half minutes, we capitalize on a fatigued Bama defense by relentlessly attacking the line of scrimmage, only to be stopped short on the five-yard line. But Green nails another field goal, closing the gap to six with eight minutes and change remaining.
Alabama does us no favors on their next series, grinding out yards and ticking off seconds in a sustained drive that forces us to burn two time-outs. We manage to shut them down on a fourth and long, but by now they are on our fifteen, in easy field goal range for any kicker, let alone one who has been perfect on the night.
I drop my head to my hands, a gesture that alarms Lucy. “What?” she demands, jabbing me in the back. “Why are you doing that?”
I break it down for her. “They’re going to make this kick. Then we’ll be down nine—which is a two-possession game. And we only have one time-out left.”
“Which means?” Lucy asks.
“Which means we don’t have fucking time to win,” Miller says, finally exasperated with her, too.
“But he has to make the field goal first, right?” she asks.
“He hasn’t missed yet,” Lawton says, as the players line up on the field.
I drop my face to my hands again, unable to watch the inevitable, but a few seconds later, Miller grabs my arm and starts yelling, “He hooked it! He hooked it! He fuckin’ hooked it!”
I look up to see the Walker offense taking the field. “He missed it?” I say, with a shocked sputter of laughter.
“He fuckin’ missed it!” Miller crows.
“Choke city!” Lawton chimes in.
“Now can we win?” Lucy yells over the din. She definitely has a mental block when it comes to basic football math.
“Now we have a shot!” I tell her, then break it down for her, explaining that all we have to do is cover eighty-five yards in one hundred and ninety seconds. It is plenty of time; it is almost too much time, because the last thing we want is for Alabama to have the final possession.
I turn my gaze back to the field as Coach begins to drain the clock with running plays and short passes, working his way to midfield while using up a minute and forty seconds. After that, we break into our two-minute offense, starting with a very long pass that Rhodes can’t quite reach. Incompletion. On second down, Coach goes deep again, but this time it works, putting us on the Alabama thirty-two.
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