Page 38 of Silent Count
“Stallions on three. One, two, three, STALLIONS!”
We break up and grab our helmets from our stalls, and run out to the tunnel leading to the field. Game day at Walker is unlike anything else I’ve ever seen on any other campus. Our stadium sells out for every game. The noise of our eighty-plus thousand fans, the band, the announcers over the loudspeakers—it’s enough to get your blood pumping.
I make my way through my teammates until I reach the front, standing behind Coach. Casey comes to stand next to me, and then Silas stands on my other side.
“Let’s go, QB1!” Silas hits my helmet.
I rock back and forth on my feet and roll my neck, ready to get out there. The horses that run out onto the field at the beginning of every game are in position. The banners on either side of us are flying. The smoke machines are already smoking. As soon as the band starts playing our fight song, we get the signal and run onto the field behind Coach. I put my helmet on as I run to the sideline.
“Testing,” I say into the microphone inside my helmet.
“All clear, six,” my offensive coordinator says in my ear.
The plays are called to me into my helmet from the coaches and offensive coordinators in the booth.
“Stay light on your feet today, Bo. They’re gonna try to blitz every chance they get. Watch, look, and listen,” one of them says.
“Got it.” I take a ball from one of the trainers and start tossing it to one of the coaches to stay loose.
After throwing a few back and forth, I look up at the clock and see we only have a few minutes left until the game starts. I toss the ball one more time to the coach and jog down to the end zone. A few guys—including Casey, Silas, and the Griffith twins—join me. I take a knee and remove my helmet and set it next to me. I drop my head, close my eyes, and do what I need to do to get my mind right. Then I tap my chest with two fingers, kiss the tips, and raise them toward the sky, looking up.
Now … I’m ready to win.
The first half of the game went by fast, with us scoring three easy touchdowns. One was a pass to Casey for a forty-five-yard touchdown. The next one was with one of our running backs who took over for Beck, Jake DiAngelo. The third one was toAce Griffith, who is a tight end. He’s got the size of his brother Archie, but Ace is faster on his feet.
It’s the fourth quarter now. The Kansas Jayhawks came back from the half at full force, and they’re hungry for a comeback. Their defense has been all over me, and we can’t make any progress. We’re at third down on their twenty-five.
“Okay, boys. Let’s make something happen.” I hear the call in my ear and repeat it to my team. “O Near Sixty-Two F Angle Ohio.”
We all clap and line up on the line of scrimmage.
When I get into position behind our center, I scan the defense to look for any break or change in their formation. I glance over at Casey briefly to let him know he’s getting the pass.
I call out my all-go call-sign signal. “Red thirty-two, red thirty-two, set, hut.”
I catch the ball, and I have seconds to throw before a lineman tackles me. I see Casey juke and run his route, looking over his shoulder for the ball I send spiraling toward him. He catches it over his shoulder and brings it to his chest just as I get tackled, so I don’t see where he landed.
The whistle blows, and a flag is thrown because of the late hit I took, which gives us an automatic first down, even though we got it with Casey’s catch. We move to the two-yard line.
“We’re going Mario on this one. Break.” I clap, and we break.
Mario is our call sign for a tush push, which places my linemen behind me once the ball is snapped and they shove me through the Hawks’ defense and into the end zone.
“Red thirty-two, red thirty-two, set, hut!”
When the ball snaps, I grab it easily from my center, and my teammates shove me through their line for the touchdown. I hear the whistle blow, and the crowd erupts.
Once my teammates pull me out of the pile, we run over to the cheering sideline.
Coach Pettys grabs my helmet as I come to stand next to him. “Helluva game, kid!” He smacks my helmet and laughs.
Our kicker and special teams go out to the field, and we secure our win.
I run out onto the field as the clock winds down and shake their quarterback’s hand, along with a few other guys I’ve gotten to know over the years.
Then our media manager comes over to me and takes my elbow. “Bo, we need you over here.” She leads me over toward the camera crew near the tunnel.
“Congratulations on your win, Bo. You had an amazing fourteen out of seventeen passes completed in the fourth. What was clicking for you that late in the game?” the reporter, Holly, asks me, microphone in hand.
