Page 45 of The Brotherly Shove

I can't think of a better way to spend my Christmas night than doing all of that with you, baby.

And I love you too, B.

The energy at Twin Peaks Field today is nothing short of electric tonight. Holiday games always have a bit of a different feel. Fans come from far and wide, some times bringing their families and sometimes just themselves to our home to watch their teams play. They sacrifice their time off, their traditions, their turkey dinners to root for us, to cheer for us. To watch us try to bring them home a W.

Tonight's game is no different, especially not with our position in the playoffs at stake.

Win, and the Redwoods are in the playoffs, led by Mr. Irrelevant himself.

Lose, and we go home, lick our wounds and try again next year.

And I likely collapse in on myself in a haze of postseason sadness and Oreo crumbs.

We've been neck and neck with Dallas from the get go. We won the coin toss and deferred. Dallas got the ball and scored on their opening drive, despite our defense's best effort. Me and the rest of the offense came on field and answered with a touchdown of our own.

One three and out for Dallas, one three and out for us.

A 70 yard drive that ended with a field goal for them, a 64 yard drive that ended in a field goal for us.

No scores until the end of the second, where I threw another touchdown to the endzone, securing us another six points, followed by a two point conversion.

Not to be outdone, Dallas managed a similar drive, tying the game up right at the half.

The third quarter was quieter. We scored another touchdown in the first drive, but neither team has managed to get on the board since.

Currently, I'm sitting next to Len on the sideline, baseball cap on my head, rewatching our last drive on a tablet provided to me by someone on the offensive coaching staff. Our play calling, our lineup, our execution was all perfect, but Dallas got the best of us anyway.

If I wasn't so grossed out by the sweat and turf all over my hands and their potential to give me diphtheria, I'd be biting the absolute fuck out of my nails right now.

Len nudges my shoulder, nodding for me to look up and watch the play. It's third and seven at our thirty-two yard line. There's scoring potential here, whether it be a touchdown or a field goal, and with a little less than ten minutes on the play clock and only seven points separating us on the board, I am severely,severelyuncomfortable.

Dallas snaps the ball, their quarterback fakes a throw and then hands it off to a running back, who makes it a solid five yards before getting swallowed up in traffic.

Third and two. If that was the Redwoods, if that was me and Lennon, we'd be running a quarterback sneak. The Tush Push, as James Adler made sure to spread around until it caught on, bless the man.

But they aren't us. They aren't as in sync. They aren't as disciplined. They aren't as fucking good as we are, so out goes the field goal team.

I hold my breath as their kicker lines up his shot, almost jumping off the bench when Ithinkone of our guys tips the ball, but I'm wrong. It sails through the goalposts, straight down the middle like a string was pulling it through.

Well, fuck.

"Lawson," Coach Elliot calls to me as someone hands me my helmet and I pull it over my head. He gestures towards where my offensive line is suiting up on the sideline, then grabs my shoulders.

"Don't let them fuck this up."

Inspiring, Coach. Thanks a lot.

The ball is punted and caught for a fair catch at the twenty five yard line.

We run out on the field, and once in the huddle, I give the quickest pep talk known to man before relaying the play call.

"Alright, guys. We don't have this in the bag yet, but it's not over until it's over. Let's get out there, run down the clock as much as we can and then take it to the endzone. Got it?"

I'm met with a bunch of helmet head taps, and I defer the play call to Lennon. We break and line up.

Snap, fake, handoff. Smith runs for twelve yards, a first down.

Snap, short throw to my the running back on my right. A horizontal passback to me, then another short pass forward. Second down.

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