Eleven Men

I need to get the edge. Juke my way past the man. Sprint down the field to score the touchdown that wins the game.

Glum faces had crowded the half time locker room, feet dragging on the floor, eyes avoiding eyes as though expecting another bruising tackle were gazes to collide. Winless all season, defeat had become a comfortable pair of slippers – going down a score meant we could kick back and relax, as though lounging at home. Defeat was warm and familiar. We embraced the comforting bitterness as a married couple embrace their fights - safety in ritual.

“We can beat these guys – it’s just eleven men against eleven men” whined our coach in his usual disinterested monotone. He didn’t believe in us because we didn’t believe in ourselves – didn’t want to believe in ourselves. We were losers – we’d accepted it and moved on. Hope was a heavy burden that we were unwilling to bear, a crushing expectation more violent than a blow from the blindside. His was voice ignored by glum ears.

“This is the last game of the season,” put in our new quarterback, rudely ruining the enjoyment of the halftime ritual for us all. Our usual quarterback now watched from the side-lines, the attrition of niggles and the nagging of age wearing his body down like the sea washing away the proud stacks of the seaside cliffs. His replacement wasn’t one of us yet – he didn’t understand how things worked, still chafing like a soft foot wearing in hard boots. He would soon learn, but he still suffered the naïve delusion of hope. “All we need is one mistake from them, one good play from us and we’re back in this game. Coach is right – its’ eleven men against eleven men. So what if they scored the first three touchdowns. We’ll score the next three, and see their shoulders slump and frowning brows wear down their hearts. We can win!”

His words reverberated in my ears as I jogged back on to the pitch. Laughable, foolish, but somehow hard to argue with. Our opponents were strolling casually, laughing and chattering, twittering to each other like chaffinches at the bird feeder. They felt safe and happy, no cat nearby to threaten them with claws and drag them into the jaws of defeat. They knew our reputation the same as we did; felt its’ warmly comforting familiarity.

Still strolling casually about the pitch with the slow, lazy flow of treacle, our foe lined up on offense. Three receivers and a man in the backfield – the formation that they credited with burning us for the entire first half. As if it was the formation that made a difference. Our safeties hunkered down behind me in their cover 2 zone positions, as I scanned my short zone, my private patch that I would guard from all comers like a fierce mother bear defending her cubs. “Set…hut!” called the rival quarterback, as players chugged and huffed along the lines of the play like steam trains. Our quarterback was playing defence at linebacker, and he cleaved through the clashing linemen like a thrown spear on a collision course with his opposite number. Fearing a sack, the ball wobbled out into the air. One of us caught it, open field ahead. Touchdown.

Something flickered within, a pinprick flame that I swiftly snuffed out. It was a fluke play, a moment of wild panic which we were fortunate to profit from. We still trailed by two scores - there was no need to worry about the anguish of a tight defeat. We went nowhere on offense, viciously spinning balls dropping from clumsy fragile fingers, but the unchanged score  felt somehow unfamiliar as we ground out the third quarter.

“We’ve got them right where we want them,” proclaimed the quarterback with hopelessly earnest optimism, justly earning a few cynical chuckles. “We just won the third quarter – let’s go win this game!” He was right, I realised with a sudden surge of…something. Some unfamiliar pleasure like a favourite flavour of ice cream that I hadn’t tasted since childhood. Slant left – completion, and we picked up a first down. Five yard in – another completion. Suddenly balls zipped to their targets like patriot missiles as we picked up 20 on a post, then another 10 on an outside route. Gone was our opponents’ casual chaffering, replaced with shell-shocked eyes and clumsy, dragging limbs. We saw their weakness, scenting it like a hungry cat. I watched breathless as a ball took flight like a hawk released from the hand - an end zone fade. Two men leapt high, but our man soared higher.

Seven points in it, and suddenly a ball game had broken out, destroying our comfortable Sunday run-about. We had feared the burden of hope, but suddenly we felt weightless - exhilarated by the score. My gaze locked onto the frightened eyes of their quarterback, reading the look, batting down a pass. Third down and we had pushed them right back. A linebacker slammed into their quarterback, driving him into the endzone turf for a safety.

No pep talk this time – we all knew, and read the headline of it in each other’s eyes. No-one was taking this victory away without leaving us all as bleeding corpses on the field. I stood behind the quarterback, ready for the hand off. “Set…hut!” The ball nestled snugly in my hands, hungry feet sinking deep fangs into the loam; ripping, tearing, driving me forward, an unstoppable tsunami, eyes spotting defenders right where I wanted.

I raced left to the edge. Beat a man with a juke. Sprinted eighty yards, elation surging deep within as I scored. Touchdown. Victory.