The Last Yard – Spooky NFL Halloween Stories, 2016

We are at an unknown and unrecognizable football field, shrouded in mist, and the sun is setting,  but there seems to be a piece of a sign that reads a barely legible “–HITA” over one of the locker room tunnels. It’s a cool February evening, in a time that is clearly recognizable, although futuristic… but not too far off in the future, and some may wish these events had never come to pass at all, no matter the time. There are two football teams preparing for their final drive; their exhaustion, and exhilaration, is clear. A great susurration comes from the stands, where a large but seemingly formless crowd sits and waits for the next snap of the ball. On the sidelines, there are no cameras, no media, and sadly for those of us watching, no cheerleaders. The coaches all stand very close together, on both sidelines, as though being alone might render them as indiscernible as the crowds in the stadium. A whistle blows, and now we join our tale, already in progress:

Smith is lined up in the backfield, about two yards behind and to the left of Keenan, hunched over on knees that are screaming after six months of prolonged abuse. He flexes his hands, trying not to let the pain of air escaping between his knuckles show on his face. In the background, there is noise. A dull roar coming from somewhere he has blocked out, refusing to acknowledge.

This is all some kind of dream, he thinks, and not for the first time.

This is all some kind of dream.

Ahead of him, Keenan looks back, a quick up and down motion of his eyes lets Smith know in a few short seconds, he will order the ball snapped, and it is time to go back to work.

—————

Smith is five years old, sitting with his father, himself a former football player, never at the pro or even collegiate level, but something of a local sensation in High School. They are watching Sportscenter, a retrospective on the greatest teams of all time, with the various blowhard talking heads, has-beens and superstars of the sport, and even some random celebrities all offering their take on the rankings.

“And that brings us to #1 on our list, the Tom Brady-led Patriots of the first fifteen years of this century,” someone says, and Smith remembers that, remembers it clearly, because of the words hissed from his father’s mouth within seconds.

“Cheaters,” his father says, clamping an unknowing hand on Smith’s shoulder, somewhat painfully, “wherever they are now, I hope they’re suffering forever, fucking cheaters.”

—————

A grunt from Keenan, and suddenly, there is motion again. He ignores the quick shout of pain from his knees, mutes the immediate agreement from his ankles and hands, and surges forward. What was once an empty space around him is now full of bodies in motion, men of huge proportions and staggering strength, all of them trying to get at the object Keenan is offering to Smith like some holy relic:

a live, in-play regulation NFL football.

Smith extends his arms a fraction, cupping the ball above and below, drawing it to himself, to cradle in his breadbasket, as Keenan withdraws his hand and spins away from an oncoming defender, a wall of human muscle and aggression, closing in on Smith and he takes his second step forward.

—————

Twelve years old now… arguments on the local playground, only instead of personal insults and comments about sisters, brothers, mothers, it is about sports team affiliations, of all things. And, because they are all young men and incapable of properly applying any emotion, it has inevitably spilled into violence.

Smith’s best friend, a scrawny kid named Charlie, is being shoved by someone Smith doesn’t recognize, for the temerity of repeating Smith’s father’s own words: The Patriots were cheaters, and they deserve no support. The strange kid shouts out a word Smith would not begin using for a few years yet, and levels Charlie with a solid shove to the shoulders.

“They were the greatest team ever, and they always will be!” The kid says, and swings again at Charlie. The smaller boy falls, bleeding.

Smith dives at the strange kid, and as he fights, he doesn’t even realize his hatred for Boston sports has taken a firm root in his soul.

—————

Holding the rock, Smith evades the wall of pain, gets to the line of scrimmage, feels a tug on his jersey, spins out, takes another hesitant step forward. A tackle, some replacement, he believes his name is Washington, delivers a solid block and Smith gets another yard.

Ahead, there is a clear field between him and the Promised Land, and he knows there is time only for one more score, one more trip to the End Zone to finish this game and emerge victorious. Smith can almost <i>taste</i> it, he is so close to freedom, so close to being the hero he was in their previous game, and he found he liked that taste, would do nearly anything for it again, in fact. Ahead, there is a linebacker preparing to level him, and Smith pulls his shoulders in, making a smaller target of himself, and pistons his legs for more speed, more power.

“No fucking way you’re stopping me,” he whispers, and lowers his shoulder.

—————

Eighteen, and already declared for an NCAA Div II school… his father is undeniably proud, so proud, in fact, he is crying. Smith is crying, too, as he puts his last bags in the family car, and hugs his mother goodbye. This trip will be for the men of the family only, his father said, one last chance to bond before his son goes out into the world and returns a man, someone neither of them may recognize.

“Do well, son,” his mother says, and he nods. He wipes back his tears and sits in the car. His father turns on the radio, and it is tuned, as always to a Sports station. Again, the topic is football, and again, the Patriots are brought up.

In unison, the Smith men hiss, “Fucking cheaters.“

—————

The collision is epic, ruthless, and Smith feels all the hatred of the linebacker pour into it. Smith, however, is no less full of anger and spite, and breaks free. He almost sees a smile on the man’s face as he is released, catches his balance, and begins to regain speed. He doesn’t have time to reflect on it, however, as he sees another defender coming at him, intent on derailing Smith’s train to glory.

“FUCK you,” he grunts, and prepares for another hit.

He is saved, however, at the last second by a block from one of the receivers, some new kid they picked up mid-season, who played an absolutely insane game during the Wild Card round, where their team was all but counted out, and this kid saved the day with a one-handed catch that sparked their comeback. Since then, Keenan has found a new favorite target, and that almost effortless rhythm carried them to the Conference Championship. Smith gives a quick nod on his way by, and he swears the kid laughs as he is driven to the ground.

It seems the entire world is open now, in front of Smith, and he can simply take a step and own it.

—————

Draft day. Smith is a running back, and no one takes them in the high rounds any more, as they are apt to have a few spectacular seasons and then crap out like second-hand cars… and they are just as replaceable. Smith isn’t at the draft, instead, he is at home, and after the Pats second-round pick, a cornerback from Miami, father and son hiss the standard refrain, and when the phone rings right after, they both look at each other in mute shock and an almost unspeakable hope.

It is his agent, some fresh out of college kid himself, maybe two years with the Agency, letting Smith know he is being taken next, to a promising NFC team with an absolute headcase at the back position, and Smith laughs as he hangs up, his father beams, and his mother cries. The Smiths are happier today than ever, and while it will be short-lived, it is real, and all the more precious for its brief existence.

—————

As he powers downfield, Smith allows himself to look left, right, casting a quick and cautious glance to the sideline. His coach, in his fifth year with the team, is running along the sideline with Smith, windmilling his arms and shouting, around him all Smith’s own defensive teammates and various coaching staff are shouting, joyous, raucous, point to the end zone, congratulating each other early as it seems no one will stop him, ever.

Smith nearly trips, as excited as his own teammates, and a defending corner sees this and believes it may be the opening he needs to be the hero again, closing the distance between himself and Smith, seemingly flying across the field. Another receiver whiffs on a block, and the corner now seems destined to track Smith down well before the end zone.

They are down, 24-21, and Smith again looks at the clock. 00:12, maybe enough time for a field goal if he falls and gets right back up, the field goal unit moves smartly and quickly onto the field… but that won’t be enough, and he knows it. So he lowers his shoulder again, and prepares for the hit.

—————

It’s after the previous game now, the Super Bowl. The game had a strange air of finality to it this year, as everyone knew the rules were changing finally, removing a lot of the hard hits, the excitement, and the extreme danger from the sport. As Smith, Keenan, Washington, and the forgotten receiver celebrate their victory, no one seems quite sure what to do, as the following season will be so different so as to be a different sport altogether.

Smith spots his mother in the stands, smiling and a little lost, seated with her sister. He knows his father will not be there, having suffered a fatal stroke two days after Smith reported for his first training camp as a rookie, and somehow knowing his father never saw him play a down as a pro has always unsettled him. He wanted to lead his team to several Super Bowl victories, change the collective agreement that the Tom Brady-led Patriots were the best team ever, and hear his father cheer for him, mingled with all the strangers and other fans, but somehow still audible.

As they finish up their in-stadium celebrations for the night, one of the older guys on the team, claps Smith on the shoulder as he empties his locker, and says, “Not yet, kid. We have one more game to play.”

Smith sits back, looks a question at the older man. There had always been some odd rumors, that if you won, you had to challenge someone else, prove you were the best at least once, before you could lay claim to the title… but surely that was all they were, right? Oddball rumors, the football equivalent of ghost stories? “Do your pushups or Mean Joe Green will get you?”

Smith, more than a little puzzled, looks around the locker room, and sees many of the older veterans saying something similar to the other younger players. He asks the older player, “What do you mean, one more game? Who the hell do we have to play now?”

—————

So now, one week later, in a stadium of devoid of media, Smith and his team are playing a combination of the Tom Brady era Patriots, with a roster of certified Hall of Famers. Randy Moss is here (and has, in fact, scored a touchdown). Teddy Bruschi is playing, making tackles left and right. It is, in fact, a murderer’s row of Patriots, possibly their greatest roster ever from those years. But here runs Smith, at the end of the 4th quarter, hell-bent for leather to reach the end zone, and he sees he can make it, he will beat the corner to the end zone, and he will be the hero he has always dreamed of being, and maybe one day, he could face his father in Heaven, look him in the eye, and say, “I did it, Dad. I made sure no one will ever mention those fucking cheaters again.”

The fact this has become a sort of obsession with him doesn’t register, it never has, the fact of their cheating and its impact on the game was something that simply was, and no amount of argument could change that…

And so he runs to beat what is, to him the Devil. The corner, Jesus Christ, Smith can see it’s actually Malcolm Butler, hero of the 2015 Super Bowl, barreling toward him at a reckless pace, and Smith is momentarily shaken. He can see a look of pleading on Butler’s face, and this second of doubt on Smith’s part allows Butler to catch him up. They are steps away from each other now, and Smith is afraid he will fail.

“Please,” whispers Butler, “please don’t let me catch you.”

—————

“Every year, kid, someone wins the Super Bowl,” the veteran begins, “and every year, a week later, they have to play the best team by consensus of sports writers, idiot fans, and talk goddamn radio…”

Smith listens to a story he almost cannot believe. The Brady-era Patriots, many of them long dead, come back to play one more game, on a neutral field, after every Super Bowl? And no one has ever said anything about it before?

“You can’t, kid. No one can. I’ve even played them before, after we won three years ago, and I barely remembered it until after we won tonight. Some things cannot be explained, just experienced, and I know you’ve seen enough around here to understand that. Think of it like the lucky socks some players wear: we lose a lot more than we win when enough players forget their ‘lucky’ item, don’t we? When there’s enough belief, some times, it makes things true… and this game, it has a fuck ton of belief.”

Smith didn’t believe it, and neither did Keenan, who had played in another Super Bowl years ago, but lost. When they discussed this impossible thing the next day, Smith laughed it off, but Keenan got quiet.

“I don’t know, man… towards the end of that last Super Bowl, I could feel something, right? A kind of… pressure… like something besides all the people there were watching. Like something was about to happen. Then I threw the pick, sealing the game, and it went away. This may all be bullshit, but then again: it might not. It might not, and if it isn’t, how great would it be, to be the team that finally knocks them off the top, just as the game changes, forever?”

Smith sat back, thinking. They didn’t say much more, just ordered a fresh round of drinks, and then drifted away… but that thought of the game changing forever stayed with him. What happens, he wondered, to the “best” if there’s no one else to challenge them? They stay where they are, don’t they?”

No answer came, and the question sat restless, gnawing at some deep recess in Smith’s subconscious.

—————

Butler is still charging toward Smith, pleading, hands outstretched, but there is real fear in his eyes. He honestly does not want to win this game. Smith is a yard away from scoring, he can end all of this, if only he stretches out, crosses the plane…

Smith glances at Butler, and for a second sees gratitude, until he looks back downfield, through the endzone… toward a man in the front row, as insubstantial as the rest of the fans. His father is looking right at him, and Smith’s dreams of picking out his father’s voice of approval, ringing out among the thousands of other cheering fans, seem on the verge of coming true. He smiles… and his father frowns deeply, then shakes his head, once, firmly, and Smith understands.

He looks at Butler, smiles, and shoves the ball into Butler’s hands, then falls on the ground. Butler cannot believe it, he continues on past Smith for a yard or two, holding the ball, until he is crushed by an onslaught of offensive linemen. As the pile is cleared, he comes up with the ball, Patriots possession, 00:02 left on the clock, Pats up 24-21…. and they have won, again.

“No,” Butler whispers, “….no, please god, no… if we had known…. if we had only fucking known!!!!”

The clock is stopped as the offenses and defense for each team trade places, and Smith can see every man on the Patriots looks lost, shrunken, hopeless…. suffering.

As he heads to the bench, removing his helmet, ignoring the disapproving recriminations of his coaches and teammates, he almost imagines he can hear someone shouting from the stands, “fahk you, we’ah the best evah… and we’ah the best fahkin fans evah….” followed by huge, wracking sobs.

Smith looks back toward the end zone, sees his father, and together they whisper, “fucking cheaters,” and Smith takes his seat, smiling as time expires, and the game ends.