Chapter Thirty
The Super Bowl
I can feel my heartbeat in my ears, drowning out the roar of eighty thousand fans as I jog onto the field for the biggest game of my life. Super Bowl Sunday. The Portland Bigfoots versus the Devils. My moment of truth.
"You ready for this, Hannigan?" Coach Ernie asks.
"Born ready, Coach" I answer.
Coach Ernie brings all together to give us a final inspirational message. "Everything we've worked for comes down to the next sixty minutes of football."
Mental concentration is the most critical thing.
The ball snaps into my hands, and time seems to slow down. The Devils' defense crashes toward me like a crimson wave. Without Brasher, they're struggling to compensate. Rodriguez catches it.
"That's how we start a championship drive," I mutter to myself, already feeling the rhythm of the game.
Two plays later, we're facing 3rd and 7. The Devils shift into a disguised coverage I've seen on film. They think I don't recognize it, but I've spent countless hours studying their tendencies.
The snap comes perfectly. I drop back, feeling pressure immediately from my blind side.
Somehow getting both feet in bounds before tumbling into our sideline. The officials signal first down, and our bench erupts. Twenty-eight yards on a broken play.
We march methodically downfield, mixing short passes with calculated runs. Brasher and his pals begin to look winded by the time we reach their red zone. On second and goal from the seven, I see their safety creeping up, anticipating run.
"Kill! Kill! Falcon right on two!" I call the audible, locking eyes with my tight end, Morrison. He gives me the slightest nod, understanding the change.
The game goes on with both teams doing our damnedest to destroy the other side. We win some, we lose some, and now we're down to the final minutes of the fourth quarter, and I'm feeling every hit I've taken. The scoreboard glares down at us: Bigfoots 21, Devils 24. Three minutes left on the clock.
We break the huddle and I survey the field. Eighty yards to glory. No timeouts left. The pressure should be crushing me, but instead, everything feels crystal clear. I glance once more toward Regan in the stands. She's on her feet, hands clasped like a prayer.
I drop back, scanning the field. The Devils' secondary has been anticipating our routes all game, so I pump fake to Morrison on the right, watching their cornerback bite. Perfect.
Rodriguez blazes past his defender and I launch the ball. The hit comes just as I release---a bone-jarring collision that sends me sprawling onto the turf. Through watering eyes, I see Rodriguez haul in the catch and sprint another fifteen yards before being tackled.
"Keep moving! Hurry up offense!" Thomson shouts.
The Devils' defense scrambles to get set, confusion evident in their eyes. Five more yards. Clock ticking.
I hustle back under center. A trickle of sweat stings my eye, but there's no time to wipe it away. The Devils' best linebacker is shouting adjustments, pointing frantically as his teammates scramble into position.
I put everything I have into the throw. The ball arcs through the night air as I'm driven into the turf by a defensive end. The impact knocks the breath out of me, but I roll over just in time to see Rodriguez make an acrobatic catch at the Devils' thirty-yard line.
One minute forty-seven seconds remain.
My offensive line forms a protective circle around me. Their faces are masks of determination, sweat-drenched and bloodied. We've come too far to fail now.
"No huddle! No huddle!" I bark, scanning the Devils' defense.
I lock eyes with Morrison and give him a subtle nod. We've practiced this play a thousand times, but never attempted it in a game. Coach Ernie would call it reckless. My father would call it foolish. But something in my gut tells me this is the moment.
"Red Fox! Red Fox!" I call out, settling under center.
That split second of indecision is all I need.
The stadium erupts as Morrison spikes the ball and our sideline goes berserk. I pump my fist in the air, ignoring the shooting pain in my ribs. We've tied it up with the extra point pending.
"That was the ballsiest throw I've ever seen," Thompson gasps, slapping my helmet as we jog to the sideline.
Coach Ernie meets me with a mixture of fury and pride in his eyes. "Red Fox? We never greenlighted that play in a game situation."
I shrug, trying to catch my breath. "Felt right."
"Damn kid," he mutters, but there's a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.
Our kicker nails the extra point. Bigfoots 28, Devils 24.
Less than a minute and thirty seconds left on the clock.
Regan catches my eye from the stands and waves at me. Somehow, that makes everything hurt a little less.
"Come on, defense! One stop!" I shout, clapping my hands together.
Daniels completes three quick passes in succession, moving them to midfield with alarming efficiency. Our defensive coordinator is going ballistic, screaming for tighter coverage. Beside me, Coach Ernie remains eerily calm, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
Less than a minute to go.
Now it's time to show the world what the Portland Bigfoots can do. The trophy will be ours tonight.