Page 141 of Hell Bent

“Devils,” I agreed, and got ready to meet the moment.

The Niners hadn’t got the memo that we had the belief, though. They came out firing on all cylinders, and they drovethat bus right down the field. Two minutes in, the score was 7 to 0. Nineteen minutes in, it was 14 to 0. You name it, and we did it wrong. One sack. Two fumbles. Three interceptions. Nightmare territory.

And then there was our defense. I knew the Niners’ offensive line wasn’t that good. If we pushed, they’d break down, and Robertson would get those happy feet and start making mistakes. But somehow, it wasn’t happening.

Me? I kept kicking into that net. I kept breathing. I waited for my chance.

Three minutes to go in the half, and the Devils hadn’t just stopped the Niners offense three times in a row and forced Robertson into a few bad throws, we were finally putting together a good drive of our own. A beauty of a pass to Harlan, and he went up for it like it was easy, spun away from the tackler, and sprinted down the field like a gazelle, all the way to the six-yard-line, where his ankle was clipped at the last moment by the blazing speed of Devonte Jones, the Niners’ cornerback. It took a lot to catch Harlan, but Jones had done it.

First and goal from the 6. Here we go.

A running back going hard, then being bounced back to the line of scrimmage. Gain of three on forward progress, and it was second and goal from the 3. Now we were talking.

A handoff to the same player, but it was a fake. Play action. Briscoe pumping his arm, pumping. Running left. Running right. Mass confusion. Harlan in the end zone, double-teamed, and Matt Sawyer, the tight end, at the other side of the end zone, getting separation, waving his arm for the ball.

Too late. Briscoe was pulled down, but he’d made it past the line of scrimmage. Third and goal from the 2.

Timeout. Briscoe running off, running back on. A huddle,then the players in position again. A long snap count, and then a longer one, trying to draw the Niners offside. No luck there, the snap at the final second, and another pass, to Sawyer this time.

Sawyer and Devonte Jones both going up for it, and Jones reaching out a gloved hand to bat it away.

The ball fell to the turf, and it was fourth down.

Our last timeout of the half, and I wasn’t kicking into the net anymore. I had my chin strap fastened and was waiting for the signal.

It didn’t come. We were going for it.

It didn’t take a rocket scientist to know what this was. Owen Johnson and the rest of the O-line getting low, bulling their way forward, leading Briscoe across the line the way they’d done so many times this season.

Briscoe so close behind Owen that the snap was barely a handoff. The offense bracing hard, shoving with all their might. And a big arm coming over the top, finding the chink in that wall, and trying to push Briscoe back.

It was a pile of bodies, then. The officials looking, checking. Defensive players being pulled off the pile, nobody wanting to stand up. Wanting to give their teammates a chance to shove Briscoe back a few inches more.

A signal at last. The referee’s hand going to his whistle, his other arm signaling, pointing.

In the Niners’ direction.

Replay, then, because that had been too close a call. The big screen showing the play from two different angles, again and again. The official under his cloth screen, watching over and over. Wanting to be sure.

Thirty seconds. Forty.

The referee adjusting his mike, calling out the decision.

“The decision on the field stands. First down San Francisco.”

We stopped them on the 5 before the half ended. It didn’t help much.

It wasn’t fun walking back through the tunnel at 0 and 14. No fun at all.

56

FOURTEENTH OUT OF FOURTEEN

Sebastian

Super Bowl halftimes, I was thinking, were way too long.

The QB had talked. The coach had talked. The coordinators had made their adjustments and passed them along. And we were still in the locker room, a quiet group. Too quiet. Special teams sitting together on the benches, helmets in hand, elbows on knees, waiting. Kelsan Simmons came in wiping his mouth, probably from throwing up in the toilets, his complexion ashy, and sank onto the bench with none of his usual jumpy energy.