Page 143 of Hell Bent
“How do you know?” I asked, distracted.
“Because of who they’ve got out there,” he said. “The QB will probably try to fake it with play action, but he’ll be throwing to the end zone. That’s their best bet to score here, and they still have a down for the field goal.” He didn’t add, “They’re not worried about the score anyway,” but he didn’t have to.
The center snapped the ball, the quarterback, yes, pretended to hand the ball off to the stumpy running guy, then started dancing in the way he did, and I tried to resign myself and couldn’t. Somehow, my hands were gripping the edge of the plastic seat hard, and I was muttering, “Come on. Comeon.”
The quarterback threw the ball. A gloved hand went up for it and maybe caught the edge of it, because the ball sort of tipped sideways. And somebody was running. Somebody about the size of a truck.
Somebody in a white jersey.
A Devil. And he had the ball.
Nobody in the world would have picked this guy as their runner, because I was pretty sure I was faster. The problem for the Niners, though, was that truck thing. A player reached for him around waist level, caught him, and held on, but the guy just kept going, and the Niners player face-planted. Two other guys were running at him, but we had the ball! We had the ball, and we had a chance. A slim chance, but achance.
That was when the crazy thing happened. The big guy looked around, saw a Devils player off his left shoulder—I didn’t know what position the guy was, because I never knew, but he was a skinny guy, not a big one—and sort of flung the ball backward at him.
Another Niners player was right there, though, closing in on the man who’d just caught the ball, and I thought,But we still have it.Then the big Devil turned, faster than you could have imagined, and threw himself through the air at the Niners guy like he was trying to fly.
It must have been like being hit by a train. The Niners player went sideways and crashed to the ground, and the truck-guy fell down more or less on top of him. And the guy with the ball was still running. He covered eighty yards in about five seconds, or that was how it seemed. Three different Niners players tried to catch him, but when he crossed the goal line, they weren’t even close.
He did a flip in the air after he crossed, too.
We were definitely all on our feet now. We were shouting. We were jumping. Ben actually hugged me.
Just over four minutes to play, but you know what the score was? 12 to 14, that was what. Sebastian ran on, kicked his first extra point of the day, and ran off again, and every bit of his body language said,Walk in the park, guys. We’ve got this.
13 to 14.
The last four minutes of a football game can last a long, long time.
Sebastian
You know the hardest thing for an NFL kicker?
Waiting.
My kickoff after that field goal was good, and so was ourdefense, who’d woken up just fine after those first twenty minutes, when they’d looked like somebody had run down their batteries. On third and six, Robertson’s dancing feet and the offensive line let him down the way I’d always thought they would, and we actually got a sack. A long punt, a decent return by Simmons, and it was first and ten from our own 27.
With two minutes and twenty-three seconds left in the game.
Games go by in a heartbeat when you’re playing. When you’re waiting for your chance, they move like molasses in January. Or, since I was Canadian, like maple syrup in January. Briscoe was going too slowly for my comfort, trying to use up the clock and not allow the Niners’ offense back on the field. Then there was the two-minute warning, which was just more time to wait. Or to kick into the net and focus on my heartbeat, which I did.
In this moment,I told myself.You can’t be anywhere but here, and this moment is the only moment.And breathed.
I could also see, though, how frustrated the 49ers’ defense was. After flailing for most of the game, the Devils’ offense was in sync again. Pass, catch, and out of bounds. Handoff, run, and out of bounds. Blown coverage on a passing play, Harlan running for eight yards after the catch, and that was first and 10 from our 45. Six more yards, and we were over the 50. An encroachment penalty when a Niners player jumped during that long snap count, because they were losing their composure over there, and a third and four turned into a first down at the Niners’ 41. The offensive line blocking like they couldn’t be moved, Briscoe playing it conservative, but we were nearly in field-goal range with forty-five seconds left in the game.
Another slant pass. Not to Harlan. To Matt Sawyer, the tight end. A player converging on the ball, reaching for it, stretching.
And Harlan smashing into him like a linebacker. Onehellof a block. We were at the 38, and that field goal was looking better and better.
Oh. Keep kicking.I did, because nobody ever got loose by standing on the sidelines with their heart pounding. I didn’t think about the Super Bowl. I didn’t think about a trophy, about winning or losing. I breathed in, breathed out, felt my heart beat, and kicked the ball into the net. And then I kicked it again.
That was why I wasn’t watching when we ran into trouble.
Alix
Nobody was sitting down. Twenty-nine seconds left in the game, and it was third and four on the Niners’ 35. A long clutch kick for Sebastian under any circumstances, and boy, did I hope that he didn’t have to kick for 52 in the last seconds of the Super Bowl. He was cool, but was hethatcool?
On the other hand, it wasn’t snowing, right?
