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Adrenaline and endorphins pumped into his blood at an elevated
rate, obscuring the pain in his shoulder and the deep, throbbing
ache in his knee. His exhaustion only sharpened the world around
him until it felt like his senses were buzzing and everything was
electric.
Patton evaluated the playing field as soon as the rough texture
of the ball scraped across his fingers. Everything seemed so slow
when he wasn t playing football, the world measured out in
minutes and hours instead of fractions of seconds. His instincts
were sharp, well honed over the past thirty years since he first
picked up a football, and his reflexes hadn t slowed despite his
age, the time off, or his injuries. It was a simple play. One he d
completed thousands of times before to many different receivers.
No matter who was on the other end, the play always worked. It
was his call, his strategy, and it always worked.
J. J. Samson was the target. A big tight end who towered over
most of the team, including the offensive lineman. He d played
basketball in college and had even been drafted into the NBA, but
he chose to play as a walk-on in the NFL. He vaguely resembled a
stork or crane some bird that was all long legs and epic
wingspan. He had speed and flexibility, and he was perfectly built
for the flea flicker. He could get where he needed to be and he
could outplay any defender.
The play went as planned at the beginning. Patton handed it to
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the fullback, who ran to one side of the field while Patton hurried
to the opposite sideline. He threw a perfect lateral, getting the ball
back to Patton s waiting hands while the defense struggled to reset
itself. Patton cocked his arm back and let fly, purposefully
throwing a little too high and a little too long so J. J. could get
under the ball. But he wasn t alone at the end of the field, as Patton
had hoped he would be. Drake, the Bighorn free safety who d been
a thorn in Patton s side since the first snap of the first drive,
flashed across the field like lightning. He snatched the ball from
the air, practically from J.J. s outstretched fingers, and hit the
ground running.
Drake ran right up the sidelines with enough speed to beat J.J.
in a foot race. Most of the other players were still congregated on
the other side of the field, everything happening before they had a
chance to spread out. The two receivers chased him, and then the
linemen. But they barely got within grabbing distance, most of
them hardly touching Drake s jersey in their diving tackles.
Everything slowed as he approached, and Patton had no thought in
his head besides stopping him.
The only problem was that Drake could see the entire field, and
he knew Patton s intention before Patton even set himself in the
proper stance to make a tackle. He was also ten years younger than
Patton and, Patton would later learn, just about one of the fastest
men playing the game. In a league of giants and supermen, Troy
Drake towered among the elite. There was a good chance nobody
on that field had the ability to catch and stop him, but Patton was
the last one standing between Drake and the end zone. He threw
his entire body at the other man, committing wholeheartedly to the
tackle, but he wasn t quick enough. Drake dodged just enough to
the side to throw Patton off, and he hit the ground with a grunt, the
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air pushed out of his lungs.
By the time he picked himself up, they were celebrating in the
end zone. With five minutes left on the clock and twenty-eight
points separating them, Patton knew the game was all but over. He
limped to the bench, trying to pretend he didn t realize how
pathetic he looked. He collapsed on the far end, knowing he would
need every second of the point-after, the kick-off, and the change-
of-possession time-out to gather his thoughts.
I m cheering for you.
Patton didn t look up from his hands. The crowd collectively
deflated with the point after score, and he felt himself slipping
deeper into his spiral.
What are you talking about? Patton asked hoarsely.
You ve been in tighter situations, DeShawn said.
Remember that game against the Minutemen in 03?
Don t do that.
What?
Talk about those games like they mean anything now. That
was a lifetime ago, a different team. I was different. So just
fucking stop it.
Jesus, Patton, I m just trying to help you out here.
Don t. Don t talk to me right now. I m trying to concentrate.
Fuck, you know at this rate there s not going to be anything
left for Oz to come back to. Patton couldn t put a name to the
voice, but the owner stood only a few feet away, and his voice
carried loud and clear.
He s not the reason we re losing right now. That has
something to do with all the touchdowns.
He s choked twice and cost us two scores. The defense can t
do its job when they re scoring points against the offense, right?
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DeShawn stiffened beside him and Patton put his hand out,
briefly taking his elbow in an unyielding grip. Don t.
But&
Just don t. Coach hears you picked a fight, and you ll be the
one in hot water. It doesn t matter why.
They don t need to be assholes.
Patton didn t care about that. The whole team could stand
around and bitch about what an untalented dick he was. They
wouldn t say anything more cutting than the words already
swirling around his mind. He didn t blame them for being angry.
He was angry, too. Only one loss on the season, and even that had
been pretty close. This was their first blowout. And everybody
knew that the only difference between last week and this one was
the starting QB.
He left DeShawn glaring and silent on the bench, pushing the
entire exchange out of his mind so he could focus on the new
drive. They had good field position, five minutes, two time-outs
and the two-minute warning. That still plenty of time, and he did
have a few tricks up his sleeve. He might not have the speed he
once had, but speed didn t count for everything. There was
something to be said for experience. He took the field with more
cheer than he felt and rallied everybody in the huddle.
They played with all they had. Patton couldn t have asked for
more from any of them, but some Sunday afternoons even all you
had wasn t enough to give.
Patton escaped to the tunnel before one of the sidelines
reporters couldn t corner him and shove a microphone into his
face. They d only drain him of what energy he had left, and he
needed every bit of his reserves to get himself back home. He
didn t wait for DeShawn. In hindsight, Patton regretted that
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decision more than any other he made that day. But he hadn t been
thinking about DeShawn, and even if he had been, it was
impossible to say that Patton would have realized that his emotions
were running high, too.
Why don t you keep your fucking opinions to yourself,
Howie?
Patton spun around to see DeShawn glaring at one of the
defensive ends, a giant who went by Howard and never, ever
Howie.
Get the fuck out of my face.
Patton could do nothing but watch as DeShawn did the exact
opposite of that, stepping forward to invade more of Howard s
space. I ve been listening to you talk shit for the past twenty
minutes, and I m fucking sick of it.
I m fucking sick of you. Howard pushed at DeShawn s
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