Going Long (Waiting on the Sidelines #2)(78)

I jumped up and down with nervous energy in the tunnel next to Trig. He lived for this kind of stage. And normally, so did I. But I couldn’t seem to shake the cloud over my head. I was worried…and that worried me. “Yo, Johnson. You ready to show these Buckeyes how it’s done?” Trig shouted, bumping fists with me before putting his helmet on his head and kicking off into a sprint to race out onto the field.

My mouth yelled with him, but my head was calculating every aspect of the game. I was thinking about the people in the stands, the people on phones calling stats back to main offices, the lawyers sitting on offers and contracts. My stomach was so sick, I actually ran straight over to the giant trash can behind our bench and hurled everything I had inside me into it.

“What the f*ck was that? I’d never lost my head. Not out here?” I thought.

“You alright, Johnson?” I heard one of the coaches shout over my shoulder. I just held my hand up and wiped my mouth with my other arm.

“I’m good. Too much Gatorade. All good, all good,” I said, pushing my helmet to my head and begging myself to get a grip on things.

We ended up losing the coin toss, which meant I had to head out onto the field first. I liked having a minute or two to pump myself up, but I wouldn’t get that luxury today. I thrust my chest into Trig’s and a few of the other guys’ as we headed out to the field for the huddle, the special team only getting us to the 23-yard line.

I took my calls, and we ran a few running plays first, gaining only six yards by third down. “Okay, it’s game change time, boys. Going audible. Listen up, and hold the pocket,” I shouted through my helmet, the roar of the crowd almost deafening.

We got to the line and I shouted, turning side to side for the hard count. “Six-eight-six, green 80, green 80, hut!” I was actually screaming my words as the ball suddenly thrust into my hands. It felt so foreign, like I’d never handled one in my life. Within nano-seconds I was flat on the ground, the turf digging into my teeth while a 300-pound linebacker sat on me, pushing me deeper into the earth, yelling into my ear to “remember what that feels like, motherf*cker, cuz you’re tasting that shit again!”

My body hurt instantly. I’d been sacked. I’d been sacked plenty of times, but for some reason everything seemed heavier today. Trig reached down and pulled me to my feet, slapping my back as we ran off the field, going three and out.

“Shit. Not a good start,” I thought.

I pulled the grass from my mouth and spit out water a few times, spraying some on my face before propping my helmet halfway on my head.

“Come on. Get it together!” I coached myself. I was off my game. Something was wrong. I looked around the stadium, taking in the crowd. I’d played here before. I’d won here before. What the hell was my problem?

The next two outings were pretty much the same, each drive getting a little deeper. But I couldn’t seem to settle into a groove. And I’d eaten turf enough for the day. Finally, in the middle of the second quarter, I got pissed. Sick of it, I started pacing, turning every now and then to look up at the stands. I needed to see Pops. When I finally found him, he was standing with Nolan holding onto one arm, on her tiptoes. Rose was leaning on the other. They both hated to see me take a beating; it always scared them. But my dad’s face was different. He was…calm. He noticed me looking and gave me a nod. Just enough. He wasn’t worried. Not in the least. Just like I usually was. There was always time, and I always had control.

I channeled his confidence as I ran out to the field, a little renewed energy in my steps. “Okay, how about we don’t let those f*ckers in this time, huh?” I yelled, pushing at my line’s chests. They barked, getting pumped up, everyone ready to get into the game. And I think finally, I was, too.

We broke and got to the line, trying the same audible I had before, only this time I stepped out quicker, my feet knowing right where they needed to be, where I needed to go. Trig was crossing about 15 yards out, and I hit him right on the line as he ran out of bounds. And suddenly there was a shift. We all felt it.

They call it momentum.

We ran the same play four more times, the Buckeyes unable to stop it, and the frustration we were just suffering from finally piled onto their side. Our running backs cut through them as we charged down the field five and 10 yards at a time—finally scoring in a two-minute drive. We were on the board, down by a touchdown, going into the second half, and I was finally ready to get off my ass and fight for this thing that I really wanted.

The second half was a complete 180 from our first half. We dominated the ball, and I even got to air it out a few times, hitting Trig with 30-yard passes for touchdowns. I was feeling it, everything suddenly effortless. I could close my eyes and still see the Harland Motors scoreboard from Coolidge, smell the same grass from home, shut out the crowd—pretend this wasn’t the big time. That’s how I always did it. I could block it from my mind, but for some reason today I let it in, let it attack me a little. I wouldn’t make that mistake again.

It wasn’t a blow out, but we won the Rose Bowl 48 to 38, clinching a no. 3 or 4 final for the season. My bones hurt, and I knew I’d be icing some serious bruises and swollen joints for most of the night. I had taken a beating. But I’d also gotten back up. And I hoped that’s what the important people watching tonight’s game focused on. I wanted to show my toughness, show that I could take anything thrown at me, no matter how hard I got hit.