It was that close. Almost inch by inch. A gamble all the way. Tired men snapped into position, lifting sodden legs for that last ounce of energy, that last bit of drive. This was the pay-off and Forsi was in there, throwing his dwindling forces in the best direction, subject only to occasional suggestion from the bench.
Down to the forty, to mid-field, to the Greely forty. Fourth and one on the Greely thirty-five. A desperate gamble that paid off a first down. Down to the thirty, the twenty, the fifteen. Down to the ten and Greely stands rocked with the chant of, “Hold that line!”
Jabella got up more slowly each time. Down to the eight, the five. The three.
And Greely got possession of the ball on downs on their own two yard line.
Tony glanced at the clock. Seven minutes to play.
A Greely team, revitalized by the way they had halted the Adams drive, snapped back and shook Loots loose for forty yards. The next play, a long pass, hauled down by a Greely end, made it a first down on the Adams twenty.
Tony Strega tasted the sourness of defeat. On the next play, Loots went wide, his chunky legs churning, knees high, his speed deceptive.
A man arrowed out of the back and a blocker missed. Brankoff, moving faster than he had moved at any time during the afternoon, hit Loots head on. The ball bounded away. Forsi was there to fall on it.
Loots got up slowly. Brankoff didn’t get up at all.
During the time out they got him on his feet. But he didn’t know what day it was and he didn’t have any idea who they were playing. He came off the field meekly.
“White for Brankoff!” Tony said, his voice cracking like a whip.
Julius White gave Tony a startled look and sped out. There was no other solution. Julius White was the only right half left. It was just hard luck that his injuries had to be both in the right-half slot. And harder luck that he had such a small squad that he couldn’t afford any all-purpose backs who could fill any slot in an emergency.
Halfway to the referee, Julius White, running far too fast, fell over his own feet, fell heavily.
Tony stifled a groan. Julius got up, ran out more slowly and reported.
Five minutes to play.
Five minutes for Forsi to try to exact the impossible from a weary squad. They lined up and Forsi, in the huddle, had called a play from the sixty series.
Once again the fade-back, the jump pass, only this time with Stanisk and White cutting outside the end, White taking the pass, Stanisk blocking. Stanisk nailed his man. White avoided a tackier, ran wide, cut back too sharply. His cleats cut the turf and he went down without a man near him. The play had netted six, but it could have been sixteen.
The rising yell of the Adams stands dwindled off into a moan.
They lined up again and Julius White was prancing in position like a skittish colt. Stanisk took the flip from Forsi, faded back to pass with White and a guard who had pulled out of the line to cover him.
White, not content to drift back and wait for the shot, ran down to the line of scrimmage to block a man who looked like he was coming through. A line-backer and an end stormed back toward Stanisk. The guard got the end, but the line-backer went high and tipped the pass almost straight up. A Greely man made a dive for it and recovered it after it had hit the ground, but it was ruled incomplete.
Third and four.
Tony looked along the bench. Frank Mercer was shifting uneasily, his head sunk between his shoulders. He caught Tony’s glance and his eyes widened as he pointed a finger at his own chest Tony saw the boy’s lips form a word.
“Me?”
He pursed his lips and shook his head from side to side.
On the next play the pass from center was bad. Forsi had to reach high for it. He didn’t have time to pull it down, spin and feed it to Stanisk, but was forced to hang on, continue his spin all the way around, and try his own shot at the line. He was bounced back for a yard loss.
Fourth and five.
The kick went deep and the ends were down to smother Loots on the fifteen.
Three minutes.
Some of the crowd began to chant for Mercer and White. Tony turned in his seat and gave the crowd an angry glare. Often, when looking at a vast crowd of people, the eye will catch a certain individual. His heart gave a surprising and totally unexpected lurch as he saw Loren, her red hat perched at a jaunty angle, her lips unsmiling.
He looked at her for several seconds. He was certain that she looked at him and looked away. When he turned back he gasped. Then he shouted angrily. Mercer ignored him.
Mercer was racing in to report. And without authority.
His angry shout had focused the eyes of the other men on the bench who, up until that moment, had believed that Strega had given Frank Mercer some sort of signal to go in.
His fists clenched, Tony stood up, saw Mercer report, saw Jabella jog tiredly off the field.
Tony turned to Laddis. “Get ready to go in after one play.”
On a hunch he turned, found Loren again. She was looking at him and she was smiling. She touched her fingertips to her lips. Tony Strega sat down heavily.
Laddis warmed up along the sidelines.
The game was gone, and the backfield was shot, and his two clowns were in there. He spat onto the dirt at his feet and hunched over, elbows on his knees. He wanted to strike out at the fate which had robbed him of this win. And he had a hunch that Greely would shake Loots loose again.
Jeffer found a hole on the first play that Greely ran. He loomed up in the backfield. Stanisk missed a shot. Little White bounced off Jeffer’s meaty thighs. Forsi was too far to one side. Frank Mercer had a half-hearted shot at Jeffer. By pure luck his forearm clipped Jeffers across the ankle. Jeffer went down hard.
But it was an eight yard gain right through the middle.
Tony turned to send Laddis in and then he thought. The hell with it. I’ll leave Mercer in for a few more plays. Let Loren see what it does to him. Let it teach her something.
On the next play Loots, on the receiving end of a shovel pass, scooted out into the clear. Julius White angled toward him, dived, got him by one angle and dumped him. But it was a first down for Greely.
Two minutes left in the game.
Mercer and White walked side by side back toward the backfield. Forsi was calling the defensive shifts. White was saying something to Mercer.
On the next play, Jeffer drove hard at the center of the line. Before he got there, the Greely line opened a hole big enough to take a launch through.
Mercer came toward the hole just as fast from one direction as Jeffer came from the other. Tony’s jaw sagged open as the thud of their sudden meeting echoed all the way back to the bench.
As far as he had been able to see, Frank Mercer had tried hard to break Jeffer into several small pieces.
Second and twelve.
Forsi went high and slapped down a pass.
On the next play Loots tried a hard slant off tackle, but Mercer, his sleeve ripped from wrist to elbow, rose up out of nowhere, gathered Loots up and hurled him back into his own backfield.
Forsi put White and Stanisk back in the safety slot. A minute and thirty seconds. The kick came high, giving the ends time to come down. Stanisk took it, ran dead ahead, flipped it over to White. White tucked it under his left arm, reversed his field brilliantly, angled toward the sidelines, cut back upfield, brought it all the way up to the forty.
Forsi called the play fast.
He fed it to Mercer. Mercer went through the middle on a hard plunge that gained four yards. Stanisk, with Mercer running interference, went around end for three more. Forsi tried a long pass. No dice.
Fourth and three.
Forsi dropped back, rifled one into White’s arms. Mercer was trying to keep ahead of White. But White passed him as Tony Strega groaned. White, apparently blind, ran directly into the arms of two tacklers.