback came up to make the tackle, and at that instant Horst stepped back and lobbed a pass over the cornerback's head to Lenny Westwood. Westwood caught it on the three-yard line, turned, and with two steps crossed the goal line. Lincoln 30, Bothell 28. It was the greatest comeback I'd ever seen.

A
FTER THE GAME,
Kimi and I went to Peet's. Neither of us wanted to talk about our investigation of Angel because neither one of us was getting anywhere. I wrote up that football game the way I saw it. Incredible Lincoln Come-back! was my headline. I started with Bothell's early blitz, and then described the second half defensive charge spearheaded by Angel. Finally I gave Horst props for putting points on the board. I picked two of Kimi's photos to send along—one of Horst and one of Angel. "Chet the Jet has to print what I wrote about Angel," I said to her after I hit
Send.
"There is no way they would have won without him."

But he didn't. The article in the Saturday morning edition of the
Times
included every word I'd written about Horst but not one word about Angel.

I took my normal run—I weighed 176 now—and with every step I grew angrier. In the other games, Angel had only been in for a few key plays. I'd always given Chet the Jet a bit of slack because of that. But this time Angel had dominated the entire second half. To leave his name out of the
Times
was bad journalism.

Back home I made the call before I showered. I didn't want the anger to wash away with my sweat. He picked up on the first ring. "Chet Jetton."

"This is Mitch True."

"Make it quick. I'm busy."

"Okay. I'll make it quick. Why don't you print my articles the way I write them?"

"Why don't I print your articles the way you write them?" he repeated sarcastically. "You're lucky I print anything you write. And those fifty bucks? If it weren't for the photos Kimi takes, you wouldn't get that. Do you even go to the games?"

"Of course I go to the games."

He snorted. "Then what is it with you and this Angel Marichal kid? You got a thing for him? Coach Morris faxes me a stat sheet after each game."

I was totally confused. "What are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about the official statistics of the game. What coaches share with one another and with the press. On the defensive side, it lists things like tackles made, fumbles forced, and interceptions. What you write about Angel Marichal never jibes with the stat sheet. It's never even close. So that means that at midnight I'm sitting at my computer cutting sentences from your story so that it matches reality."

"My reports are right. It's the stat sheet that's wrong."

"Rob Morris has kept the stats for Coach McNulty for three years, and he's solid. You, on the other hand, are in your first season and have no track record with me."

"But you could call—"

"I have called. I've called McNulty and Morris. They both tell me that Angel Marichal is a decent substitute, but nothing special, and that's why he hasn't started a single game all year. So here's the deal, Mitch. Don't include Angel Marichal in any article you write for the rest of the season. If his name ever shows up prominently on Morris's stat sheet, I'll call Morris and he can fill me in on Marichal's epic achievements. Got it?"

The phone clicked.

I sat, seething. McNulty and Angel were marching side by side to a state title by pulling off a season-long play fake on the coaches and players of the other teams. In January, Angel would be gone from Lincoln. In June, McNulty would follow him. Maybe they'd get away with it; maybe I'd never be able to prove anything. But I was going to keep trying.

R
IGHT WHEN THE
A
NGEL INVESTIGATION STALLED,
the volleyball team exploded. On Tuesday night I sat in the stands and watched them get trounced by Woodinville. As usual, the two factions on the team spent way too much time arguing with one another and with the refs. But the big story was what happened Wednesday night. The team had spent the night at a hotel in Bellevue. Chelsea Braker brought two bottles of whiskey, and all the seniors got drunk. Terri Calvo passed out in the hotel lobby, and Rachel Black was wandering around in front of the hotel in her nightgown. Six of the girls ended up at the police station.

I heard about all this from Kimi on Thursday before school.

"What were they doing at a hotel in Bellevue?" I asked.

"It was Coach Thomas's idea. After the Woodinville loss, she thought the team needed time together away from the coaches to build spirit. So she rented the hotel rooms for them, and then she left."

"She left?"

"She thought the girls would bond better without any coaches."

"And the hotel was okay with Ms. Thomas leaving?"

"She didn't tell them."

"Wow," I said. "What a story. For sure we can sell this to the
Seattle Times.
We'll scoop Chet the Jet, too. He can't know anything about this." I took a breath. "All right, here's what we do. First, we arrange interviews with the hotel manager and Ms. Thomas and the police. You get photos of the hotel—"

"Mitch," she interrupted. "I'm not taking any photos for this, and I don't want you to write anything."

"You can't be serious. We have to write about this."

"These are my friends. They're humiliated already—don't make it worse."

"Kimi, we have—"

"Just think about it. For one day. How can one day matter?"

My mind was racing, but I forced myself to slow down. "Okay. I'll think about it. For a day."

Back home, I plopped down on the sofa, confused. The stuff with Angel was headed nowhere, but this volleyball disaster was a story. The girls were certain to be suspended from the team and from school. And Ms. Thomas? She'd probably lose her job and might even be banned from teaching. How could I ignore a story that big and call myself a reporter?

I was stretched out, feeling miserable, when my cell phone rang. It was Alyssa. "Forget the volleyball story," she said, as if reading my mind.

"What?"

"None of the girls are eighteen."

"So?"

"They're minors, Mitch. It's against
Lincoln Light
policy to print the names of minors who get arrested. The
Seattle Times
won't run any names either."

"Alyssa, are you just saying this because you're friends with them?"

She snorted. "They're Kimi's friends, not mine. I'd love to run the story. Call Mr. Dewey if you don't believe me."

C
ITY HIGH SCHOOL KIDS
basically think suburban high schools are filled with arrogant, spoiled kids who have tons of money. And of the suburban high schools near Seattle, Cascadia—Lincoln's opponent in the district title game—is the most hated. Girls' softball or boys' tennis, the Cascadia Coyotes act as if it is their God-given right to win. Whenever there is some poor sportsmanship—kids throwing things at the opposing players, parents cursing out refs—Cascadia is involved. Their school colors are silver and black, and their uniforms are identical to those of the Oakland Raiders, which fits perfectly.

The game was at Sammamish Stadium, Cascadia's home field, in the foothills above Bellevue. I didn't bother to ask Kimi if she needed a ride because I knew she'd be going with Marianne and Rachel.

I drove by myself, arriving an hour early. Memorial Stadium, our home field, is a dump, but the Coyotes' stadium is new and plush, like a miniature Qwest Field. The concourses are wide, and they don't smell of pee because homeless people don't live there during the week. Instead of long, hard benches, the seating areas are furnished with contoured seats.

I found a place on the fifty-yard line about fifteen rows up, pleased that my butt slid in without squeezing. When I arrived, a sea of empty seats surrounded me; by game time, the stands were packed. Most of the people around me were Lincoln fans, but Cascadia had so many supporters that they spilled over onto our side, too. Halloween had been earlier in the week, and some of the Cascadia kids were wearing werewolf masks. It was clear they were planning on turning the game into one long party.

I was hoping for a close, back-and-forth game; I was afraid I might see a Cascadia blowout; but I wasn't at all ready for the way the first three quarters actually went down. The game was boring. It was as if both teams had used up all of their energy to reach the district championship and were running on fumes.