The One & Only(149)
Miller and I stare at each other, wide-eyed, as the chains are moved and Everclear rushes the team to the line. I hold my breath as he goes with a surprise draw play for a gain of eight. The clock is still ticking, and my heart is in my throat, as he snaps the ball, keeps it, and picks up three more yards for another first down.
The next few plays are a blur that I can only watch in replay on the jumbo screen. Everclear throws it away to avoid a sack … A completion to the eighteen … First down at the ten … A loss of two with the clock still running … A mad scramble for a miracle gain of seven, safely out of bounds at the five, with four seconds left on the clock.
Suddenly, it all comes down to this. Our dream season—the whole awful, amazing year—whittled down to four measly seconds. We are one play and five yards away from a national championship.
Then, something bizarre happens inside of me. Something I never expected to feel, not in a thousand Walker games. A quiet sense of perspective washes over me. I know that whatever euphoric or devastating result follows will be indelibly inscribed, replayed in perpetuity in the hearts and minds of every Walker-loving man, woman, and child. But I also realize that it doesn’t really matter what happens on this last snap. I still want to win, madly and deeply, but it’s not the most I’ve ever wanted anything. Not even close.
The next four seconds unfold in slow motion. Everclear rolls out … dodges a defender … aims and fires, off balance … the ball spirals high into the end zone … Rhodes leaps with outstretched arms … so does an Alabama safety … the ball is tipped, disappearing into a heap of teal and red jerseys … A collective hush falls over the stadium as men are peeled off the pile, one by one, until the last remains. It is Rhodes, clutching the ball, then holding it up with an outstretched hand as the ref raises his arms high over his head, signaling a touchdown. One beat later, the kick is good, and Walker wins. Walker wins! Oh my God, Walker wins!
The stadium erupts with fans shouting and hugging and dancing and crying and snapping photos all around me. But I hold perfectly still, in utter disbelief, doing my best to memorize the moment, keeping my eyes fixed on just one man down on the field, tracing his every move, as he’s embraced by his players, then doused with the customary cooler of Gatorade.
More pandemonium ensues, the stadium filling with teal streamers and confetti and the light from thousands of flashes as Miller never stops shouting in my ear, his voice hoarse and crazed. Something finally breaks my trance, and I start to hug Lucy, but she is hugging Lawton, so I settle for Miller, who reciprocates with a wet kiss on my mouth. I give him a startled look, and he retorts, “Don’t worry. I’m going to kiss your mother like that, too!” Then he does. I laugh as Lawton jumps onto Miller’s back, toppling both my mother and me. Then Lucy piles on top of us as if re-creating the final play of the game, shouting how much she loves me.
“I love you, too,” I say, laughing and crying at once, then struggling to get up so I can watch Coach some more. Seconds later, J.J. appears, out of breath, with VIP all-access passes, telling Lucy and Lawton to come with him. They need to get down to the field for the trophy ceremony.
“Not without Shea,” Lucy says.
“Well, come on then! All three of you!” he yells.
I shake my head in protest, but I can tell right away that I have no choice in the matter. So I allow myself to be whisked down the rows of metal stands, hugging friends, acquaintances, and strangers along the way. Right as I’m about to step onto the field, I see a little boy, about ten years old, sobbing, the red A’s painted onto his cheeks now streaked by tears. I pause, kneel, and tell him that it’s going to be okay.
“You’ll get us next year,” I say.
He is inconsolable, but, in a strange way, I am happy for him. One day, the memory of this night will return to him, making the taste of victory all the sweeter.
We keep walking, in circles, until we find Coach. He is drenched from sweat and Gatorade, but I can tell that he’s also been crying, the whites of his eyes pink. I watch him hug Lucy and hear him say, “This is for her, Luce.”
“I know, Daddy,” she says, now sobbing. “She’d be so proud of you. I’m so proud of you.”
Then it’s Lawton’s turn, and he starts crying like a baby, too, and I can’t help remembering his face at his mother’s funeral. “I wish she were here,” he tells his only parent. “So much.”
“She is here,” Coach says, comforting his son, as I realize how much true grief can resemble pure joy.