Payback Time (23 page)

On second and two from the Lincoln nineteen, Pengilly cut back against the grain, was hit hard by a cornerback, and went down awkwardly. The Ferris trainer came out, talked to him a bit, and then he limped off to applause from both sides.

With Pengilly on the sideline, McNulty figured Ferris would pass, so he sent Angel on a blitz right over the center. The Ferris QB saw Angel coming and unloaded the ball just before Angel nailed him. The hit looked perfectly okay to me and to every other Lincoln fan, but a yellow flag fluttered to the ground. "
Personal foul—roughing the passer ... half the distance to the goal line.
"

On first down from the nine, Angel blitzed again, but this time the fullback picked him up. The quarterback, with all the time in the world, found a wide receiver in the back of the end zone.

Ferris 21, Lincoln 14.

It was only one touchdown, but I could feel the anxiety around me. Except for one series in the first half, Ferris's front line had manhandled our guys. Now they'd scored
without
Pengilly on the field. Along the sideline Pengilly was running ten-yard wind sprints. He was coming back. Were they simply the better team?

After the kickoff, McNulty didn't go for the quick strike, choosing instead to run the ball with Shawn Warner, mixing in a few short passes to keep the defense honest. Horst moved the team downfield while, along the sideline, Lincoln's defensive coaches had that unit together, coaching them on the fly. Our drive stalled after a holding call, but Kenstowicz came on and delivered a thirty-four yard field goal to cut the lead to 21–17.

The defense had had plenty of time to rest, and they'd had a quick lesson, but neither did any good. It was Pengilly left, Pengilly right, Pengilly Pengilly, Pengilly. Angel kept fighting, but it was as if he were running up a muddy hill that four guys were charging down. Ferris kept gaining yards, the game clock kept ticking, and Angel was wearing down.

They were on our twenty when the third quarter ended, and they ran off six more plays and used three minutes of the fourth quarter before they scored on a one-yard quarterback sneak.

Ferris 28, Lincoln 17.

When Horst returned, he was facing the biggest challenge of the season. He was down two scores, and all the momentum was on Ferris's side. The big-time college recruiters would be judging him on this moment—Horst had to know that.

And yet, to look at him, you'd have thought he was playing ball in his backyard with some buddies. He trotted onto the field, helmet in hand, a smile on his face. He patted Warner on the back, rubbed his hands together, pulled his helmet on, and then leaned into the huddle to call the play just as he'd called plays all year long.

With an eleven-point lead, Ferris changed their defense, dropping their safeties deep, trying to take away the deep threat and the quick touchdown. That left the underneath routes open, so that's what Horst took. Passes in the flat, passes over the middle, quick outs. Five yards, eight yards, seven yards. Lincoln was collecting first down after first down. It would have been a great drive except for one thing—the clock. The seconds kept ticking away, and with every tick, Ferris moved closer to the state title.

On a second and six from the Ferris thirty, Horst dropped back to pass. No one was open, and he was flushed out of the pocket. He kept pumping his arm as if he was going to throw. At the last second he tucked the ball under his arm and turned upfield.

A Ferris safety closed on him. He was expecting Horst to go down, but Horst lowered his shoulder and bowled the safety over, the way he'd done so many times before. He made it inside the ten before he was gang tackled. On the next play, with the Lincoln fans roaring, Horst found Shawn Warner leaking out of the backfield. Warner caught the ball in stride at the three and bulled his way in for the score.

That touchdown made the score 28–23 and made a two-point conversion attempt a no-brainer. Horst took the snap, faked a quick pass to Westwood on the left, and then spun and handed the ball to Warner coming the other way. The Ferris defenders had gone for the fake. Warner could have walked in, but he fumbled the handoff. He ran, hands down, trying to scoop it up, but it kept bounding away. Finally a Ferris guy hit him and another Ferris guy fell on the ball, and the score stayed 28–23.

I looked at the clock. Four minutes and four seconds left, and now a field goal would be meaningless; Lincoln had to get the ball back and score a touchdown.

Ferris had seven guys up expecting an onside kick, but Kenstowicz knuckled an in-between sort of kick that landed at the thirty-five, bounced left, and then kicked right. Angel was one of the guys racing down trying to recover it. I thought he'd do it, too; I'd seen him make so many great plays, but at the bottom of the pile was a Ferris guy.

Horst had burned one time-out early in the third quarter, so Lincoln had two left. The math was pretty simple. If Ferris got a first down, they'd be able to run out the clock. Horst had done his job; now it was the defense's turn, Angel's turn. Everyone in the stadium was up, and everyone knew what was coming.

Micah Pengilly.

The Ferris quarterback took the snap and made a quick pitch. Pengilly took it wide left, then cut back. Angel swatted at the ball, trying to force a fumble, but Pengilly hung on, falling forward for a three-yard gain. McNulty used his second time-out. Three forty-seven left.

On second down Ferris came right up the middle. All game their offensive line had blown our defensive line back, but this time the line held. Pengilly squeezed forward for one paltry yard before he was hauled down. Immediately McNulty burned his final time-out. Three thirty-eight.

Third down and six yards for a first down. Would Ferris pass? If they did, they'd have a good chance for a completion since both safeties were cheating forward. But an incompletion would stop the clock, and that was the last thing Ferris wanted to do.

Angel was hopping up and backing away, trying to confuse the quarterback. The quarterback took the snap and dropped back to pass. Our defensive line broke past the blockers—and then I saw it. A screen pass—a safe pass—to Pengilly. He caught it with two blockers in front. He looked certain to gain enough for the first down. Angel had shed the first blocker, but the second guy hit him from the side. As Angel went down, he reached out his hand and caught Pengilly's foot. Pengilly staggered, almost regained his balance, but then one knee touched the ground—two yards short of a first down. Lincoln would get the ball back.

McNulty had no time-outs left, so Ferris let the play clock wind down to
one
before snapping the ball. Their punter got off a great kick, a high booming spiral. Stein turned left, then turned right, and then just got out of the way. The ball rolled and rolled, inside the thirty, inside the twenty-five, eating seconds off the clock. Finally it rolled dead on the twenty-three.

Two minutes and forty-four seconds remained. Lincoln was seventy-seven yards from the end zone and had no time-outs left.

Horst brought the offense out onto the field. Ferris was in their prevent defense again, making it impossible for Horst to go long with anything, forcing him to dump the ball over the middle.

The receivers tried to make the catch and then fight their way out of bounds to stop the clock, but the Ferris guys would keep them in bounds and so keep the clock moving. We were driving, but even though Horst was running a no-huddle offense, it was all happening too slowly. A first down on our thirty-five with 1:50 on the clock. A first down at our forty-seven with 0:59 left on the clock. A first down at their forty-six with 0:37 left.

That's when we got lucky. A Ferris player went down clutching his leg, his head bobbing from left to right in pain. The crowd, which had been screaming with every play, went quiet. The Ferris trainer came out and starting working on his calf. A cramp—painful, but not serious. And in the time that the trainer took to get him up and off the field, McNulty had huddled with his offense. There was time for three or four plays, but no more. Five yards a crack wasn't going to make it; something big had to happen.

When play resumed, Horst was in the shotgun. He took the snap, faked a quick outlet pass to Westwood on the right, and then went for the long bomb to Price streaking down the left side toward the end zone. For an instant it seemed he was in the clear, but then Ferris's safety rotated over to knock the ball away.

Second down and ten. Twenty-nine seconds left.

Again Horst was in the shotgun; again he used play-action, this time a fake draw to Shawn Warner. He was looking for Westwood on a post pattern, but the Ferris middle linebacker had dropped into coverage. He put his big hand up and deflected the pass, nearly pulling off the interception. The Ferris side went wild with joy; on Lincoln's side, everyone groaned.

Third and ten. Twenty-one seconds remaining.

Horst took the snap, pump-faked another long pass, and then fired a bullet to a wide receiver running an out pattern. The receiver caught the ball at the thirty-five but backtracked to get out of bounds to stop the clock. The refs brought the chains out and measured—he was short of a first down by six inches.

Fourth down. Twelve seconds on the clock. Thirty-seven yards from the end zone.

What do you do? Go for the quick first down on another out pattern and then take a final shot at the end zone? Or take the final shot right now?

I was so tense that I almost didn't see Angel come in at wide receiver. When I did spot him, I sensed what was coming, and my breathing stopped, and I didn't hear the roar around me.

Horst took the snap and stepped back. He turned and quickly fired a pass to Angel in the flat. Only it wasn't a pass. Angel had retreated three steps from the line of scrimmage, turning Horst's bullet into a lateral. The cornerback was closing on Angel, lining him up for the game-ending tackle. But Angel cocked his right arm, and it was as if I were back on Gilman Field in August watching him for the first time. The ball was out of his hand in a split second, a laser beam down the sideline for the streaking Lenny Westwood.

Ferris's safety was just a yard behind Westwood, but Angel's pass was so pure that all Westwood needed was a foot. For the briefest instant, Westwood bobbled the ball, but then he pulled it in, and a moment later he was crossing the goal line, Angel was being swarmed by his teammates, Lincoln was the state champion, the people around me were going crazy with joy and I was going crazy too.

T
HE
L
INCOLN BAND MARCHED
onto the field as the players jumped on one another and then raced over to the Lincoln side of the dome and jumped up and down in front of their parents and their classmates.

The PA announcer directed everyone's attention to midfield, where the trophy was presented to Coach McNulty. Kimi snapped pictures as McNulty raised the trophy over his head and then handed it to Horst, who did the same. People cheered each time, but each time the volume decreased. Ten minutes after the game ended, barely half of Lincoln's fans remained in the stands, and with every second more were leaving. Ten minutes later the team was leaving, heading to the locker room. They'd celebrate among themselves for a while, but soon Angel would take the long walk to the parking lot, bright lights overhead, concrete on all sides.

I headed out into the night. Instead of going down the ramps to the parking lot, I went to the railing and looked out. The rain had stopped, yet the night had grown colder. Cars were jammed up at the exits, but even as I watched, traffic started to loosen. Soon there'd be no line at all.

I turned my eyes to the back fence—still too dark to know for sure. And then I saw a sudden flash of light in the darkness. What was it? I looked harder. A match—it had to be a match. A moment later it went out, but then another one was lit, and now I could see the red glow of the lit end of two cigarettes.

They were there, right where I thought they'd be. Two of them sitting in the Civic, smoking, waiting for the parking lot to empty, waiting for their chance.

I took out my cell phone and called Kimi. "Where are you?"

"By the players' gate."

"Are there any police cars there or security guys?"

"Let me look." A pause, and then she came back on the line. "I don't see any."

"Kimi, if I don't call you back within the next fifteen minutes, get away from there."

"What?"

"You heard me. Get away from there."

"Is the Civic here? Did you find it? I could call the police."

"Do it. Call the police. Tell them to get somebody at the players' gate."

"What are you going to do?"

"If I don't call back," I repeated, "get away from there. Even if the police show up. You've got to promise."

"Okay. I promise. What are you going to do now?"

"There's no time to explain." Before she could reply, I closed up my phone and turned it off.

I'd reached this moment in my mind many times. Each time I'd wondered if I'd have the necessary courage. Now that I was finally here in the flesh, it was as if I were somehow out of my own body, as if the real me were watching this other me—this brave me—watching him in amazement, because even though the other me was afraid, he didn't let the fear stop him.

I walked to where the Focus was parked. I put the laptop in the trunk, and took the hunting knife out from the pouch. I had to be fast, and yet not rush.

I zigzagged through the parking lot until I reached a spot by the back fence that was one hundred yards east of the Civic. I crouched low and slowly moved toward it, retracing the steps I'd taken hours earlier. Seventy-five yards ... fifty yards ... forty ... thirty.

At about twenty yards I could both hear and feel the deep bass of a super-loud sound system. The guys in the car were listening to some rap CD, probably psyching themselves up for the craziness they were planning. It was a break for me—they wouldn't hear my footsteps on the gravel. At fifteen yards, I dropped to my knees and inched along, careful to stay low. Ten yards ... five yards, and then, finally, I was there.