Page 43 of Strong Side
CASEY
We’re playing Kansas today,which is one of our biggest games of the season. I’m playing like shit, and we’re down by ten points after the first half. I dropped a pass, then another got intercepted. I feel like I’m fumbling over my feet in every play.
It’s halftime, and as I step into the locker room, Coach Pettys grabs a fistful of my jersey at the collar and yanks me toward the wall. The guys trail in behind me, slamming helmet crowns into lockers, kicking benches, and cursing Kansas. I glance at Coach, and the look he’s giving me says I’m about to get lit up.
“King,” he barks, “you’ve had balls hit you in the hands today—routine grabs—and you’re letting ’em hit the grass. If I didn’t know better, I’d think your head was somewhere else, not reading the coverage.”
“No, sir. I’m locked in. They’re pressing me at the line, rolling that safety over the top. Their DB’s been all over me all game—hard to shake loose.”
“I don’t care if they’re running man, bracket, or triple coverage. You’ve got to find separation. We’ve got a lot of youngguys in this locker room—talented guys—who’d jump at the chance to run your routes. I’ll be damned if I let you lose your spot because you’re too busy scanning the bleachers instead of the secondary.”
I shake my head, pissed at myself because he’s right. Football is my life. I run every route like it’s the game winner, give one hundred and ten percent on every snap. But I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t stolen a look at the stands, looking for a certain brunette wearing my number.
“I’m your guy, Coach. I’ll make the plays.”
“Good. Because the morale’s tanking out there. We need a momentum shift, and it starts with you. Move the chains, get the sideline fired up. You with me, King?”
“I’m with you, Coach.” He releases me and I go sit at my locker and hang my helmet on a hook.
Beck drops onto the bench beside me, helmet in his lap, sweat dripping off his face. A towel hangs around his neck while our trainer retapes both his wrists. He’s been getting cooked all game. Every snap, he’s taken a shot.
Coach gives a loud whistle, silencing the room, and lays into us about our miserable performance. I can’t say the guy is wrong. We listen as he gets fired up, gets us fired up, and gets louder as his speech gets longer.
“Now, it’s time to get your fucking heads out of your asses and win this game! No more mistakes. No more excuses. Refocus. Show them why you’re the national fucking champions. Let’s go!” He walks out of the locker room.
Bo, also bandaged, steps into the center of the room. “As your leader, my job is pretty fucking clear to me. It’s my duty to get out on that field and play the best I can regardless of who is on the field with me. I believe in all of you. I know you can push yourself to the absolute limit because I’ve fucking seen it. I know we have the ability and the mental fortitude to get out there andwin this thing! We have a job to do. Now let’s go fucking do it!” He claps, then raises his arm. “Come and gather up.”
We all stand and form a circle around him.
“Stallions on three. One! Two! Three!”
“Stallions!” the team chants.
I go back to my stall and grab my helmet, and we all file out. No one is saying much as we walk through the tunnel.
When I get to the bench, I see my family and Noelle sitting near the front row again. Noelle gives me a slight wave, and I lift my chin and give her a smile.
Kansas’s offense is on the field, but I stand on the sideline to watch what’s happening. Bo’s and Coach’s speeches must have worked because our defense is stopping every play.
With my helmet in hand, I walk out on the field and into the huddle. Bo is checking his wristband, looking at the play calls. Beck is at my side, and I look at him and nod. A silent signal asking if he’s okay. He nods back.
“Okay, guys, let’s get back in this game. Red weak, power right. Break.”
We all clap once and line up in our formation for this play. Beck will run the ball, aiming for the first down. With our field position right now, if he can at least get the first down, it’ll get us where we need to be to score with the next play.
Bo calls the snap, and I take off running, moving around my defender, in the off chance that Bo needs to throw me the ball. When I look to the right of the field though, I see Beck has the ball tucked in his arm, plowing through the defenders on the right side. Despite his double coverage, he makes the first down.
When we get back into the huddle, Bo calls the next play. “You’re a beast, Linson. Good run.” He taps Beck on the helmet. “Red strong, left sixty-three, Ohio. Break.”
We all clap once.
With this play, I’ll run a straight route toward the end zone, and Bo will pass the ball to me. When Bo snaps, I take off and juke to the left to move around the cornerback and give myself enough room to catch the ball while also staying in bounds. I turn to my right side and see the ball flying through the air toward me. It’s a beauty of a throw, and there’s no way in hell I’m not catching this pass.
I’ve positioned myself in the line of fire, and the ball is close enough to me that I can see the spiral. I reach up and grab the ball in both hands, then tuck it into my right side since the cornerback is on my heels on my left, dig my foot in, and run straight to the end zone.
My teammates meet me there and smack my helmet, congratulating me on the score. I toss the ball to the ref, then run back to the sideline. As I run, I look to the stands and see everyone who is important to me on their feet, clapping, and Charlie and Noelle are jumping up and down.
I can’t help the stupid smile that spreads across my face. Because this day, the game, just turned around.
