Page 111 of Necessary Roughness
But once we were losing 7 - 0, the pressure got to me. I tried to force a pass to Logan, leading to another interception and touchdown. That put us in a 14 - 0 hole.
It all unraveled after that. Rather than relaxing and taking it one play at a time, I tried more deep passes, this time overthrowing my receivers. My timing was off. I was sacked four times without ever sensing that the tackle was coming. I knew my parents were at the game, watching from the suite with Sloane. In retrospect, wondering how their meeting had gone definitely distracted me.
And on the other end, our defense played poorly, largely due to Roman’s ineffectiveness on the outside, which allowed them to run the ball down our throats.
Going into the game, the gambling sites said we were 30-point favorites. Instead, we lost by 24.
The game didn’treallymatter. There was no special trophy for having a perfect season. But it was an achievement never accomplished by any Westview College football team, a feat that would have put an exclamation point on my draft sheet.
That was the heartbreaking thing about football: anyone could beat anyone else. If the stars aligned just right, a one-win team could defeat the best team in the conference.
But as the quarterback, as the captain of the team, I couldn’t help but feel responsible. The mood in the locker room was funereal.
“I guess I should be relieved,” our coach said, all the anger now gone from his voice, replaced by something closer to disappointment. Or disgust. “Maybe this loss will help you all focus on the conference championship next week. Because you sure as shit weren’t focused today. Tomorrow’s rest day is canceled. Practice is at five in the morning, starting with game review. We have a lot of tape to go over, and alotof mistakes to correct.”
He looked around the room, then turned his glare on the bench where Logan, Roman, and I were sitting. “That means no partying tonight. If anyone so much assmellshungover tomorrow morning, you’re off the team.”
I winced, but only nodded.
“I only drink Diet Sprite, Coach,” Logan said. “But if you want me to cut back for the good of the team, I’ll do it.”
That only drew a few laughs. Nobody was in the mood.
The mood was the same as we walked home. The campus that had been alive with excitement for the final game of the season this morning now held little to no life, like a fresh corpse thathad not yet begun to decompose. Those students we did pass only glanced at us with disappointment.
“Can we stop by the cafeteria?” Logan asked. “I want a Chick-Fil-A sandwich.”
“I don’t know how you can think about food right now,” Roman said.
“I eat my feelings!” he argued weakly. “Come with me. It’ll be real quick.”
TVs were mounted on the wall inside the campus cafeteria, all of which were showing the post-game coverage. There was no sound, but the subtitles told me what they were discussing.
“You have to assume this is going to affect his draft prospects. Maddox was predicted to be selected in the first round, maybe even in the first ten picks, but analysts are now estimating he’s dropped down to thesecondround.”
“That’s the thing about these quarterbacks at small schools,” another analyst said. “They can put up big numbers against bad teams, but they don’t have what it takes to win the big games underneath the spotlight.”
“But Maddox has had a great season up to this point. Thirty-four touchdowns and just five interceptions. Does one bad game erase all of that?”
“All I’m saying is that if I’m a team like the Chargers or Patriots, I wouldn’t pick Knox Maddox to be my franchise quarterback.”
Roman put a hand on my shoulder and forcefully twisted me around. “Stop it.”
“I was just—”
“Don’t,” he said, eyes drilling into me. “Nothing they say can help you right now.”
“I got you some fries,” Logan said, handing each of us a little paper container. “You can pay me back when you’re cashing that fat signing bonus check.”
“I’m not hungry,” I said as he sat down to eat. “I’ll see you guys at home.”
Roman gave me a sympathetic nod, then let me go.
On the way home, a few students we passed shouted words of encouragement. But most said nothing, and their silence was deafening.
Now that the football game was over, all my real-world problems rose back to the surface. I had hours of classwork to complete, and final exams to prepare for. I’d been slacking in one of my classes, and needed a B on the final exam in order to pass the class. I was being sued by Troy. I would eventually need to tell my parents about that, but was hoping to wait until later.
I pulled my phone out and turned off Do Not Disturb. I had 97 text messages and four voicemails. I also had over a thousand Twitter notifications. Feeling masochistic, I opened that first and scrolled through a few. Some were from Westview College students who were angry I had ruined the perfect season. Others were from people who had no association with the school, but had placed wagers on the game and were furious I had caused them to lose money.
