6.7 Seconds

Note: This post features a short story by an up-and-coming writer named Olivia Finley. Yes, she just so happens to be my daughter. This is a great little story that was the product of an assignment in her college class called Writing Fiction. Since it's a story about a football game, it was fair game for publication on this blog. It is reminiscent of other great football stories like Remember the Titans or Friday Night Lights. Like those stories, it's as much about the people as it is the game. I find it astonishing that someone who has never played the game competitively could write about it so accurately and with such intensity.

I think you'll like this story. Let me know if you do by leaving a comment.

Grace and Peace,
Greg

P.S. She didn't want me to post this, but it was my job as her father to do so....

6.7 Seconds
by Olivia Finley

The small town of Stamps, Arkansas was having an unusually cold night, even for November. Out of the 1,910 total population, 1,905 people had gathered at Millbrook Stadium to watch their hometown Express play the Hershburn High Panthers. It was the district playoff game and the Express remained undefeated. So did the Panthers. The victorious team would continue on to State. The hype and competition were nearly tangible.


As a small town, Stamps tended to go through cycles of fads. Several years earlier, a visitor couldn’t walk down Main Street without seeing at least eight people wearing a faux leather jacket with “The Sopranos” imprinted on the back. Not that anyone particularly liked the show, but the jacket had a tough and dangerous tone to it that no one could pass up. And one year after the jackets, every diner in town was serving peanut butter and pickle sandwiches. The general population also ordered a side of jalapeno and blackberry coleslaw for an extra seventy-nine cents. Fortunately, neither the jackets nor the sandwiches lasted long. But throughout Stamps’ mindless wanderings from trend to trend, one thing had remained steadily at the forefront of their thoughts: football. They loved their football. In the town’s eyes, a battle on the gridiron was the equivalent to Roman gladiators, a life or death event. Stamps had a football tradition rivaling that of a Texas high school. It was what steadied and unified them.


The hype and competition were nearly tangible. There were 6.7 seconds left in the fourth quarter. The game had been a close one. Both teams had played exceptionally well and the score was 12-7 Express. The Panthers had the ball at the Express’ four yard line. It was fourth and goal. The Panthers had to go for a six. All the Express had to do was hold them and they would advance to State. Steamy faces glared at each other from both sides of the line of scrimmage.


6.7 seconds.
Blake Thomas couldn’t wait for the game to be over. Blake was a linebacker for the Express, and this was his senior year. He had played all the way up from tiny tot football and was ecstatic about being done. Although Blake was a good player, it was his father who had a love for the game and forced him to play. Blake didn’t necessarily mind football; it was good exercise and usually enjoyable, but he had always wanted to pursue music. He had dabbled around in guitar and cello throughout junior high and high school, but football had never given him a chance to truly excel. So when the season was over Blake was going to dive into serious music lessons and see where that took him.
“Blake, come on man, get focused,” a fellow lineman called over to Blake. He snapped out of his musical daydreaming with a quick double blink. He heard “Crazy Train” being played over the crackly speakers. He listened to the rest of his team on the sideline pounding their thigh pads with a heavy and steady rhythm.
“Hold that line,” the cheerleaders chanted. A siren wailed in the background.


Steamy faces glared at each other from both sides of the line of scrimmage. The crowd in the stands huddled together for warmth. Wispy clouds rose from cups of hot chocolate held by gloved hands. Red noses stuck out from beneath brims of furry hats, and watery eyes looked intensely at the field. The town wanted this game. Although Stamps had a history of winning, they hadn’t been able to grasp the state title in five years. This was the first step up to the pedestal. Everyone knew winning State would cause a celebration bigger than any holiday in the little town. The parents, the coaches, the players: they all knew it. Back on the field, the defenders shifted their weight from side to side in anticipation. Mouth guards clicked against teeth as they were popped in and out.


6.7 seconds.
Dallas Andrews, the Express’ quarterback and a senior, stood on the sideline praying to someone that the defense would hold. He was too entranced by the tension to join his team in the yelling and pounding. Instead he whispered, “Be firm. Don’t let them move. Be firm. Don’t let them move.” He said this, half hoping it would supernaturally empower his teammates, or maybe cause a brick wall to appear where players once stood. Dallas had adopted the town’s view of football at the age of six, when his father first threw him a foam ball. Ever since then he had worked his hardest to become the best. He had earned the position of the Express’ starting quarterback as a sophomore, something he wouldn’t let any of his fellow players forget if they questioned his authority. And he wanted State more than anything. He wanted to go out in a riotous fashion, being remembered as the guy who led his team undefeated to the championship. He’d be holding the trophy in the picture that would go in the hallway trophy case in school. And he knew that was about all the fame he would ever have. Dallas understood that he wasn’t a smart kid; he struggled in all of his classes and had no college future. He was too small to quarterback at a university. He knew he’d be the seventy-five year old man sitting on his front porch with his buddies, recalling every play they ever executed in high school. He’d stay in Stamps his whole life and probably work in the feed store or at some other low-paying job. Maybe, if he was lucky, he’d be a farmer. Was it too much to ask for that patch on his letterman’s jacket? These thoughts rumbled through his head as his eye was caught by light flicked off a cheerleader’s gold pom. The aroma of upturned dirt and grass seeped up into his nose. “Don’t let them move,” he said. It started to rain.


Mouth guards clicked against teeth as they were popped in and out. The Stamps High faculty members had a reserved area in the bleachers and were sitting there looking critically at the players and coaches below them. Only they knew the true importance of this game for their head coach, Daniel Shaw. Although he had taken the Express to many victories over his eight year coaching career in Stamps, the fact that he hadn’t won a championship in five years was disturbing to the townspeople, and more particularly to the school’s authorities. If this season was, in their words, a failure, he would have to be let go. No one wanted this to happen. In fact, everyone loved Coach Shaw, but no one cared about character when the trophy case was empty. They would do what had to be done. The principal scrutinized the field, knowing his decision would be made by the next play. The players assumed the three-point position.


6.7 seconds.
Coach Shaw looked from his clipboard, to his shoes, to his players on the field. He loved those boys; they were his family. He had moved to Stamps nine years earlier to get away from the house where his wife died. He didn’t have any children, or any attachment to his former residence in Little Rock, so he left and found a small house in quirky little Stamps. Nothing there was entangled with memories. He liked that. Soon word got out around town that he had coached football at Valleypoint High School, one of the best schools in the state and known for their excellent athletic programs. Stamps’ school board intended to fire their current head coach because his win-loss record wasn’t up to par, so they needed a replacement for the next season. Daniel Shaw was their first choice and he needed a job. He gladly accepted and finished his first season with a state title. The school board reveled in its fortunate decision. Coach Shaw had had many successful seasons since that first one, and even won another championship two years later. He invested so much time into his players on and off the field that they thought of him more as a father than anything else. He taught his boys that winning was important, but not if it was attained without sportsmanship and good character. Coach Shaw wanted his team to succeed that night; however, he would still be proud of them even if they didn’t win. He looked up to the black sky after he felt a rain drop hit his hand. “Nothing like trying to stop them in the mud,” he said to his defensive coordinator. He returned his focus to his players and smiled. “Let’s go boys,” he thought to himself.


The players assumed the three-point position. Muscles tensed. The crowd leaned forward in anticipation. The past three downs the Panthers had attempted running plays, all of which had failed to reach the end zone. The defense knew a pass was coming. The Panthers’ quarterback grunted “Blue 22, hut hut!” The center safely hiked him the ball and the quarterback stepped back to throw. The defense backed up to cover the pass. That’s when the draw happened. Out of nowhere, the running back sprinted toward the quarterback and took the hand-off. He then angled agilely across the goal line for the six winning points. The buzzer sounded. That was the game; the Express had lost. After shaking hands with the Panthers, Coach Shaw gathered his downcast team around him. “Listen boys,” he said, “You really proved yourselves out there tonight. I don’t want you to think about what you accomplished on the scoreboard, but what you accomplished on the field. I couldn’t be happier with the effort you put forth this game and the entire season. I know this is a disappointing loss, but it’s not the end of the world. I won’t keep you boys because I know me lecturing is the last thing you want to hear right now. So let’s keep working and we’ll get them next year.”
Next year.