The Hard Count(54)

I read her words a few times, sighing heavily each time I finish. Nico is better than all of them, but believing in him is going to ruin my dad.

When the quarter starts, I climb back to the top of the press box, and I don’t allow myself to look at Coach O’Donahue, even though I feel him staring at me.

Nico’s face is the same hardened one that marched to the locker room. It matches the expression on everyone’s face. The only person who seems to be fired up is Sasha. He’s moving from player to player, patting their backs and helmets, trying to rile them up, to get them to come alive. He’s getting absolutely no response, though, and the more I watch, the more worried I become.

We start with the ball, and just like the last half, our side goes three and out. Nico doesn’t get sacked, but despite how hard he scrambles, he just isn’t able to make that ball move ten yards. Our kicker moves the ball far, so I hold onto hope that our defense will be able to hold the other team, to give us a fighting chance.

“It’s time, Chad,” I hear Coach O’Donahue say. I don’t look at him. I don’t want him to know I’m really listening. There are four or five of us up here now, but his voice still carries. “The kid isn’t getting it done. Let’s let Brandon take a shot, maybe a different approach will work.”

I watch the field as our defense slips, letting the Metahill team move to midfield. They’re almost in field goal range at the very least.

“Chad, you need to let this go! Get over your goddamned failed experiment, would you?”

Coach O’Donahue is turning to face the parking lot behind us, trying to be more discreet, whispering through clenched teeth into his headpiece. “Come on, Chad. If you can’t make this call, people are going to want more things to change…not just what’s on the field.”

My jaw grows rigid, and I grind my back teeth together hard while my hands clutch the metal of my tripod.

“Shit!”

I glance to the side enough to see Coach O’Donahue pull his headset from his ears. He’s running his hand over his face, fuming. I turn my attention back to the field before he catches me watching.

Another play by the other team gains six or seven yards, and my father holds up his clipboard, smacking it with his hand over his head repeatedly, trying to get someone’s attention. I watch the disarray, his players not really knowing where to go or what to do, and my dad finally calls a time out.

The defense comes to the side slowly, but my dad meets them several yards onto the field. He urges the players on the sideline to come out with him, and he pulls everyone in close. I zoom in to see his hands moving wildly, more smacking of the clipboard until eventually it cracks in half. My father drops the pieces to the ground and holds his hands out, his eyebrows lifted high.

He breaks the team and sends the defense back out, only this time, I notice that Nico and Sasha are both out there. Nico…his quarterback.

I lean forward to look at the crowd, seeing the whispers I expected to see. My mother gets to her feet, her hands clutched in front of her. I don’t need to see her face to know what expression she’s making.

The play goes off, and our defense battles, Nico breaking through on the right, Sasha on the left. Their quarterback stumbles, and Sasha capitalizes, gripping the guy’s arm, dragging him to the ground, the ball popping loose into Nico’s hands.

It’s sixty yards, and the people in his way seem too numerous, but he takes them one at a time, sprinting to the middle, spinning loose, twisting. The only person trailing Nico down the field is Sasha, running just as fast, diving, and tripping up the only other player on the Metahill team that possibly had a shot at catching them. The crowd in the stands starts to hum, the sound of anticipation growing to screams and chants of “go” the closer Nico gets to the end zone, until his feet are finally inside.

He takes a few more long strides through the middle, holding the ball in one hand and jogging through the end zone to the referee, handing him the ball, then running to the sidelines where my father waits to smack his helmet and shout “good job!”

Nico heads to the water, guzzling while our kicking team takes the field. My father comes over again and stares at him, talking to him, encouraging him to breathe—to rest.

“That was amazing,” I say, turning to Coach O’Donahue. His headpiece is still off, and his fingers are pinching the bridge of his nose. He pauses to look at me, his eyes barely open, just enough to show his disgust.

“That was a goddamned circus trick; that’s what that was,” he says, slipping his gear back in place and adjusting his posture, as if he just hit some reset button and is ready to go again.

“Well, it beats quitting,” I say, meaning that in every single way a person could take it.

He doesn’t look at me again.



The Tradition wins twenty-eight to twenty-one, and Nico ends up playing both ways for several plays. Another interception from Sasha helps tie the game, then Nico runs in the final play with a few minutes left on the clock. Our defense holds them to win.

The walk to the bus is quiet. I film it, but stop, because it makes me sad. We just won a tough game, and nobody is celebrating. They aren’t celebrating because their egos are mad about petty shit that doesn’t matter. I don’t even know why half of them have decided to work against Nico, but I know the reason can’t possibly be rational. It’s spiteful, and it’s built up on rumors and lies, I’m sure.