Chapter Twenty-Three San Francisco
Sunday afternoon in November was cold in the Bay Area. The crowd had been drinking since the morning’s tailgate and the vibe felt boozy.
L.A. and Piper were on a bye. The whole division would be watching this divisional game between Seattle and San Francisco.
Noah sat at his locker twenty-minutes before kickoff. He finished taping his wrists.
A lineman walked past behind him, and paused.
“Saw your commercial, man.”
“Yeah?”
“My girl said you ruined her weekend.”
“Tell her I apologize.”
The lineman laughed and kept walking. Noah looked down at the tape on his thumb.
Darius stepped up beside him, working his shoulder loose.
“You good?” Darius said.
“Yeah.”
“You sure?”
“I said yeah.”
“Win the fucking game then,” Darius said.
***
San Francisco came out fast.
First possession, a nine-play drive that felt choreographed. Score: San Francisco 7, Seattle 0.
Noah’s first drive went three and out.
His second died on a dropped ball at the sticks that should have converted.
By the end of the first quarter, it was 10-0 on a field goal Noah watched from the sideline without moving.
His next drive began early in the second quarter on his own thirty.
On second and six, he was reading the front when the defensive tackle lined up across from his center said it, “Commercial looked real convincing, bro.”
Noah ignored him. He called the protection, took the snap, and threw.
Six yards, third and three, then back on the line.
The same player appeared again,“Bathroom fuck your idea or his?”
Noah took the snap, dropped back, and felt the pocket hold long enough to let him see everything.
He scanned it the way he always did, and threw the slant.
The safety broke and the ball went through Darius’s hands and into the secondary.
The linebacker had it before Noah had finished his follow-through.
Noah watched it and then he watched the linebacker run.
He ran the man down inside the forty and went down hard. The linebacker went down with him. Noah’s face mask caught the turf and opened a thin burn across his chin, but he wouldn’t notice for another two possessions.
He got up and walked back to the sideline without looking at anyone feeling fucking defeated.
“It’s mine, I’m fucking up,” he said to the offensive coordinator. “I’ll take this shit, just let me ride.”
The coordinator nodded, saying nothing.
San Francisco scored off the short field. Score: San Francisco 17, Seattle 0.
Noah walked off at the half with the taste of iron and defeat in his mouth and chest.
The locker room smelled the way visitor locker rooms always smelled, like shit.
The head coach used the word fuck more than he had that season and then stood at the whiteboard making changes to formations that were planned and that they were now throwing out.
The offensive coordinator was noticeably sweating.
Someone handed Noah a Gatorade that he stared at instead of drinking.
Noah sat down on the bench in front of his stall and stared at the carpet between his cleats.
Bathroom fuck your idea or his.
It was not the taunt that got to him. It was how little the taunt had cost the dude who said it. A throwaway line, easy, but it hurt. He didn’t even have to think about it. That part was pissing Noah the fuck off.
He looked up. The head coach was looking at him. The head coach looked away as Noah stood.
When he went back to the bench, he picked up the laminated call sheet he hadn’t needed all half and studied it harder than he usually did. He had been on fire this season and was falling apart, and the last thing he ever wanted to blame was the only thing that was bringing him joy, Piper Ashton.
The head coach called them back up.
“Everything else is fucking noise,” he said.
Noah adjusted his helmet strap. “I can fucking fix this coach.”
***
They adjusted in the third.
Short routes and faster reads as Noah led the opening drive.
He took four drops instead of five, dumped the ball inside the numbers before the rush could matter. A slant to Darius for nine. An in-route to the tight end for twelve. A play-action rollout off the left tackle that got him outside the pressure.
Eleven plays. Touchdown. Score: San Francisco 17, Seattle 7.
San Francisco was able to answer in the next series with a field goal. Score: San Francisco 20, Seattle 7.
The defensive tackle lined up across from his center again.
“You still here, pretty boy?”
Almost friendly this time.
Noah looked away from him. “I don’t think you want to start with me,” he finally replied.
He changed the play at the line, a new route. He didn’t call it out. He tapped his thigh twice, and Darius read it from the slot, adjusted his split by half a yard.
Snap.
The pocket collapsed almost immediately.
The tackle came through the gap untouched. Somebody had missed the slide. Noah felt the pressure before he saw it. He stepped up, one clean stride, slid right.
He saw Darius running into a deep third with a safety closing and the corner five yards underneath trying to catch up. The window was the size of a dog door.
Noah threw. He felt the hit before the ball left his hand, took it across his lower back, and went down with his eyes still on the ball.
The ball cut through the window. Darius caught it in the end zone.
Forty-one yards. Touchdown.
Score: San Francisco 20, Seattle 14.
Noah was getting up when the tackle, on his way back to the sideline, leaned close.
“Lucky throw, Mary.”
Noah looked at him this time.
He went quiet, and it took everything in his control not to kick the living shit out of this asshole.
The tackle grinned, his mouth opening, as his tongue set up on the roof of his mouth for the word he had been saving all game.
“Faggot.”
Darius noticed, and ran over before the ball was dead. He was already in the tackle’s face. Helmet to helmet. Hand on the tackle’s face mask, pulling him forward.
“Say it, you fucking bitch, say it to me.”
“Back up.”
“Say it. Say it!”
“Get the fuck off me!”
Darius spat in his face, “Pussy ass bitch.” It hit the inside of his mouth, spit running down his chin. The side judge had been fifteen yards off the play and was sprinting to address the escalating situation.
The tackle reached for Darius. Darius didn’t flinch, ripping off his helmet and clocking him in the head twice.
Noah pulled them apart. He got an arm across Darius’s chest and turned him, away from the tackle, and walked him five yards back toward the Seattle sideline without looking away from Darius’s face.
“Thanks D, we need to win this game and I need you!”
“I knew he was gonna pull that shit. He is a fucking dick.”
The flags came down. Three of them, because three officials had reached the same conclusion at the same time.
Unsportsmanlike on Darius, number eighty-seven, Seattle.
Ejection. The side judge made the signal.
Darius was already walking back to the locker room when the signal came.
He stayed facing downward. He walked off the field with his helmet in his left hand and his right hand loose at his side, and the Seattle fans in the visitor section, knowing what had happened, stood up as he passed them and cheered.
Seattle fans always traveled and there were thousands, all cheering Darius.
The roar of the Seattle fans left nothing for San Francisco fans to counter with.
Darius held his fist up in victory as he disappeared into the tunnel. Noah put his fist up, as his eyes teared up. Then the entire Seattle section put their fists up.
The tackle was being walked back to his own sideline by two of his linemen. Nobody on the San Francisco sideline was applauding him.
Noah watched Darius all the way to the tunnel.
Then he turned back to the line.
The stadium shifted. Defense held.
San Francisco punted as Seattle took over at their own twenty-six.
The next drive moved quickly. A slant to the tight end for nine, then a screen for six.
Two plays that died at the sticks. Fourth and inches at the thirty-four.
They went for it, they had to. Noah watched his number-two, now that Darius was out, the rookie who had been getting more reps every week, converted on a drag route for the first down.
The drive stalled three plays later at the twenty-eight.
Field goal unit came out. Three points. Score: San Francisco 20, Seattle 17.
Two minutes left, no timeouts.
In the huddle, Noah kept it simple.
“Nothing changes, there are no distractions, let's fucking close this out.”
The drive moved. Out route. Slant. Spike. Thirty seconds. Twenty yards. Snap.
Noah threw like Darius was still on the field. Touchdown. Score: Seattle 24, San Francisco 20. No flags.
The traveling Seattleites lost their fucking minds, all putting their fists in the air.
Noah could not hold in the tears any longer. He needed to thank Darius.
***
Darius was waiting in the locker room.
He was already showered, in a hoodie, sitting on the bench in front of Noah’s stall with his elbows on his knees. He looked up when Noah came in.“You won.”
“We won.”
“You won.” Darius smiled.
Noah sat down next to him.
“You got ejected.”
“Yeah.”
“That’s going to be a steep fine.” Noah looked at him. “I owe you.”
“You don’t owe me shit. You caught the slant.”
“Darius.”
“Don’t.”
A pause.
“Good game, brother, and I would get ejected again no questions asked.” Darius stood up and embraced Noah.
Noah noticed his phone was buzzing. It was Piper, You killed that game, I am so proud of you.
He sent Piper three words.
Fuck San Francisco.