Two-Minute Drill - Mike Lupica [37]
“Only if you make it,” Scott said in a weak voice.
“Look at me!” Chris said, snapping at him. This time he grabbed Scott by the shoulder pads. “You’ve made this kick with me a hundred times. And every single time it was to win the game. So go make it again.”
Then Chris put an arm around Mr. Dolan’s shoulder and limped toward the sideline as the rest of the Eagles walked out to huddle.
“I never snapped the ball for a field goal before,” Jimmy said. “Just punts.”
“Just snap it like that,” Scott said. “That’s how far back I’ll be.”
They all heard the ref blow the whistle. Scott looked over and saw the ref’s arm come down, which meant he was starting the play clock.
Thirty seconds to run a play.
Scott could see everybody else in the huddle staring now. Staring at him. He took a deep breath and said to all of them, “Block better than you ever have in your lives,” before clapping his hands and saying, “on two!”
He carefully paced off eight yards, found a place where there actually seemed to be some grass left.
Scott checked his footing then, alone in the backfield.
Heard somebody on the defense yell, “Trick play!”
They had no idea.
Scott was afraid he’d drop the snap. Or that it would be a bad snap.
Or that he’d slip.
“Ten seconds,” the ref said.
In that moment, Scott looked to the right of the goalposts, on the other side of the end zone, and saw his dad standing there.
With Casey.
Like this was Parry Field.
The only place where he was never afraid.
“Hut one,” he said.
“Hut two!”
Barking the last word out the way Chris did.
Jimmy Dolan gave him a perfect snap. Scott planted his left foot, not slipping even a little bit, dropped the ball perfectly in the spot he’d cleared, brought his right leg through.
The wet ball felt as if it weighed more than he did, like he was trying to kick a big rock.
As well as he’d hit it, he was sure when it got in the air that it was going to be short.
It wasn’t.
It cleared the crossbar with a couple of feet to spare.
Plenty of distance, center cut.
Eagles 3, Lions 2.
The last thing Scott saw before his teammates mobbed him was Casey breaking free from his dad, running after the ball.
TWENTY-ONE
Scott and Chris would talk about it a little more until one of them would start laughing all over again.
“I still don’t believe we pulled it off.”
“We didn’t do anything. You did.”
“I still can’t believe it.”
“I told you all along you could do it. What, you didn’t believe me? That hurts me, dude, I’m not gonna lie.”
“I believed that you believed. I just wasn’t sure I did.”
“You did it, that’s all that matters. You came through when it counted like I knew you would.”
“I still can’t believe I passed,” Chris said.
They weren’t talking this morning about what was already known at school, all over their town, as The Kick. They were talking about The Test.
There wasn’t much more to say about The Kick. They’d gone on about it all week, the way everybody else in town had. They’d even gotten to watch it on SportsCenter, courtesy of Mr. Conlan.
Even in the rain, he’d decided to bring his video recorder with him to the game, hoping something might happen that would be worth keeping.
It wasn’t just people in their town who got to see The Kick. The whole country did, on YouTube before it even showed up on ESPN. Which was why on Wednesday of that week, Scott’s dad handed him the phone and said, “An old friend of mine wants to talk to you.”
Then Scott heard Doug Flutie introducing himself and saying, “Couldn’t have done better myself.”
So the whole week had been dominated by The Kick. And that was a good thing, because it was a way for Scott and Chris not to spend all their free time worrying about how Chris had done on The Test.
And now they knew.
He’d passed.
Now he and Scott were out on Parry Field with the dogs.
“I’m gonna say this for the last time, and then I promise I won’t say it again,” Chris said. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”
“Works for me,” Scott said. “Because I wouldn’t have even gotten a chance to kick without you.”
Chris smiled