New Book 2024 Opening

Just getting into the swing of it. No title yet . . .
I'm using the names of real players (Brock Purdy for example) to give me a feel for the type of player I want to describe. A little trick I use all the time. I'll change all the names eventually.

Opening pages

1.

Coach V has just used our last time out. He has to scream for us to hear him over the roar of the Tacoma Dome crowd. “One drive and you’re State Champions!” He’s saying. “This is what you busted your butts for, so go get it!” My teammates let out rock concert screams, and I’m right with them. The ref blows his whistle; we turn and head back onto the field.

Sure, there are eleven guys on offense, and all eleven have to do their job, have to execute. I know that. But every team counts on some players to seize the moment, to be great. Everybody on our team, everybody in the stands, everybody on the Lakes High team, even the refs know who those players are for Roosevelt High.
Marshawn Lynch, running back.
Lance Alworth, wide receiver.
And me.
Brock Purdy.
Quarterback.
Lakes leads 20-16 with a minute and forty seconds left in the game. Our kicker, Will Zalatoris, clanked an extra point, so a field goal does nothing. We are fifty-five yards from paydirt. It’s score a touchdown or lose.
We’ve practiced our two-minute drive since August. The plays—our seven best--are tattooed into our brains. My job is to call the right one at the right time.
From the shotgun, I looked out at Lakes’ defense. They’ve dropped their safeties deep, thinking we’ll do nothing but pass. “FOUR! FOUR! FOUR” I shout. FOUR is Marshawn right up the gut. I take the snap and put the ball out where Marshawn can get it and go.
Our center and guard get a good push, and Marshawn fires into the hole going full bore. A linebacker hits him from the side knocking him off balance, but Marshawn barrels forward, legs churning, protecting the ball with both hands. Before two Lakes defenders finally bring him down, he’s gained 12 yards giving us a first down at their forty-three.
Our guys unpile quickly and hustle to the line of scrimmage, knowing how precious every second is. Lakes knows it too, so they’re slow to unpile, slow to line up, happy to let the seconds tick away.
I’m in the shotgun, checking the defense. Both deep safeties have come up a few steps, but they’re still protecting against the long ball. “TWO! TWO! TWO!” I shout.
I take the snap, look left toward Lance who’s streaking downfield. He’s covered, so I check down to Marshawn in the flat. He catches the ball and turns upfield. This time, though, the Lakes linebacker hits him low, taking his legs out from under him before he can get up a head of steam.
Only a three-yard gain, and the clock is still ticking.
1:28 . . . 1:27 . . . 1:26
Again, we hustle to the line. Again, Lakes wastes time.
I make myself slow down. No panic. Plenty of time.
“ONE! ONE! ONE!” I call. My own number.
The snap is perfect. I catch the ball, take a step back like I’m getting ready to pass, and then fire up the middle on a quarterback drawn. Their cornerbacks and safeties are running with our receivers, not looking back. I get through the defensive line. I juke a linebacker and I’m free.
Thirty-five . . . thirty . . . twenty-five. I should get out of bounds to stop the clock, but I think I can get five more yards. That’s when I get hit from behind. The Lakes’ linebacker swats down on the ball, and I lose it. Somebody tries to scoop it up but only manages to kick it. Now there are about six guys fighting for it at the bottom of the pile.
Who’s got the ball!
One by one the players unpile. At the bottom, clutching the ball like it’s worth one million dollars, is Lance Alworth, and I can breathe again.
The ref places the ball at the twenty-eight and blows his whistle, starting the clock. 58 . . . 57 . . . 56.
“SIX! SIX! SIX!” I call.
A quick down-and-out to Lance.
I take the snap, don’t mess around with any kind of fake. We’ve timed this up so many times in practice, and we do it here, too. Lance catches the ball at twenty and heads for the sideline, but the safety tackles him in-bounds at the eighteen yard-line.
32 . . . 31 . . . 30.
“They’re going to be looking for another quick pass,” I think to myself. “Now! Before they’re expecting for it! Go deep. Win the game.”
“SEVEN! SEVEN! SEVEN!” I shout.
Marshawn looks over at me, and I can tell he doesn’t like the call. SEVEN is our Hail Mary play . . . the last bullet in the gun. He thinks it’s too soon, and he’s probably right, but I’m feeling it.
The snap from St. Claire, our center, is ankle high. I scoop the ball up, but my timing off. Still, I see Lance running the deep out into the back corner of the end zone, and he’s got separation. Three yards, maybe four. I let the pass fly. Time slows. I watch the football, watch Lance looking back for it, see it getting closer and closer, see his hands reaching for it.
We’re going to win!
Then, just before Lance can make the winning reception, the Lakes’ cornerback undercuts him, and it’s his hands that haul in my pass. Lance tackles him, swatting down on the ball as he does, but the guy hangs on.
A second later he’s up, holding the ball in one hand over his head as he runs like a madman toward his sideline. The fans on the Lakes’ side of the Dome are hugging one another and jumping up and down. From our side—silence.
I stand like a statue for a while, trying to make sense of what has just happened, and then I head off the field.
The Lakes offense comes out. Their QB takes one snap, kneels down.
Game over.