"That's what I've been looking for!" Tyler yells. "Damn right, baby!"
"Let's keep it going next half," I respond. "I want the damn record. What's this bowl's record for TD catches?"
"Fuck if I know. But we'll go for it anyway."
Unfortunately for us, GAM isn't as accommodating as we'd like, and after a short three and out drive by us to start the third quarter, GAM starts to eat up the clock by grinding out yardage in short, brutal chunks, three and four yards at a time. Their linemen have that farmer strength, big 'hosses' that can grind it three and four yards at a time over and over and over. They pound it out for a touchdown, and we're behind again, with ten minutes left in the fourth quarter.
"Well, there goes the TD record," Tyler jokes as we start off our next drive at our twenty-three. "Time to give the D a rest and grind some ourselves."
"I'm not grinding with you, Tyler. Just 'cuz Carrie's at her parents' house . . . I'm still not grinding with you," I joke back, and everyone laughs before growing serious.
Tyler calls a swing screen pass to the flat. He tosses the ball to the back, and I clear traffic. I collide with a linebacker, and my elbow pops inside again, pain exploding through my arm, but we get the yards we need.
I'm shaking my arm when the huddle re-forms, and Coach Bainridge sees it. He sends in Carlson to give me a rest and to bring in the next play, and on the sidelines, he pulls me aside. "How is it?"
"It'll hold together for another few minutes," I reply, looking at the game clock. "I'll make it."
"Sit out two plays, shake it out, and then get back in there," Coach says. I nod and kneel, focusing and catching my breath.
After the two plays, Coach sends me back in, and we're looking at third and seven. Carlson’s doing his best, but he's not quite there yet. Give him a year, maybe. He's still young.
In the huddle, Tyler's happy to see me. "Glad you're back. Think you can catch something?"
"You throw it, I'll catch it."
I drift out into the flat, just beyond the first down marker, and go up for a high pass, stretching out to catch the ball, only to get upended by a linebacker who hits me in the legs, flipping me over to land flat on my back. I hang onto the pass, though, and it's just enough for the first down.
"That one hurt," I groan as I get up off the ground and get back to the huddle. We run the ball once, taking the ball to the fifteen, but more importantly, starting the clock again. Coach's plan is simple. If we punch it in, we're not going to give GAM enough time to get the points back. We end it now, one way or another.
A minute and thirty-one seconds left. I drop down hit the defensive tackle in the side while our guard and tackle pop out on the old power sweep play, taking us down to the ten. Third and two, and the clock is still running. Twenty-seven seconds left.
The ball snaps, and I smack the defensive end in the shoulder before releasing and starting my route. The linebacker sees me coming, and he's going to stick with me. We're jostling, at the limits of what the refs will allow before they call pass interference, but with less than a minute left in a bowl game, they're letting a lot more go than normal.
I turn my head back, and Tyler's scrambling, the pass rush starting to get to him. He rolls out to his right, and I cut back, reversing course to try to give him options. The cut gives me just enough space, and Tyler sees me, letting the pass go just as a big defensive end nails him in the back. The ball's a wounded duck, wobbly and high, but there's no other choice. I go up, reaching, my left arm screaming, but it's on my fingertips. I pull in, still on my feet, by some miracle, and cut upfield. Four yards, two men in front of me. They go low, I jump . . .
Somehow, I don't know how, my body clears the goal line. With eleven seconds left, Western has taken the lead, up by two.
I get up off the ground and hug my teammates. Tyler's getting up himself, and I tap helmets with him. "Good throw."
"Bullshit. Great catch."
We go over to the sidelines, everyone quiet while we watch the kickoff after the extra point. The Georgia A&M team elects to not try anything stupid on the kickoff, and they have one desperate Hail Mary pass that falls short before the final seconds tick off, and we've won. Tyler turns and hugs me as the team celebrates. "Thank you, man. It's been a hell of a four years."
As the team celebrates in the middle of the field, I find myself exchanging high fives and handshakes with dozens of people. I have no idea who they are, but it doesn't matter. We're happy, and the only thing that could make my mood better is if Carrie were here with me.
"You did it, Duncan," Coach Thibedeau says, yelling even though he's only a foot from my ear. The noise is so overwhelming. "You came through. Now, the focus goes to you."