Chapter 26
Fin
The on-field warm-up was over. The rush of adrenaline was flowing, a familiar feeling that I wasn’t certain I was ready to stop experiencing.
Back in the locker room, Coach Tilson’s pregame peptalk was more of what we’d been hearing since Wednesday.
The Raiders’ defense was better than good.
Our offense had to be even better; it could be, it would be.
Our offensive line—the tackles, guards, and center needed to be impenetrable.
Our eligible receivers were to run their assigned routes and guard against the interception.
My assignment was to read the defense, call the plays accordingly, and avoid turnovers.
“We’ve got this, Coach,” came as a testosterone-fueled pledge.
“You’re the Coopers,” Tilson screamed. “You’ve got this. You’re going to show those fans out there that Lexington should never be underestimated.”
“We’ve got this, Coach.”
The locker room doors opened, and we followed Coach Tilson through the tunnel and out to the field.
Each player had their own pregame ritual.
Some players prayed while others meditated.
Others hyped the adrenaline with jumps and grunts, often with their special playlist blaring in their ears.
There was no right way to prepare yourself mentally for the start of a game.
As the national anthem resonated through Allegiant Stadium, I closed my eyes for my ritual.
Ever since I played Division II, my thoughts at the beginning of a game went back to my father.
Dad was my and Zane’s coach when we were young.
He wasn’t coaching elite athletes. Dad was coaching children.
While he wanted them to learn, what he sought more was sharing the love of football, of the game.
His pregame mantra was a directive to accomplish three objectives throughout the game.
Learn something—anything.
Never give up.
Play your absolute best, better than your last game, but not as good as your next.
Dad didn’t emphasize winning or losing. Winning, he said, would come when you accomplished the three given objectives.
As the singer hit the high notes, I vowed to learn something today—I’d been working on the tells Pickett clued me into. Today, I would put them to practice. I also wouldn’t give up and would do my absolute best.
“Graham,” Tilson yelled, “you and Johnson are out on the field for the coin flip. Now.”
Malik and I jogged across the field to the official at the fifty-yard line. We were met by two Raiders’ players, their quarterback, Joe Williams, and their safety, Jalan Kelly. We shook hands and introduced ourselves to one another.
“Good afternoon, captains,” the official said. “Here is our coin.” He rotated it in his fingers. “This is heads. This is tails. Coopers, you are the visitors. You will call the toss. What is your call, heads or tails?”
Malik and I looked at one another. We’d already decided. I was the one to speak. “The Coopers choose heads.”
“Your call is heads.”
“Yes,” we said in unison.
The official took a step back, tossed the coin into the air. It landed on the ground. “It is tails. Raiders win the coin flip.” He looked at the Raiders’ captains. “Do you want to receive or defer.”
“Defer,” Williams said.
“The Raiders will defer,” the official announced. “The Coopers will receive first. Let’s have a good game.”
We jogged back to the team, and I took a moment to admire the woman on the sideline, the one wearing the amber dress with cowboy boots.
The same one who last night was wearing a thin shirt and nothing more.
Vee nodded in my direction. It was barely perceivable, but I saw it as our kicking return team took the field.
I noticed Vee checking her watch as the Raiders’ kicker sent the ball long and high.
The Raiders’ special team had time to make it down the field, circling the ball as it landed near the five-yard line.
It didn’t stop, bouncing into the end zone—a touchback.
I exhaled. Disastrous field position avoided.
Pratt was in my face as I pulled down my helmet. “You’ve got this, Graham. Read the defense and play our game. You’ve got the arm for the long pass, and you’re surrounded with the best in the game for handoffs.” He patted my shoulder pads. “Show them what you’ve got—what the Coopers got.”
The offense met in a huddle. The play coming inside my helmet from Coach Pratt was an RPO—run play option. That meant my receivers and tight ends would run their routes. If they weren’t open, we’d opt for the running play. I made the call. At the end I yelled, “For Reid.”
“For Reid,” my teammates yelled.
We lined up in shotgun formation on our own thirty-yard line. The Raiders’ defense scrambled. I set the cadence. “Set, hut!”
The ball was snapped and in my hands. I stepped back, reading my progressions. Kylon Lewis, the wide receiver on the right, ran a flag route. The Raiders’ defense wasn’t expecting a long pass as the first play. Lewis was open. My arm reared back and I threw the ball.
The O-line had given me time. The tackle came seconds after the ball left my hand. The deafening Raiders’ crowd went silent as Lewis caught the pass, going out of bounds at the Raiders’ forty-two-yard line. A pickup of twenty-eight yards.
“Move, move,” came through my helmet.
I motioned to our players to get into formation. We had the unbeatable Raiders scratching their asses and a no-huddle offense would hopefully keep them that way. I handed the ball to Dijon. The O-line held open a gap long enough for him to run six yards.
“Keep going,” Pratt said in my ear. “We’re in field-goal range. It’s the first play of the game. Let’s get some numbers on the board.”
Another no-huddle offense. “Set, hut!”
A shovel pass to Morgan, our fullback. He caught it and went out of bounds at the thirty-two-yard line. Another first down.
Whistles blew and yellow flags hit the ground.
“Fuck, holding,” came through my helmet.
The crowd cheered at the call, resulting in a Coopers’ ten-yard penalty. Now instead of a first down at the thirty-two, we had a third and fourteen at the forty-seven-yard line.
I agreed with the voice in my helmet. This was too far for a field goal. Pratt wanted another pass. This time we huddled, and I called the pass play, a play option. “Gun, right, tight, trey right, jet sweep, option, for Reid.”
“For Reid.”
Our 11-personnel offense was designed to create matchup problems for the defense. I set the cadence. “Set. Hut!”
Lewis ran go route. Patel ran corner route.
JD ran dig route, and Treshawn ran out route.
I read the progressions. The secondary defense was covering the players farther down the field.
I threw the ball to JD. As he caught it near the forty-yard line, I was laid out by one of their tackles—or maybe it was a Greyhound bus.
I stared up at the dome for a moment, trying to catch my breath. For a moment, it felt like an elephant was sitting on my chest. There were even stars twinkling up above.
“Fin, you all right?” Jamir asked as he helped me to my feet.
I grimaced as the shrill sound of whistles filled the air. “Fuck, yeah, I’m good.”
“The call’s on them,” Jamir said.
“Graham,” came from my helmet. “You’re out.”
Out?
What the fuck?
I attempted deep breaths as I made my way to the sideline. As Simpson went out, I heard the announcement.
“Roughing the passer,” came from the speakers. “Defense, number 77, fifteen-yard penalty. Automatic first down.”
“I’m fine,” I screamed at Pratt. I turned to Tilson. “Why am I out?”
Garcia grabbed my arm. “You took a hard hit. You’re going in the blue tent.”
“Fuck, I’m fine.”
He wasn’t listening.