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offense huddled, Tony paused to look at each of them – the offensive linemen; Sam; the muscular fullback, Johnny D’Abruzzi, Tony’s friend from Holy Name; Ernie Nixon, the half back, the only black in high school. Their faces were taut, anxious. Tony kept his tone matter-of-fact.
    â€˜We’re gonna take this one play at a time. No fumbles, no penalties. No losing our head or trying to be heroes. We just do what we need to do, and the game belongs to us. I’ll worry about the clock.’
    The team seemed to settle down. Tony called the play and they broke the huddle, taking their positions with an air of confidence. Standing behind them, Tony looked at the defense. The clock still read one-nineteen; it would not start until the center snapped the ball.
    Tony stepped behind the center, aware of the screaming crowd only as a distant noise, feeling Johnny D’Abruzzi in back of him, Ernie Nixon to his right. He began barking signals.
    The ball slipped into his hands. With the first pop of shoulder pads, the linemen’s grunts of pain and anger and aggression, Tony spun and handed the ball to Ernie Nixon.
    Ernie hit the line slanting to the left, then burst through a hole for five more yards until a Riverwood linebacker stuck his helmet in Ernie’s chest and drove him to the ground.
    The next play, a run by Johnny D’Abruzzi, gained almost nothing.
    â€˜ Time ,’ Tony shouted at the referee. Only then did he look at the clock.
    Forty-four seconds. He had just used their last time-out.
    The team huddled around Tony, Johnny D’Abruzzi screaming, ‘Give me the ball again. . . .’ Stepping between them, Sam clutched Tony’s jersey, his face contorted with panic and frustration. ‘I’m open. You’ve gotta start throwing – we’re running out of time.’
    Tony gazed at Sam’s hands, stifling his own anger. ‘There’s plenty of time,’ he said. His tone said something else: This isn’t our moment .
    They stared at each other, and then Sam dropped his hands. Tony turned to the others as if nothing had happened. His heart pounded.
    â€˜All right.’ He looked into Johnny D’Abruzzi’s fierce eyes and made his judgment. ‘We’re running Johnny again, this time through the left side. Then I’ll run an option.’
    He saw Sam’s astonishment, Ernie Nixon’s disappointment; ignoring them both, he called the numbers for the next two plays. But when the huddle broke, he grasped Ernie’s sleeve. ‘I’m counting on you to cut down the left side linebacker.’
    â€˜I’ll do it.’
    Turning, Tony ambled behind the center with deceptive casualness. Then he suddenly barked, ‘Hut three,’ and the ball was in his hand, then in Johnny D’Abruzzi’s arms as he ran to the left behind Ernie Nixon. Ernie shot through the line; with a fierceness that was almost beautiful, he coiled his body and slammed shoulder-first into Riverwood’s right linebacker, knocking him backward as Johnny ran past and then tripped, suddenly and completely, over the legs of the falling player.
    â€˜Shit,’ Tony said under his breath. The clock read thirty-one, thirty, twenty-nine. Still twenty yards to go . . .
    The blue bodies scurried up from the turf to re-form along the line of scrimmage. Twenty-two seconds . . .
    The center snapped the ball to Tony.
    He ran along the line, with Ernie Nixon trailing him. His option was to run himself or flip the ball to Ernie.
    As the crowd began screaming, a wave of blockers formed in front of Tony.
    Ernie was behind him to the outside, in good position for a pitchout. But Tony could see the play opening up for him; ten yards down the sideline and then out of bounds, stopping the clock again. The screams rose higher as he crossed the line of scrimmage.
    From nowhere a red jersey appeared at the corner of Tony’s vision –