The One & Only(108)

And then, a few hours later, I actually puked in a trash can at the stadium.

J.J. busted me, coming up on my left shoulder, laughing.

“Did you just do what I think you did?” His voice echoed in the cavernous corridor that would later be squeezed with bodies and vendors.

I wiped my mouth with a napkin, took a swig of water from a bottle in my bag, and popped in a piece of gum before turning around to face him.

“Yep,” I said. “I sure did.”

“And something tells me it wasn’t bad fish.”

“Ha. No. It was the emasculated bovines,” I said, my favorite nickname for the Longhorns.

“So much for an impartial media.”

I laughed but quickly sobered up again, J.J.’s face mirroring the way I felt.

“Do you get the feeling that it’s now or never?” he asked.

“Yeah,” I said. “I do. Why do we feel that way?”

“Because,” he said. “We’re so close. I can’t imagine getting this close again. It could take years. And I’m sixty-one. I don’t have that kind of time.”

“I know,” I said. “You have to be so good … But so damn lucky, too.” I crossed my fingers, stared up at the ceiling of the atrium, and prayed for the hundredth time since that morning.

“You think we’ll pull it off?” he said.

I shrugged, thinking that when it really, truly mattered, I never had a good gut feeling. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t have faith in my team, but that I maintained the truest fans always reverted to a doomsday position in the same way that parents always worried about tragedy befalling their children. Love made things feel precarious, and, when you got right down to it, everything in life was tenuous and fleeting and ultimately tragic. Yes, someone would win this game, and two teams in the country would go on to play for a championship in January. And someone would win that game. And a few seniors at one program in the nation would end their careers on a jubilant high note. But for many, many more, the college football season would end in utter disappointment. Even heartbreak. Just like life.

J.J. slapped me on the back and said, “When’s the last time you tossed your cookies like that before a game?”

“The Cotton Bowl,” I said.

“Well, that’s a good sign, no?”

“Yep,” I said, having already thought of that superstitious angle. Because, no matter how pessimistic I was before a big game, I never stopped looking for signs, never stopped praying for the right alignment of stars over the Brazos River.


As it turned out, there was no need to pace, puke, or pray. Because Walker kicked the shit out of Texas. We were faster, sharper, and better on nearly every play. It was an art and a science and a thing of beauty and a glorious act of God, the final scoreboard glowing brighter than the moon: Walker 28, Texas 0.

Buoyant, I sprinted to the press conference, counting down the minutes until I could see Coach, hear him recapping the game with his usual matter-of-fact preamble. When he walked in, he scanned the room as if looking for something or someone. Then he spotted me, standing in the back with a couple of guys from The Dallas Morning News. Our eyes locked, and he threw me a wink. My insides melted, and I couldn’t help but grin back at him.

“Let me guess,” one of the reporters next to me said in a snide voice. “You went to Walker.”

“Yep. And let me guess. You went to UT-Austin,” I said, knowing that he had. The Austin infuriated Longhorn fans, who liked to think of their school as the University of Texas—which his irate expression confirmed.

A few seconds later, the press conference was under way, and I furiously scribbled notes and quotes, waiting until the end to ask my own question.

“Yes? Shea,” Coach said, pointing to me.

“Congratulations on an undefeated regular season,” I began, wanting these to be my first postgame words to him.

“Thank you,” he said, nodding, waiting for the question.

I took a deep breath and said, “So … We all know that you’ve had an exceptionally difficult year … and I was hoping you might say a few words about what this season has meant to you personally.”

Coach nodded, his face somber. “Yes, this year has been enormously difficult and emotional for me and for my children, Lucy and Lawton … My wife, Connie, meant everything to us and this program and community, and there’s been a void without her …” He stopped, blinked, then looked down, seemingly rattled, and, for a few seconds, I regretted the question. But when he looked up again, he had his composure back and said, “So to end the regular season this way means a tremendous amount to me … and I think it is the ultimate tribute to her.” He cleared his throat and continued, “I’d like to thank my players, coaches, and the Bronco nation for making today possible. Thank you.”