Damage - A. M. Jenkins [43]
The Panthers are up 14–13 with 49 seconds remaining. You personally pull in a first down at the nine, which gives the team three more shots at glory before the will have to be called to put the icing on the cake.
On first-and-goal, Cox is supposed to hand off Stargill. You take off from the line. Wheaton’s corner-back goes with you, like he’s supposed to. You cut inside, and when you glance back to check the progress of the play, Stargill’s slipped or tripped or something—he’s one knee in the backfield, just getting up—the play is busted and Cox is looking for an open receiver. As arms wrap him up, Cox’s head swivels back and forth; he’s searching, for someone—for anyone.
You’ve already slowed, yelled to him, and as he goes down his eyes click on you, and then his pass—more of toss, really—is lofting your way.
At that moment you feel Wheaton’s cornerback breathing down your neck—but your hands are open and the ball is sailing toward you and it’s going to hit you right on the numbers. You’re ready, ready to run.
Too ready.
You turn, trying to tuck in the ball a split second soon, and somehow it pops off your hands. It seems hover for a second, wobbling on your fingertips.
You’re right on the goal line; this should be a deal. But Wheaton’s cornerback gets a hand up between you and that wobbling ball.
And that’s all it takes—he’s off, cradling the football like it’s a baby.
Blame comes down in one loud groan from the crowd. You’re in what feels like a nightmare of slow motion; an all-out lunge at his back turns into a grab his legs, which turns out to be a clutch at the air where his ankle used to be. And you’re left behind, face down on the turf while Wheaton’s cornerback takes the ball back almost to the Parkersville twenty before somebody manages to drive him out of bounds.
Three downs later, with just eighteen seconds left the clock, their kicker clears a field goal. The game ends at 16–14, Wheaton.
This loss is a personal gift from you.
Some mistakes you have a choice about. You can ease out from under them by apologizing—or changing your ways. Or just deciding not to think about them anymore.
But certain kinds of mistakes are carved in stone. matter what you do, no matter whether you think about them or not.
Back at the field house after the game, you shower and change and go out to meet Heather. You stand on the concrete square just outside the field house door, hands jammed in your pockets, looking around the parking lot for her.
She’s not there.
Now that you think about it, she might have something about going somewhere this weekend. you wish you had at least made the effort to listen, when she was doing all that talking last night.
You wait awhile longer, just in case, watching parking lot clear out, and when you have no reason wait anymore, you step onto the asphalt alone.
At home, you walk into your room and that guy is still clinging to the bulletin board as if nothing’s happened. Grinning his blank grin.
You pull out the tack that holds him to the cork take the clipping into the bathroom, where you tear into tiny pieces. You flush them and watch the little circle before they disappear.
It’s still dark outside when you open your eyes. Becky’s not up yet, or Mom. It’s awfully quiet in the house, without all those bustling noises you usually hear at the of your sleep.
You look at the clock: four-thirty. It’s Sunday morning.
The alarm is set for eight. Three and a half more hours.
You don’t want to go to church today. It feels strange to admit that—you don’t want to sit with bowed head while all those dreary words rain guilt on you. You’ve stepped out into empty space this weekend; you’ve been hanging in that one endless moment before you fall, and you cannot take on even one more syllable of weight.
So after a long while, you reach over to turn off the alarm. As of 4:53 A.M. you are officially not going to church today, no matter what anybody says.
The only thing in this world that seems even halfway solid is Heather, and the only thing that interests you the slightest