Friday, October 31, 2010
6:55 p.m.
POV Brad Callahan
God, it's me again.
Five minutes left before we step onto that field, and this is, without a doubt, the game that's made me the most anxious in my entire life.
I'm sitting in the locker room, eyes closed, my hand gripping the small cross my grandmother gave me.
We're up against Mater Dei. That colossus. The school everyone talks about like it's a disguised college team. The one that plays in the toughest league in the country and collects sectional titles like trading cards.
Why us?
If we'd scored just three more points in our last league game, we'd have finished second and avoided facing this giant in the first round. I wouldn't be here praying just to survive four quarters.
Sorry, Lord, for sounding so pessimistic.
But everyone already counts us out, online, in forums, in newspapers. Nobody's asking if we can hold our own; they're only wondering by how much we'll lose, and how many touchdowns he will throw.
Even at our school, the atmosphere turned bleak. Support that used to be strong because of our tradition felt lukewarm this week.
Even our coaches, who tried to stay professional, had that look in their eyes, like they'd already accepted defeat.
How am I supposed to have hope if no one else does?
And yet, I trained harder than ever.
My teammates did too, though not all of them. Many had already given up, and I can't blame them. I almost did too.
But in those days, I found refuge in training: in the pain, in every sprint, every weight lifted. When you run until your legs go numb, the anxiety fades, even if just for a moment.
Now, sitting here, that anxiety has returned tenfold.
I'm a cornerback. My job is to face the opposing receivers one-on-one.
And in this case, that means going up, directly or indirectly, against him.
The quarterback everyone in the country's talking about.
The one breaking records every week.
The one who seems to play on another level: Andrew Pritchett-Tucker.
I saw him warming up a few minutes ago, and I could feel it in the air, same as my teammates, a bad omen.
Mater Dei practiced lightly, laughing, as if the game were just a formality. They're undefeated, they just destroyed the defending champion by nearly twenty points, and over a million and a half people watched them do it.
How can they not feel relaxed when everyone says they've already won before even playing?
But Andrew wasn't laughing.
He was focused, like none of that mattered. He walked onto the field, and the crowd chanted his name.
He didn't smile.
He didn't show arrogance or swagger, just pure focus and that scared me more than any laugh from the rest of his team.
God, I'm not asking for a miracle.
I just don't want regrets.
I want to leave that field knowing I gave everything, that I didn't quit, even if the scoreboard says otherwise.
Give me strength to last all four quarters, to keep my head up even if I get beaten, give me strength to keep fighting every snap.
If we lose, let it not be because I gave up.
If I fall, let it be giving everything, with my hands still reaching for the ball.
Amen.
I opened my eyes and saw the Santa Ana Stadium locker room again.
Many of my teammates were still praying, like me. That wasn't unusual, our school, Crespi, carries a Carmelite tradition where prayer and reflection are part of daily life.
Others tried to escape the tension by talking, laughing nervously, anything to keep from feeling the weight of the moment.
A minute before game time, our two captains gave one last speech. We shouted, but our voices came out weak, without the fire you'd expect before running onto the field.
Then came the moment: the tunnel, the lights, the announcer calling our names, and the sprint onto the turf. At most away games, you get booed, yelled at, whistled, anything to shake your nerves.
But here?
Nothing. We came out and were barely noticed. No boos, no noise. We were invisible. Like the result was already written. Maybe it was pity. They didn't want to make us more nervous.
Still, I couldn't help feeling a little angry about it. The stadium was packed, every seat taken. I'd say 70% were Mater Dei fans, naturally, since it was their home game.
Our section barely filled a corner, maybe 1,500 people, if that. Not a bad turnout for almost an hour's drive from Encino, but it was nothing compared to the red sea filling the stands.
The rest, neutral zones: press, scouts, curious fans… Most hadn't come to watch us, but him. The phenomenon.
Andrew, whose YouTube channel is now the number one in the world.
And here's my sin, Lord:
I'm subscribed too.
In fact, one of the first.
I've been following him since his freshman year at Palisades, the same year he launched his channel. I found it a few months after he created it.
The first game I ever watched was the one he won 80–0, getting revenge on a rival team that had mocked his family: he threw ten touchdowns.
An absurd record, though since it was Division 5, no one took it too seriously.
"There are others who've done that too," people said.
Yeah, a few had, but only a few. What most didn't understand back then was that even there, it was incredibly hard. Now, in the elite of the elite, Andrew does routinely what for others would be a once-in-a-lifetime performance.
Five touchdowns in a game are enough to have people talking about you for months, he does it every week. He threw seven against Bosco. No one had ever done that before.
When I first saw that video (the game 80-0), I was still in my last year of middle school.
That's when I decided I wanted to dedicate myself fully to football. Before that, I played everything: baseball, track, basketball… I never knew where to put all my energy.
But Andrew's videos hooked me. I started copying his routines: waking up early on Saturdays and Sundays, training harder, eating better.
Little by little, I ended up loving this sport like no other.
That's why, seeing him just minutes ago in person, warming up on the opposite side of the field, hit me harder than I expected.
I know he's not the kind of guy who gets carried away by ego or fame. He doesn't get complacent. He's focused.
And that focus, paradoxically, erased any illusion I might have had. My bad feeling only grew stronger.
Now, irony of ironies, here I am, facing him.
The guy who inspired me, now the rival who could humiliate me in front of thousands in the stadium, millions online, and hundreds of thousands watching on TV.
This game will be broadcast on Fox Sports West, not ESPN. A regional broadcast, only for California.
I don't know whether to feel grateful or angry. Grateful because at least the whole country won't see it if Andrew burns me with a perfect throw.
Or angry because ESPN decided this game isn't worth it. That Crespi isn't a worthy opponent. That there's no possible drama because everyone expects a blowout win for Mater Dei.
No potential storyline like there was with Bosco or Servite. I know that if I walk onto the field thinking like a fan, I'm done for.
Yes, I follow his channel. Yes, I admire him.
But when he lines up behind center and looks toward my side of the field, he won't be the YouTube idol. He'll just be the opposing quarterback and I'll be the cornerback trying to intercept his passes.
After the coin toss, we were set to kick off. Our kicker lined up at the 40-yard line, and when the referee gave the signal, the ball soared high and deep until one of Mater Dei's returners caught it cleanly.
The guy started sprinting full speed down the right sideline, and Mater Dei's blocking line gave him perfect coverage.
My heart skipped a beat, he was advancing way too easily. Our coverage was breaking apart. For a second, I feared it'd be a touchdown straight off the return.
But then, a miracle: one of my teammates, number 27, dove desperately and brought him down at our 48-yard line.
A very favorable return for them.
Normally, an average return leaves the offense starting around their 25- or 30-yard line, meaning 70 to 75 yards to go.
But now, they only needed 52 yards for a touchdown.
We were already off to a bad start. If Andrew can engineer quick drives from normal field position, now, with this kind of starting point, he could destroy us in just a couple of plays.
I saw Andrew jog onto the field, no theatrics, just adjusting his helmet and approaching the line calmly. The stadium roared, but he looked like he was somewhere else.
I started lining up according to my captain's calls and the coach's plan.
My chest tightened when I saw the guy I had to cover: Victor Blackwell.
Four-star recruit. Senior. Solid USC offer. The star receiver, the same one who'd shredded defenders far more experienced than me.
And now it was my turn, a sophomore, barely fifteen, two years behind in physical development, experience… everything.
Why'd they put me here?
The answer was obvious: because the coach believed in me. Maybe too much. Maybe more than I believed in myself.
I adjusted my gloves, lined up across from Blackwell.
He glanced at me with that mix of confidence and boredom that only someone who already knows he's going to win can have.
And me, swallowing hard, I did the only thing I could: lowered my stance and spread my arms. The whistle blew. The ball snapped.
Our defensive line tried to push through, but Andrew looked like he had all the time in the world.
I focused on Victor, tracking every twitch of his feet, then suddenly, I saw the ball flying, not toward my side, but to number 87, their tight end.
Perfect pass. Caught cleanly in the middle. One of our guys tackled him right away, but it was already a twelve-yard gain.
Twelve yards in seconds. What takes most teams three or four downs, they did in one.
Second play.
Once again, I lined up against Victor, eyes locked, not blinking, tight coverage.
This time the ball went to the opposite side, a perfect arc toward Sedric, their other wide receiver. He caught it gracefully and ran, brought down after gaining a couple more yards.
Twenty-two in total.
Now they were at our fourteen-yard line, already inside the red zone. This wasn't looking good.
Third play.
I knew it even before the snap: this one was coming to my side. Victor exploded off the line, his legs eating up the turf. I sprinted alongside him, arm extended, eyes fixed on the trajectory.
Then I saw it, the ball spiraling perfectly, dropping right into the one spot only Victor could reach. I jumped, tried to deflect it, but didn't even graze it.
Victor stretched out his hands, caught it effortlessly, and crossed the line.
Touchdown.
The scoreboard lit up: 6–0.
The stadium erupted. I glanced at the clock, barely 1 minute and 2 seconds into the first quarter. Three plays, three passes, more than forty yards.
"Damn it…" I muttered. Then, instantly, whispered an apology.
Not the time to curse, but I couldn't help the frustration. As usual for Mater Dei, they didn't send out the kicker. They went for the two-point conversion.
Andrew took the snap, looked to the middle, and with a quick throw found his tight end, Thomas.
Thomas bulldozed his way through and crossed the line.
Two more points.
8–0.
And not even two minutes had passed. I walked off the field with a heavy heart and my arms burning as our offense prepared to go in.
I sat on the bench, helmet resting on my knees, trying to steady my breathing. Mater Dei's kickoff gave us decent field position, and to everyone's surprise, our offense started strong.
We moved the ball bit by bit, mixing runs and short passes. The clock ran for three minutes. For a moment, it felt like we had rhythm.
But the illusion didn't last. On fourth down, their defense shut us down cold.
Turnover on downs.
Zero points.
And at that pace, we would've needed at least two more minutes just to dream of a touchdown, if we even made it that far.
I put my helmet back on and returned to the field. Once again, lining up across from Victor.
I told myself I couldn't fall apart now. The clock showed barely five minutes played, if I broke down this early, I'd never forgive myself.
The play started, and Andrew looked for Victor. I read it just in time and leapt, getting my arm in the way. The ball crashed against the turf.
Incomplete pass.
Not an interception, but still a small victory. They lost the down, now they had three more chances to gain ten yards, or they'd lose possession.
But that small win against Andrew didn't last long. Three minutes later, the drive was still alive. With precision and tempo, he kept moving the chains over and over.
And on third down from our twenty-five, he threw a deep pass that split us in half.
Touchdown. Again.
The scoreboard climbed to 14–0, and as if that wasn't enough, another two-point conversion.
Andrew found Sedric in the corner.
16–0.
Eight minutes into the game. The last four minutes of the quarter were ours. Our offense moved at a snail's pace.
Not by choice, when you're losing big, you want to move fast, but a single mistake and Mater Dei's defense would punish us.
Short pass. Run. Pass again. All slow, grinding. We barely made it into field goal range. The kicker came in, hit it clean, and the ball sailed between the uprights.
Three points. Nothing glorious, but at least we weren't scoreless.
16–3.
The whistle blew, and the first quarter came to an end. During the short break, I kept repeating to myself: This isn't over. I can't quit.
I had managed to deflect a pass to Victor, not an interception, but close. Really close. That was enough to make me believe: I can do this.
The second quarter began, and Mater Dei fell right back into rhythm, like nothing had happened.
A fast drive, each play sharper than the last. In barely two minutes, they were already inside our 30-yard line, on the verge of Andrew's third touchdown.
I lined up in front of Victor again. The stadium roared, but to me, it all faded into a distant hum.
The snap. The motion. Helmets colliding at the line. Victor burst into his route, and I followed with everything I had.
Then I saw it. The ball leaving Andrew's hand, perfect and fast, spinning straight toward us. Time slowed down. My legs reacted, I leapt with everything in me and stretched out my arms.
This time, I didn't just grab air, this time, my hands caught the ball.
'Interception,' I couldn't help but think.
I actually caught it. Adrenaline exploded in my chest. For an instant, as I fell to the ground, I caught a glimpse of Victor's face: pure shock.
And behind him, the white-and-red helmets of Mater Dei, frozen, unable to process what had just happened.
I knew what it meant: Andrew's only interception this season had been back in September, in the first game of the year.
And now, I, a sophomore, had just made the second. But I couldn't stop there. My feet hit the turf, and I immediately started running forward. My teammates reacted fast, forming a wall of protection as I weaved through arms, breaking angles.
Mater Dei's players looked slow, stunned, like their untouchable confidence had left them frozen in disbelief.
I passed one, two, three defenders, and kept running. Until I caught a blur in the corner of my eye, coming straight for me like a bullet: Andrew.
He was the one who took me down, reacting faster than several of his own teammates, preventing my interception from turning into a touchdown.
'Damn it…' I thought, wind knocked out of me as I hit the turf hard.
Even so, I never let go of the ball.
A shame. I hadn't managed to take it all the way back, but I'd still done something just as valuable, now our offense would have the ball on the opponent's 40-yard line.
Only forty yards to the end zone. I stayed motionless for a few seconds, staring up at the night sky over Santa Ana Stadium, my chest heaving in frantic rhythm.
The roar of the crowd echoed faintly in my ears.
Then I heard a voice nearby, "You okay?"
I turned my head slightly. It was Andrew, standing over me. Maybe he asked because he saw me sprawled out, gasping for air like an exhausted dog.
I coughed, forced myself to sit up, and gave him a thumbs-up.
"Yeah… I'm fine."
He nodded once. That was it. No arrogance, no "lucky catch, rookie" kind of remark. Once he saw I wasn't hurt, he instantly erased me from his attention.
Then I heard him shout, firm and clear, "Come on! Move! Why are you so slow?"
It wasn't a tantrum over the interception, it was a justified wake-up call. While I'd been running behind a wall of Crespi blockers, his teammates had frozen. The only one who reacted fast was him, the quarterback, and he'd been the farthest away.
When I reached the sideline, my teammates surrounded me, slapping my helmet and shoulders, some shouting my name.
The coaches congratulated me too. I'd given the team a breather, a miracle in the middle of the storm.
Our offense came in, and in just three minutes, we scored our first touchdown of the night, thanks to that interception.
And we didn't settle for the extra point. The coach took a risk and went for two. Against all odds, the play worked.
Score: Mater Dei 16 – Crespi 11.
Less than one touchdown apart. We were alive. Hope, which had seemed dead, came rushing back.
The air shifted. Our defense took the field with renewed confidence, and I kept repeating to myself: I can do it again. I can break another play.
But hope didn't last long. Andrew doesn't make the same mistake twice.
A quarterback with only one interception in seven games is already almost superhuman, and I'd just given him his second in game eight. There wouldn't be a third.
On his next drive, he played calmer, but just as efficient. In four minutes, he scored his third touchdown. This time, I couldn't do anything: no deflection, no interception, not even close.
And as always, they went for two.
And as always, they got it.
24–11.
The second quarter ended with us still on offense, trying to scrape a few more points before halftime.
The third quarter was the knockout blow. Our offense resumed its drive but couldn't produce anything, not even a field goal. Meanwhile, Andrew looked untouchable again, scoring yet another touchdown.
Our offense came back even more deflated, while Mater Dei's defense hit harder and faster.
Again, nothing.
And before the quarter ended, Andrew threw another touchdown, his fifth of the night, all in just three quarters.
40–11 at the end of the third.
Our team's morale was shattered. The hope my interception had sparked, erased. My teammates hung their heads. I tried to keep fighting, but pessimism, and realism, were taking over.
In the final quarter, Mater Dei didn't ease up. Another touchdown. Another two-point conversion. We only managed a field goal.
48–14.
'Six touchdowns…' I thought, torn between awe and defeat.
Was he really going to repeat his performance against Bosco?
He still had time for a seventh. Luckily, on the next drive we managed to slow them down a bit, and on fourth down they settled for a field goal.
51–14.
Two minutes left.
Mater Dei sent Andrew back onto the field. I cursed silently: Why? Why won't Bruce Rollinson put in the backup?
What's the point of crushing us even more?
Put that guy: Max something, in, give him a few snaps at least... But Andrew, as if there was still something left to prove, led another fast, precise drive.
I kept covering Victor. My legs were gone, my calves burning like fire. Victor, with his senior build, was beating me on every step.
The ball sailed in a perfect spiral, over thirty yards. I jumped, arms stretched out, but couldn't reach it. Victor caught it and went straight into the end zone.
Touchdown.
Andrew's seventh of the night. I stayed bent over, hands on my knees, gasping for air, while the scoreboard glowed like it was mocking me.
I looked up, Victor held the ball proudly, staring toward the stands. Several of his teammates ran to celebrate with him, bumping helmets, raising their arms.
Then they started dancing, a coordinated celebration, like something they'd rehearsed, right in front of the roaring home crowd.
And then I saw Andrew. He was jogging up from behind, since the throw had been deep. For a second I thought he'd join in. Anyone else would have, with the whole stadium chanting their name.
But he didn't.
He stopped in front of his teammates and started gently pushing them apart, interrupting the choreography.
He spoke firmly, shaking his head in disapproval. I couldn't hear the words from where I was, helmet still on, noise deafening around me, but I understood the gesture.
Respect. With the game already decided,over forty points ahead, there was no place for dances.
Victor, still holding the ball, froze mid-celebration and lowered his smile. His teammates, who had started moving to the rhythm of the crowd, calmed down immediately. A few nervous chuckles, a couple of pats on the shoulder, but the dance ended right there.
In the final seconds of the game, Mater Dei added the two-point conversion. When our offense took the field again, they barely managed a few meaningless plays before the clock expired.
Final score: Mater Dei 59 – Crespi 14.
We lost.
Yes, I got an interception, an incredible feat against someone like Andrew, who's only thrown two in eight games.
I'll probably get congratulated for it, maybe even see my name in some paper as "the defender who picked him off."
But I'm not happy. There won't be any more football until next year. Our playoff run ended early.
Last year I was a backup, happy just to see the field from the sidelines. This year I was a starter, and this is how it ends.
I sighed. What everyone expected came true: they crushed us.
After the final whistle, both teams lined up at midfield. It's tradition, a sign of respect, to shake hands with the opponent.
I saw Andrew make his way through the line and come straight toward me. I thought he'd just shake my hand, firm and quick, as usual, but no.
"You're good in coverage, and fast," he said seriously. "On that interception, I thought I wouldn't catch you."
I froze for a second, stunned, and honestly, proud.
My idol, even though he's only a year older, had just acknowledged me and still, part of me felt guilty for smiling inside, because I couldn't forget the beating.
"Thanks. Good game," I managed to say, nothing more.
It wasn't the time to tell him I admired him, or to ask for a picture, or to act like a fan. I had to respect my team.
Andrew nodded once, then moved on.
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