Chapter Thirty-One
Mike's Final Play
"Dig deep!" I holler. Every Bigfoots fan in the world seems to have come here to experience what might become our crowning achievement. Twenty-two seconds. Daniels passes the ball backward between his legs, making a long pass downfield. The Devils' receiver catches a pass.
The clock stops with twelve seconds remaining.
"Come on, guys," I groan. "One more stop. I can tackle Brasher and make sure their offense doesn't gain any yardage."
Ernie sighs. "Okay. Do it."
The Devils' quarterback gets tackled immediately. The clock continues to run.
Eight seconds.
Seven seconds.
The Devils race to throw the ball, but they're too far for a field goal. They need a touchdown.
Five seconds.
Four seconds.
Daniels hurls the ball toward the end zone in a last desperate attempt.
The ball flies the air as Wilkins stretches his arm out.
It's just enough to alter the ball's trajectory as it wobbles and spins awkwardly.
Bodies collide in a chaotic jumble of limbs.
Someone's hand reaches up. I can't tell if it's one of ours or one of theirs as the ball ricochets upward again.
The ball hovers above the mass of bodies.
Come on, give us the win. Every human being in the stadium holds their collective breath.
Then gravity takes over. The ball descends into the tangle of arms, bouncing off a helmet, then a shoulder pad.
A Devils' player lunges with his fingertips extended.
But Martinez stretches his arm out, and both men crash to the turf while the ball spins lazily before landing in the waiting hands of our rookie cornerback, Davis.
The buzzer sounds. Game over.
For a split second, everything goes eerily quiet, as if no one can quite believe what they've just witnessed. Then a thunderous wall of sound crashes over me and reality sinks in slowly. My teammates are sprinting toward Davis who's still clutching the ball. I'm running too, exhausted but jubilant.
"WE DID IT!" I scream.
Davis is at the bottom of a growing pile of jubilant players. I grab Matthews and Thompson, dragging them into a crushing embrace. The pain makes it real and confirms that this isn't some fever dream or wishful thinking. We've just won the Super Bowl.
The fucking SUPER BOWL!
Coach Ernie finds me amid the chaos, grabbing my face mask and pulling me close. "You did it, son. You goddamn did it!"
I'm laughing and maybe crying too. It's hard to tell with sweat pouring down my face. "We did it, Coach. All of us."
The field becomes a sea of confetti as someone rolls out the stage for the trophy presentation. Cameras flash, reporters swarm from every direction, and somewhere in this beautiful madness, I'm searching for one face.
Then I see Regan, shoving through security at the sideline.
A guard tries to stop her, but she says something that makes him step aside immediately.
Regan probably mentioned she's my wife. Or threatened him with bodily harm.
Either way, she's sprinting toward me with her eyes locked on mine.
I open my arms just as she reaches me, lifting her clear off the ground as she collides with me.
This moment is perfect, impossible, and worth every bruise, every hit, every doubt I've ever had.
"You did it!" she yells over the noise, her arms wrapped tightly around my neck. "You actually did it!"
"We did it," I correct her, spinning us both in a circle. "I couldn't have made it here without you."
When I set her down, I see tears glistening in her eyes. "I'm so proud of you, Mike."
Someone calls my name. "Mr. Hannigan! We need you for the presentation!" someone shouts, probably a league official trying to drag me to the ceremony.
Regan gives me a gentle push. "Go. This is your moment. Soak it all in."
I kiss her quickly. "Don't go anywhere."
"Wouldn't dream of it."
I wend my way through the commotion toward the stage where Commissioner Reynolds stands with the trophy. Our team is already gathering, their expressions somewhere between exhaustion and pure elation. Matthews throws his arm around my shoulders as we climb the steps.
"We're legends now, Hannigan," he shouts in my ear. "They can never take that away from us."
I nod, too choked up to speak. The commissioner steps up to the stage, welcoming us with a warm greeting and smiles. But all I can focus on is the trophy, that gleaming silver icon I've dreamed about since I was a kid throwing footballs in my backyard.
"And now," the commissioner declares, "it is my honor to present the Lombardi Trophy to the Portland Bigfoots!"
Coach Ernie steps forward, accepting the trophy with his fingers trembling slightly. The crowd explodes again as he hoists it overhead. Then he turns and beckons me forward. "This belongs to you too, son."
His voice is gruff with emotion as he passes the trophy to me. The literal weight of this moment stuns me. It's both lighter and heavier than I expected. This is the culmination of a lifetime of dreams.
I raise the trophy above my head, and the stadium erupts once more with deafening roar. My teammates crowd around me, pounding my back, grabbing at the trophy, their faces showing the same disbelief and joy that must show on my face too.
"Say something," Matthews urges, nudging me toward the microphone.
I step forward with the trophy still clutched in my hands, and suddenly I'm that kid again---the one who practiced Super Bowl speeches in the mirror while my dad watched game tapes in the next room.
The crowd settles down as I approach the mic with eighty thousand people waiting to hear words I'm not sure I can muster.
"This one's for Portland," I begin. "For every fan who stuck with us through the rebuilding years. For every teammate who sacrificed their body and put in those brutal hours. For the Coach who never stopped believing in me even when I'd stopped believing in myself."
Amongst the crowd, I notice Regan hopping up and down while waving the scarf her mom knitted for her.
My wife gives me the courage to say what's really in my heart.
"And this is for my wife, Regan, who showed me there's more to life than football but also reminded me why I fell in love with this game in the first place. "
Matthews slaps my back, taking some of the weight of the trophy as my teammates engulf me with triumphant embraces and primal screams of victory.
Soon, we're ushered off the stage. Regan is jostling through the sea of reporters and cameramen to reach me.
Amid the bedlam, I break away from my teammates and ignore the microphones reporters thrust in my face.
"Mike! How does it feel to be a Super Bowl champion?" someone shouts.
"Hey, Mike! Over here! What's next for you and the Bigfoots?"
I push through the crowd, drawn to the one person who matters most right now. When I reach Regan, I lift her off her feet again. "We did it, baby!"
The confetti is still raining down around us, little pieces of shimmering paper catching in Regan's hair like stars. I brush a few away from her face, marveling at how beautiful she looks even under harsh lighting.
"MIKE! REGAN!"
I turn to see my parents and Regan's parents who are jostling to get through the melee. My dad grins, and so does Regan's dad. Frank Hannigan has always been my toughest critic and greatest supporter rolled into. But for tonight, only joy radiates from him. The same goes for both moms.
"That's my boy!" he shouts, engulfing me in a bear hug that makes me wince. I hug him back just as fiercely.
Mom hugs me fiercely. "We're so proud, honey. You made your dream come true."
John and Patricia Banks hug me too, pulling me into an enthusiastic embrace. "Incredible game, son. You're one of us now, even if you did steal my little girl."
I know he's joking. John has become a second dad to me.
"Dad!" Regan protests, but she's laughing too.
I'm surrounded by family, confetti, and the most extraordinary feeling of accomplishment I've ever experienced. The Lombardi Trophy gleams in Matthews' hands nearby, getting passed from player to player like a precious child. Every face I see is beaming, every voice raised in celebration.
"Party at the team hotel!" someone shouts from behind us. "Buses leaving in twenty!"
Regan's gaze meets mine with a question in those beautiful blue eyes. I nod, confirming what we both want. We can't miss this celebration.
The next few hours pass in a blur of champagne showers, team photos, and endless congratulations.
My phone is blowing up with messages from friends, former teammates, and even rivals offering their respect.
I try to respond to as many as I can while keeping one arm firmly around Regan's waist. I don't want to lose her in the horde.
The celebration around us continues to swell as more players' families join the impromptu reunion on the field.
Camera flashes illuminate the night, and reporters circle like sharks, hungry for quotes from the fresh Super Bowl champions.
I notice Coach Ernie being interviewed by ESPN, the Lombardi Trophy gleaming at his side.
I can hardly believe this is real, and I can't stop grinning.
But now it's Regan's turn in the spotlight. The Winter Olympics have arrived, and I know she'll rock the ice.