The game is not going well.
It’s been a tough twenty-four hours, and it’s obvious that the team is still reeling over the news about the accident.
Not to mention, our star running back isn’t in the game.
Chase looks a little off. Damon has missed numerous passes, and honestly, it’s sort of a miracle we’re still in the game.
Normally, the whole family would be here to cheer them on, but most everyone is either helping out at home or at the hospital, so it’s just me, my dad, and Chase’s dad.
Haley and her mom video-chatted with Chase before the game, which was nice, but they also shared that Pace had a setback—some increased swelling on his brain—which didn’t sound good.
At the end of the third quarter, the scoreboard shows us trailing by three, a score of 24-27.
And although we clearly know that this game doesn’t mean that much in the grand scheme of life, it is a pretty big deal. If they win this game, it will mean that this team has lost only two games in four years and will have won four consecutive state championships.
The dance team is out on the field, doing their usual routine, when our sideline erupts in cheers. Like, the guys are whooping it up, hollering, and high-fiving like they’d already won.
Our phones all ding at the same time with a text from Haley.
It’s a photo of Pace, awake and sitting up in his bed. He’s got a team jersey wrapped around him, and he’s got his hand, the one not in a cast, held up in the air to form a claw. For his team, the Jaguars.
But it’s the words below the photo that matter the most.
Haley: We’re listening to the game. Pace is awake. Swelling has dissipated. Brain is normal—well, as normal as it was before the crash.
And he says you’d all better stop messing around, score a few touchdowns, and win this thing!
Go Jags!
A moment to appreciate.
Chase
Hearing the news that Pace is going to be okay pumps the team up and allows me to breathe a little easier.
“What do you say, Coach? A little razzle-dazzle in his honor to take the lead?” I ask.
“Hell yeah!” Damon says as Coach nods his head in agreement.
“Who wants under center?” I say to the team.
“Me,” Reed, who plays cornerback on defense, surprises me by saying. “I’ll get you the ball, Chase. Then you and Damon can do your thing.”
I look at Coach, who nods at me.
Although pretty much every team in the state has seen the play, this setup is different. Instead of Pace or our backup running back lining up in the wildcat, we have a cornerback, a guy who isn’t normally on the field with the offense. You can tell the other team is scrambling, trying to figure out what we’re going to do.
Playing cornerback is one of the hardest positions in football. Not only do they have to defend against the fastest guys on the other team—the wide receivers—but they are also called on to blitz and defend running plays. If I saw a guy like him lined up, I’d think we were going to call something like double reverse.
The defense brings both of their cornerbacks in to cover trick run plays, but our line holds them just long enough for Reed to toss me the ball. And by the time they realize what we are about to do, I’ve already thrown a pass so on target that it literally falls into Damon’s hand, mid-stride, as he races into the end zone.
I take a moment to appreciate what was literally one of the most perfect passes I had ever thrown.
And while the team is celebrating and the crowd goes wild, somehow, I’m able to find Dani in the stands, our gazes connecting.
My real-life perfect pass.
