Page 6 of Red Zone
Now almost the same color as the muck in the center of the field, the ball had a life of its own. In the mad scramble that followed, every player on both teams tried to capture it. Worse than a greased pig, it was dropped, kicked, slid, and Lord knew what else.
The refs couldn’t stop the play because the loose ball remained live until someone had definitive possession. If the defense got it, they could run with it. If anyone accept the tight-end picked it up, the play ended.
The remaining fans in the crowd were shouting one part encouragement and two parts confusion to the on-field mess. The clock continued ticking down, and the bench and the medics followed the scrum down the sideline.
Somehow, near the defense’s thirty-yard line, the tight end got his hands on the ball, limping hard on his right leg. Two of the other Seahawks’ offensive lineman took up flanking positions as blockers. The usual safeties tasked with guarding downfield from the pass found themselves vastly outweighed by the huge, slower offensive linemen. Their lack of speed was less of a disadvantage because the safeties bounced off the blockers, unable to slow the hobbled tight end—now with a clear path to the end-zone.
A blur emerged from the darkness, barreling toward the tight end. It was Bowen, his jersey so dirty he was only recognizable by his arm tattoos. Faster and only slightly smaller than the lineman, he used his momentum to shrug off their block and tackle the tight end at the five yard line.
The Seahawks coach immediately called a timeout. The tight end stood up unsteadily, and to her great concern, Bowen was slow to rise. She desperately wanted to check him over, but was more than aware nothing short of an amputation would keep Bowen out of the game. The two teams both met for their huddle as the play clock ticked down. With the game clock reading three seconds, the Seahawks had enough time for a single play. They were inside the red zone and had to score a touchdown. A field goal, now more practical this close, wouldn’t win.
One play. One chance.
Bowen and the defense would have to force a stop here and now with a goal-line stand.
The two teams lined up, and she wiped off her face, trying to understand what she saw on the field.
This wasn’t right. The Browns played 4-3 defense, with Bowen usually on the end on the quarterback’s left. Instead, they were lined up in a 5-2 Blitz pattern with Bowen in the middle of the line.
The Blitz made sense. A pass would be foolhardy in this weather when the Seahawks had a short five yards to reach the end-zone.
It didn’t explain why Bowen was in the position of the nose tackle.
She didn’t have time to ask anyone because the center snapped the ball to the quarterback. Ball in hand, the quarterback dropped back into the pocket.
Except Bowen was a foot away. Unbelievably, he’d leapt over the offensive line.
It shouldn’t have been possible. That type of trick play was rarer than a kicker recovering his own kick. Technically, it was possible to jump over the offensive line—except you had to start one full yard away, clear the line without touching them. On a good day, it required perfect timing, unnatural reflexes, and a standing vertical-horizontal jump that would have made an Olympian jealous.
No way in hell should anyone be trying it in the pouring rain.
And the quarterback was facing away from Bowen. . .
She realized Bowen had hurdled the gap between the center and the left guard, trusting the mud to slow them down from standing up. He was on the BLIND left side of the quarterback.
He couldn’t see the Bowen-train coming, as he was mid handoff to the tight end.
Bowen launched his body toward them, a streak of orangish grime in the rain. Air born, he crashed into both the tight end and the quarterback. The three went down in a heap, Bowen’s angle carrying him past them to land almost in a handstand to a roll that landed him on his back.
The whistle blew, the refs signaling the end of the game and the Browns’ victory.
She barely noticed because the quarterback didn’t get up. The tight end didn’t get up.
Bowen didn’t get up.
CHAPTER4
“Now. Now,” Glazier shouted, and she didn’t need to be told to grab the medical tackle box. “Roy, take d-end, Sullivan. Navarro, you’ve got the tight end, Krinsmith. I’ve got the quarterback, Winslow.”
Like a well-oiled machine, they sprinted across the field to their respective players. Everyone on the Cleveland medic team knew the routine—Glazier had drilled them enough on it.
Always establish airway, breathing, and circulation first before moving to the secondary survey. They’d go head to toe with pupillary and neuromuscular exams.
The first three were easily covered since, as she snapped off the visor from his helmet, Bowen’s lips were pink from unlabored breathing. She shone a penlight in his eyes, visible despite the turf sprinkled on his face. “Pupil equal and reactive.”
The whites of his eyes darted around. “Roy. Arm. Neck.”
His right arm was raised over his head, most of it hidden under his shoulder pad. The replay above her head didn’t show a landing on his neck either. Still, hits like that could result in neck fractures and spinal cord injuries, which could become permanent.
