Chapter Thirty-Seven Seattle
The third quarter opened with Seattle moving the ball.
They moved it badly. Noah took what the rain gave him, three-yards, one run-pass where he faked the handoff and found Darius.
Seattle inched forward, the only way you could in this kind of weather, one yard at a time. The Seattle running back was breaking tackles now as the L.A. defense slipped in the hard rain.
Something in Seattle’s offensive line had settled into the rain, and L.A.’s front four were, Piper could see from the sideline, struggling.
They scored on an eight-minute drive, running the ball into the end zone. Score: Seattle 14, L.A. 7.
Tank was waiting when Piper came on.
“Mamma Mia, Here We Go Again.”
“You are such a fucking nerd,” Piper laughed.
The rain got heavier, which nobody thought was possible. It had also decided to angle in every which way it could. God had brought the dramatics to the game of the year, and he was not letting up.
Piper felt the rain intensity change on his neck before the snap.
He took the ball from center and dropped three steps, and the rain came at his face guard sideways, and he couldn’t see the deep middle, as the slot crossed quickly.
He found him underneath for six yards. The next play was another throw, five yards.
The next play was a quick out he had to throw harder than he would have liked, but the receiver caught it with both hands tight and both feet in bounds.
Three plays in, the rain had not let up, but Piper was converting now.
Tank caught a slant for nineteen yards on second and seven and then slipped, knowing full well it would be a GIF later that night.
The crowd sound dropped slightly, Piper felt that drop in his sternum. Seattle fans were the loudest in the league and they were tired from the weather and exertion. The stadium cut off alcohol late in the game which also helped calm them down.
Piper hit Tank again on the next series, this time for thirty-one yards, the ball coming through the rain in a tight spiral that Tank caught in the pocket of his ribs and held even though the safety came down on him a second after. Tank got up slowly. Piper jogged toward him. Tank waved him off.
“I’m up. Run it.”
Piper ran it, again, still not on brand for him.
Twelve plays, six minutes. Touchdown to the tight end on play-action that pulled the linebacker out of position and the perfect opening arrived.
The rain caught the ball, slowed it, just enough to let the tight end adjust his hands.
He caught it cleanly. He went down with it pinned to his chest. Touchdown.
Score: Seattle 14, L.A. 14.
The fourth quarter started with the rain at a sustained roar.
The rain was no longer falling, it was being delivered.
God was angry in Seattle. It hit the field in a continuous percussive wash that Piper could feel through the soles of his cleats.
The chain crew was wearing ponchos. The cameramen on the sidelines had given up on trying to keep their lenses dry and were simply wiping them between snaps.
Two yards of standing water had collected at the back of the L.A.
end zone. The grounds crew kept squeegee pushing it toward the sideline.
Seattle started its first fourth-quarter drive at its own twenty-six.
The rain met them there.
It met them on the first play, when Noah threw to his slot receiver, but he could not hold on to it.
Next play, Noah threw it away rather than risk a sack at his own twenty.
Third play, the rain caught a deep out at its arc and pulled it down short of the marker. The receiver dove. He didn’t get there.
Seattle punted.
The punter had the wind at his back and the punt traveled forty-eight yards in the air and bounced once at the twenty-one yard line. L.A.’s punt returner caught it and went down at the twenty-three.
L.A. at its own twenty-three. Eleven minutes left.
Piper went to work.
He was throwing well. He knew he was throwing well.
First play, Piper threw to a backup tight end that he didn’t even hand-signal, and the tight end found the spot in the zone and turned around exactly when Piper was looking for him for twenty-yards.
Twelve plays. The drive moved with the rain instead of against it.
Third and three at the Seattle thirty-one.
Piper looked at the defense and saw the corner, and he checked at the line to a slot fade.
The ball went up high and far, and the rain caught it at the top of its arc and slowed it just enough that the corner slipped, and found Tank.
The ball came down into Tank’s outstretched fingertips and bounced once, and was on the wet grass.
Incomplete. The kicker came on for a field goal try.
He hit forty-eight yards in the rain through the uprights.
Score: L.A. 17, Seattle 14. Five-thirty-one left.
Tank was waiting for him on the sideline.
“That was big.”
“That was the rain,” Piper laughed.
“That was you.”
“Whatever it was, it was three points.”
Noah was walking back out, sheets of rain pounding against his body.
Seattle at its own twenty. Five minutes thirty remaining in the fourth.
First play, running back hand off for seven yards, ended with the ball slipping from his hands.
Second play, incomplete pass.
Third play, incomplete pass.
Fourth down.
It came at the line of scrimmage in a way Piper recognized. He turned to Tank, “Fuck, he is going to hard count.”
The tight end was leaning forward. Noah’s voice came through the rain in fragments.
Set.
Hut.
Hut.
L.A.’s defensive end twitched. One foot forward. Half a shoulder.
“Fuck,” he yelled as the camera zoomed in on his face.
The flag was in the air before the ball was snapped. Offsides. Five yards. Automatic first down.
Joan, that should have been a fucking three and out. I should be out on field winning this fucking game! Piper yelled at his inner self.
Tank exhaled next to Piper.
“In this rain,” Tank said. “He fucking hard-counted in this rain.”
Piper said nothing.
He had seen Noah do it. He had watched Noah do it. He understood that Noah had been waiting for a third down; he could end with a cadence rather than a throw, because the rain made every throw so difficult, and Noah did it Noah’s way.
Seattle drove eleven more yards in three plays. Noah threw once for eleven yards.
First and ten at the L.A. twenty-one.
Noah ran a quarterback sneak for a yard. Then a check down to the back for three yards. The clock hit the two-minute warning. Seattle had two timeouts. L.A. had two.
Second and six at the L.A. seventeen.
The rain came back.
It came back in a single shifted gust that put a shelf of water across the line of scrimmage, and the ball came up wet from the snap and Noah double-clutched, tucked and ran for two and slid feet-first.
Third and four at the L.A. fifteen. Noah came off the field. The kicker came on. Twenty-nine seconds on the clock. The wind would make this difficult.
Piper watched the kicker stretch his right leg and roll his shoulders and look up at the goal post through the wall of rain.
The hold was clean. The kick was good into the goal post.
The Seattle sideline roared, and Piper, watching from the L.A. sideline, remained silent.
Score: Seattle 17, L.A. 17. Twenty-five seconds.
L.A. ball at the twenty.
Piper jogged onto the field with Tank already in formation. The Seattle defense increased the heat during the series, and Piper crashed out. Three and out.
Time expired in regulation, they were going to overtime, or so he thought.
Then Piper saw it, a flag, for holding on Seattle.
Wait.
He had one more play to end this. Piper looked up.
The clock said zero. The official’s arms were at his sides, the clock had kept running after Piper’s last play went dead.
The officials added seven seconds back to the clock.
They were back in huddle. Piper nodded to Tank. They knew what they were going to do.
They broke, and Piper got into throwing position, shooting a perfect spiral.
The ball shifted in the rain and instead of hitting Tank, it landed right into the hands of a Seattle defensive lineman, who grabbed the ball and ran for his life into the end zone.
Pick-six. Touchdown Seattle. The clock went to 0:00.
Final score: Seattle 23. L.A. 17.
Piper watched the Seattle bench storm the field. Piper’s head was in his hands trying to keep some composure. His coach walked over to him as he tried to shake off the disappointment of letting his entire team down.
He didn’t go to midfield right away.
The rain was hammering the field.
Piper put his helmet under his arm and walked to midfield. Noah was at the fifty, waiting for him.
His hair was soaked. There was mud on one side of his face.
He looked at Piper, and Piper looked at Noah, and neither of them said anything for a moment because neither of them needed to.
Noah extended his hand. Piper took it. Noah held it.
Rain running down each of their faces. Eyes focused on each other.
“Good game, Ashton.”
“You won it.”
“Yeah. I did,” Noah replied.
Neither of them said anything for another second. Above them, the rain came through the stadium, slanted, continuous.
Then Noah said, low enough that the cameras behind them would not pick it up, “There is a sauna at the west end of the stadium. Equipment staff locks it at midnight. It is unlocked until then. I will be there at eleven. Don’t get on the team charter tonight.”
Noah stepped back.
“Travel safe,” he said loudly.
Then he jogged off toward the Seattle tunnel. Piper stood at midfield in the rain, helmet under his arm.