Chapter Twenty-Nine
Vengeance
My dream has come true. I'm heading onto the field for the most important game of my life---Super Bowl Sunday. The Portland Bigfoots versus the Devils. And Ivan Brasher will get his payback for all his dirty tricks.
Coach Ernie slaps my shoulder pad as I pass him.
Six months ago, I was questioning if I even loved football anymore.
Now I'm leading my team into the championship game.
I immediately pick Regan out in the crowd in the family section.
She's wearing my jersey and holds up another silly foam hand like she's done before.
When we first met, she swore she'd never do anything that goofy.
Figure skaters don't usually wear football jerseys, but Regan is different now. She gets it. She gets me.
And I get her too.
I take deep breath, savoring this moment before the chaos.
Pre-game electricity crackles through the air as both teams finish their warm-ups.
Across the field, I see the Devils in their crimson uniforms. Their star defensive end, Ivan Brasher, was suspended after that dirty hit he tried to pull on me in the conference championship.
The league finally did something right for once.
"Listen up, gentlemen!" Coach Ernie shouts, gathering us into our final huddle. "Everything we've worked for comes down to the next sixty minutes of football."
The coin flip goes our way---we'll receive. As I strap on my helmet, Rodriguez fist bumps me. "Let's make history, Hannigan."
The kickoff sails through the air like a missile. Garrison fields it cleanly at the five-yard line until he's finally dragged down at our forty. Not a bad start.
The Devils' defense crashes toward me. I've spent countless hours studying their tendencies. Without Brasher, they're overcompensating. Rodriguez catches the ball in stride and picks up seventeen yards before getting pushed out of bounds.
A massive defensive tackle has broken through---Linus Tanner, their 320-pound wrecking ball.
I barely escape his grasp and spot Jensen streaking along the sideline.
I throw the ball just as another defender crashes into my ribs.
The hit knocks the wind from my lungs as the ball spirals through the air.
Jensen makes a diving catch, somehow getting both feet in bounds before tumbling into our sideline.
The officials signal first down.
"Hell of a throw," Coach Ernie shouts as I jog back to the huddle, trying not to wince. That hit did some damage, but there's no way I'm showing it.
We march methodically downfield as our enemies' defense seems winded.
Three minutes left on the clock.
We're in make-it-or-break mode now, and there's no turning back. I survey the field. Eighty yards to glory, no timeouts left. I glance toward Regan in the stands one more time. My wife is on her feet, hands clasped as if she's praying for the Bigfoots to win.
Thompson helps me to my feet. "Keep moving! Hurry-up, offense!"
We sprint to the line of scrimmage. The Devils' defense scrambles. I snap the ball quickly, finding Jensen for a quick slant. Five more yards. Clock ticking.
The Devils' rookie linebacker is shouting adjustments, pointing frantically as his teammates scramble into position.
The clock stops as he goes out of bounds.
Two minutes forty-eight seconds remain.
We race to the new line of scrimmage, sweat-drenched and bloodied. We've come too far to fail now.
The Devils seem to be struggling for breath with their hands on their hips. We've got them on the ropes.
The Kentucky morons, as I like to call them, shift nervously, unable to identify what's coming.
Coach Ernie designed this play months ago, but we've kept it locked away for exactly this moment.
The linebackers are surging forward as I pivot away.
Morrison sprints five yards before cutting sharply inside.
The safety hesitates, caught between covering him and Rodriguez streaking down the sideline.
I pretend to throw the ball toward Rodriguez, then whip my arm around to throw a straight shot to Morrison. He snags it at the fifteen-yard line, lowers his shoulder, and bulldozes through a diving tackler. He's at the ten, the five.
TOUCHDOWN!
The stadium goes wild as Morrison spikes the ball, slamming it into the ground, and our sideline goes berserk. We've tied it up, making the score even with an extra point pending.
Coach Ernie meets me. "Red Fox? We never greenlighted that play in a game situation."
I shrug, struggling to catch my breath. "It felt right."
"Damn kid, that was amazing."
Our kicker nails the extra point. Bigfoots 28, Devils 24.
The Devils waste no time returning to the field, their offense looking like men possessed.
Their quarterback, Brian Daniels, has been picking apart our secondary all night running straight for a few yards before angling forty-five degrees toward the middle of the field.
Coach Ernie gathers the defense around him.
I spot Regan in the grandstands, waving and jumping up and down.
"Come on, defense! One stop!" I shout.
My pulse is racing, and sweat rolls down my face. This is our last chance.