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Authors: Rob J. Quinn
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shop club about a decade ago, and they
overshot the height of the bleachers by a good twenty feet. It
looked like it hadn’t been touched since the original construction,
and the panels on the front of the booth had been ripped away
before current seniors ever set foot in the halls of Penn
Valley.
“Why you think they put the handicapped section under
it,” Pete said.
“The section is handicapped too? Holy crap.”
Pete rolled his eyes.
“I forgot,” Red said, “you’re the funny one.”
“Yeah, stop doing that, will ya?”
Laughing, Red said, “Shut up.”
“You know what they say, the team has a better
foundation than that thing,” Pete said, repeating a popular joke
that floated through school every game day. “And we only won four
games in the last three seasons.”
Glancing over at the Folsom students, Red saw the kid
with the bushy hair blending in with the rest of them. Talking.
Laughing. Like nothing had happened.
“Upset tonight,” Red declared.
“You’re nuts. Folsom’s 3 and 0 and favored to win the
league.”
“They are going down tonight.”
“Five bucks?” Pete offered his hand to indicate the
sealing of a bet.
Red hesitated for a moment, feeling guilty to take
his friend’s money.
“C’mon, man, put your money where your mouth is,”
Pete said.
Red shook his hand and smiled. “Five bucks.”
The 14-14 score deep into the third quarter had the
crowd getting increasingly boisterous with each play. A
strengthening wind only seemed to fuel them more. Penn Valley
seniors had taken to joining the cheerleaders’ chants from the
bleachers, calling for “D-fense” with rhythmic stomping of their
feet, which the rest of the students gradually joined.
Once again the Raiders had made it beyond midfield
only to find themselves in a third-and-long situation. Red had his
hands jammed into his jacket pockets. The hood of the sweatshirt he
wore under his jacket framed his face, with the strings pulled as
tight as possible. It was providing little warmth against the now
constant wind as the temperature continued to drop. He was already
shivering at times, but resisted the urge to get in his wheelchair
to go down the ramp and seek out protection from the wind until his
brother was ready to drive them home.
Instead, Red focused on the Folsom quarterback as he
took the snap and looked to throw. Bringing his arm back and
stepping into the throw to launch a 15-yard pass to his tallest
receiver, he exposed the ball for all to see. For what felt like
the thirtieth time of the night, Red locked his eyes on the ball as
the quarterback let it fly and pushed it at least ten yards over
the receiver’s outstretched hands. The wideout looked back at his
quarterback with his palms up as if to say, “What’re you doing?”
Red watched the quarterback make the same motion and shrug, and
felt a twinge of guilt.
The sound system squealed to life, and the announcer
yelled, “Fourth down!” in such a partisan way that his
communications instructor wouldn’t have approved. The crowd loved
it, however, and didn’t seem to notice the sound of a crack in the background. Red instantly looked back at the booth, then
looked at Pete.
“What?” Pete asked, mirroring Red’s efforts to stay
warm.
“Nothing,” Red said. “Thought I heard something
snap.”
Pete glanced back, but was clearly unconcerned or too
cold to care. Taking a look around, Red noticed that the tops of
the trees standing just outside the stadium had begun to sway when
the first raindrops found his face. He checked the scoreboard
towering over the field about ten yards behind the end zone to
their right to see how much time was left in the third quarter.
Instead, he thought he noticed the scoreboard move ever so slightly
in the wind. As fast as he dismissed that idea and told himself to
stop being paranoid, he heard the rain begin a steady
overshot the height of the bleachers by a good twenty feet. It
looked like it hadn’t been touched since the original construction,
and the panels on the front of the booth had been ripped away
before current seniors ever set foot in the halls of Penn
Valley.
“Why you think they put the handicapped section under
it,” Pete said.
“The section is handicapped too? Holy crap.”
Pete rolled his eyes.
“I forgot,” Red said, “you’re the funny one.”
“Yeah, stop doing that, will ya?”
Laughing, Red said, “Shut up.”
“You know what they say, the team has a better
foundation than that thing,” Pete said, repeating a popular joke
that floated through school every game day. “And we only won four
games in the last three seasons.”
Glancing over at the Folsom students, Red saw the kid
with the bushy hair blending in with the rest of them. Talking.
Laughing. Like nothing had happened.
“Upset tonight,” Red declared.
“You’re nuts. Folsom’s 3 and 0 and favored to win the
league.”
“They are going down tonight.”
“Five bucks?” Pete offered his hand to indicate the
sealing of a bet.
Red hesitated for a moment, feeling guilty to take
his friend’s money.
“C’mon, man, put your money where your mouth is,”
Pete said.
Red shook his hand and smiled. “Five bucks.”
The 14-14 score deep into the third quarter had the
crowd getting increasingly boisterous with each play. A
strengthening wind only seemed to fuel them more. Penn Valley
seniors had taken to joining the cheerleaders’ chants from the
bleachers, calling for “D-fense” with rhythmic stomping of their
feet, which the rest of the students gradually joined.
Once again the Raiders had made it beyond midfield
only to find themselves in a third-and-long situation. Red had his
hands jammed into his jacket pockets. The hood of the sweatshirt he
wore under his jacket framed his face, with the strings pulled as
tight as possible. It was providing little warmth against the now
constant wind as the temperature continued to drop. He was already
shivering at times, but resisted the urge to get in his wheelchair
to go down the ramp and seek out protection from the wind until his
brother was ready to drive them home.
Instead, Red focused on the Folsom quarterback as he
took the snap and looked to throw. Bringing his arm back and
stepping into the throw to launch a 15-yard pass to his tallest
receiver, he exposed the ball for all to see. For what felt like
the thirtieth time of the night, Red locked his eyes on the ball as
the quarterback let it fly and pushed it at least ten yards over
the receiver’s outstretched hands. The wideout looked back at his
quarterback with his palms up as if to say, “What’re you doing?”
Red watched the quarterback make the same motion and shrug, and
felt a twinge of guilt.
The sound system squealed to life, and the announcer
yelled, “Fourth down!” in such a partisan way that his
communications instructor wouldn’t have approved. The crowd loved
it, however, and didn’t seem to notice the sound of a crack in the background. Red instantly looked back at the booth, then
looked at Pete.
“What?” Pete asked, mirroring Red’s efforts to stay
warm.
“Nothing,” Red said. “Thought I heard something
snap.”
Pete glanced back, but was clearly unconcerned or too
cold to care. Taking a look around, Red noticed that the tops of
the trees standing just outside the stadium had begun to sway when
the first raindrops found his face. He checked the scoreboard
towering over the field about ten yards behind the end zone to
their right to see how much time was left in the third quarter.
Instead, he thought he noticed the scoreboard move ever so slightly
in the wind. As fast as he dismissed that idea and told himself to
stop being paranoid, he heard the rain begin a steady
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