QB Sneak

Chapter 3: The First Half

Our kickoff unit set up as Miles made his final preparations. He looked microscopic compared to the rest of the team. Next to me, Quentin Farmer, a backup running back stood and sulked. 1 was his jersey number all throughout middle school and up until our sophomore season last year until Miles came along. Miles was so tiny that all of our jerseys were too big for him and his tiny kicker pads, so we had to make him a custom 1 jersey, booting (ha!) poor Quentin out to 31.

"Miles Horford, number 1 set to kick for the Ravens, Desmond Olivette, number 7 back to return for West Bridge." Miles set his hand up in the air, locking in on the ball. As the referee blew his whistle to clear Miles to kick this thing off, the crowd raved as he pranced up and booted the ball high.

"WEST BRIDGE SUCKS!" They cheered after the returner, number 7 caught the ball. He darted around the field, before running straight into PJ Shoop, or as we call him, Pajama Shoes, who shoved him to the sideline.

"Number 28, PJ Shoop on the tackle! Olivette running for 25 yards on the return, starting up the drive on a Redhawk first down." Our defense set up. Darius, our number 1 defensive back, lined up on Carter Westbrook, the infamous zig-zagging wide receiver known for hauling in countless West Bridge TDs. 

The first quarter was scoreless, thanks to a shutdown defense and grand rushing. In the second quarter, DeeDee hauled in a huge gain, but the tough Hawks defense shut Knox and Blake down on the next 3 attempts to punch it in up the middle.

"Field goal! Field goal team, head out!" Coach yelled, which sent me scrambling for my helmet.

"Sure thing, Coach." Miles confidently proclaimed his trademark phrase as he trotted out with his favorite kicking ball.

"Miles Horford, number 1 out to kick a 33 yard Ravens field goal. Winston Paddock holding, Clinton Gant snapping." The speakers blasted as the Redhawks got into block formation. Miles and I exchanged high fives before he stepped back three steps and got into position. I knelt down, making sure everything was in order. I glanced at CJ Gant, our long-snapper. He nodded. I glanced back at Miles, who nodded as well. 

"Down!" I yelled. The blockers got set. CJ propped up the ball.

"Go!" I raised my hand quickly, and CJ launched the ball through his legs. I caught it as Miles lurched forward with milliseconds to place the ball upright. I quickly placed it on its end and spun the laces out, holding the top end and getting my other hand out of the way in the nick of time. Miles' foot came down and banged the ball out of my hand at lightning speed. The ball soared past the blockers, through the uprights, and into the marching band, who began playing the fight song. The crowd roared. 3-0 Meadow Ridge. It wasn't much, but we drew first blood, and now we could go into the next quarter with a lead. I slapped Miles' helmet and he whooped. There was a reason he was called Sure Thing.

On the Hawks drive, they pounded it down the field and Channing found Westbrook in the end zone, before cashing in their extra point to make it 7-3. The Hawks kicker banged a touchback in the end zone before Alex came out with time for just one play.

Alex and co. huddled up. I shouted to Alex. "18. 18." Alex nodded and told the huddle his play. 18 was code for 4 Verts, a very simple play where all 3 wideouts and Knox just sprint forward. Alex called the signals. "Check, check! Bluuue, 18! Bluuue, 18! Seeeet! Lesgo!" The center snapped the ball back. DeeDee, Darius, and Nate Catanzaro all lurched forward, burning the defenders. "Do I smell burnt toast?" The DB coach laughed from my headset. Then, DeeDee came open, and Alex launched a rocket of a ball downfield. 

DeeDee's gloves made a smack the ball landed straight in his bread basket. We all cheered as DeeDee highstepped it into the end zone. 

Then, we caught the bright yellow flag going up in the air, and it was all over. The signals went up to the announcer booth. "Facemasking call on Meadow Ridge, number 65. 15 yard penalty, second down." Jack Harter, the guilty offensive lineman, hung his head in shame. The clock ran out, signaling the end of the first half. I stumbled towards the locker room, not even focused on the game. All I needed was to rest my legs. I had been standing all game. Maybe I could convince Kaden Brewer, a backup offensive lineman, to give me his bench seat. After all, he had a better shot at playing than I did. 

I was just the backup.