down to the final
seconds, we all knew it was impossible. We would have to have a monumental
fourth quarter—we would have to at least tie the other team in order to get into
overtime, where we might be able to pull ahead. It would really be a miracle if
we were able to pull ahead before regulation time ended.
At the beginning of the fourth quarter, the first
play by the other team—one of their key defensive players went down and we made
it halfway into their end of the field before one of the other tackles brought
our player down. We still had possession of the ball. The defensive lineman was
obviously hurt; he didn’t get up for a long time and the refs came out to
assess the situation. There was no penalty—the tackle had been perfectly
legal—but as medics came out and helped the player limp off of the field, it
was clear that he wouldn’t be playing for the remainder of the game. It was his
bad luck, I thought with a bit of sympathy.
The loss of the other team’s key defensive lineman
seemed to galvanize our team— finally they were able to break through fast and
effectively. We scored a touchdown on our very next play; it didn’t even the
score, but at least we weren’t so far behind. My heart was pounding in my chest
and the people in the stands around me were losing their minds, screaming and
shouting, cheering and chanting. The other team managed to continue to hold us
off through a few more plays—they intercepted once and then lost possession of
the ball in the very next scrimmage—but it was clear that they were really
suffering from the loss of their best defensive player. I was worried about
their offense; it had always been strong, and with one of their other players down,
they’d be looking—at least subconsciously—to even things up and maybe take out
our quarterback.
They nearly achieved it. In one of the plays in the
middle of the fourth quarter, Zack went down under what was practically a
dogpile of players from the other team. He was down for a few minutes, but
before they could bring the medics out, he was on his feet again, shaking
himself off, hopping up and down in place before he resumed his normal
position. The next play after that we managed to finally even up the score—Zack
using a deceptive move to convince the other team he was going to try for a
pass instead of a throw, and then getting the ball as far downfield as he could
to the running back who caught up to it just in time. I nearly went deaf once
more with the shrieks that came up from our side of the stands, but I was
grinning as broadly as anyone .
So, with only a few minutes left in the game—and the
championship riding on it—the two teams were once more tied. My mouth was dry,
and my heart was racing. We could end up in overtime, which wouldn’t be a bad
outcome—as long as we won it. I noticed, almost absently, that I was becoming
more and more invested in the game, in spite of wanting to remain impartial, in
spite of convincing myself that I didn’t care who won. If we couldn’t score
something in the next play or two, we would go into overtime—provided we could
keep our defense up and keep the Wild Cats from scoring.
The other team started its play. Everyone in the
stands—on both sides—was standing up, chanting, screaming, clearly at their
wits’ end with excitement at the prospect of such a close game. I had my camera
ready. If the other team managed to somehow get a touchdown in their play, they
would have basically won—it would be nearly impossible for us to score
sufficient points before the time ran out. I was bouncing on the balls of my
feet at the snap, watching, watching. Waiting like everyone else in the crowd
was. For the moment, I wasn’t a reporter at all; I was just another spectator,
watching the fates of the two teams unfolding.
In a moment that made everyone go silent, our team
intercepted the ball in the midst of a pass. After a shocked moment, everyone
on our side cheered. We
seconds, we all knew it was impossible. We would have to have a monumental
fourth quarter—we would have to at least tie the other team in order to get into
overtime, where we might be able to pull ahead. It would really be a miracle if
we were able to pull ahead before regulation time ended.
At the beginning of the fourth quarter, the first
play by the other team—one of their key defensive players went down and we made
it halfway into their end of the field before one of the other tackles brought
our player down. We still had possession of the ball. The defensive lineman was
obviously hurt; he didn’t get up for a long time and the refs came out to
assess the situation. There was no penalty—the tackle had been perfectly
legal—but as medics came out and helped the player limp off of the field, it
was clear that he wouldn’t be playing for the remainder of the game. It was his
bad luck, I thought with a bit of sympathy.
The loss of the other team’s key defensive lineman
seemed to galvanize our team— finally they were able to break through fast and
effectively. We scored a touchdown on our very next play; it didn’t even the
score, but at least we weren’t so far behind. My heart was pounding in my chest
and the people in the stands around me were losing their minds, screaming and
shouting, cheering and chanting. The other team managed to continue to hold us
off through a few more plays—they intercepted once and then lost possession of
the ball in the very next scrimmage—but it was clear that they were really
suffering from the loss of their best defensive player. I was worried about
their offense; it had always been strong, and with one of their other players down,
they’d be looking—at least subconsciously—to even things up and maybe take out
our quarterback.
They nearly achieved it. In one of the plays in the
middle of the fourth quarter, Zack went down under what was practically a
dogpile of players from the other team. He was down for a few minutes, but
before they could bring the medics out, he was on his feet again, shaking
himself off, hopping up and down in place before he resumed his normal
position. The next play after that we managed to finally even up the score—Zack
using a deceptive move to convince the other team he was going to try for a
pass instead of a throw, and then getting the ball as far downfield as he could
to the running back who caught up to it just in time. I nearly went deaf once
more with the shrieks that came up from our side of the stands, but I was
grinning as broadly as anyone .
So, with only a few minutes left in the game—and the
championship riding on it—the two teams were once more tied. My mouth was dry,
and my heart was racing. We could end up in overtime, which wouldn’t be a bad
outcome—as long as we won it. I noticed, almost absently, that I was becoming
more and more invested in the game, in spite of wanting to remain impartial, in
spite of convincing myself that I didn’t care who won. If we couldn’t score
something in the next play or two, we would go into overtime—provided we could
keep our defense up and keep the Wild Cats from scoring.
The other team started its play. Everyone in the
stands—on both sides—was standing up, chanting, screaming, clearly at their
wits’ end with excitement at the prospect of such a close game. I had my camera
ready. If the other team managed to somehow get a touchdown in their play, they
would have basically won—it would be nearly impossible for us to score
sufficient points before the time ran out. I was bouncing on the balls of my
feet at the snap, watching, watching. Waiting like everyone else in the crowd
was. For the moment, I wasn’t a reporter at all; I was just another spectator,
watching the fates of the two teams unfolding.
In a moment that made everyone go silent, our team
intercepted the ball in the midst of a pass. After a shocked moment, everyone
on our side cheered. We
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