Page 145 of Hell Bent

The timeout was over at last, and it was the same thing all over again. The players getting set, poised to go. The 49ers fans shouting, stamping, trying to throw Sebastian off. Both my hands clutching the pendant Sebastian had given me, feeling the tiny diamonds that shone like faith. The snapper sending the ball flying like an arrow to the target, exactly seven yards. The holder catching it in both hands, rotating it to put it in the perfect position. And Sebastian running forward, swinging his leg, and hitting the ball with his instep, head down, arm swinging, the same way he always did.

No noise now. Everybody was silent. Watching.

Sixty-two yards is a long, long way. The ball didn’t start coming down for what felt like seconds, and then it did.

He had the distance.He had the distance.

I don’t think I even breathed.

The ball sailed over the bar.

I burst into tears.

He’d done it. 16 to 14.

I was still crying while the Niners tried an onside kick and recovered it with sixteen seconds to go, but when their quarterback threw a long pass toward the sideline and a guy caught it and ran out of bounds, I stopped crying, grabbed Ben’s hand, and squeezed.

Thirteen seconds. The 49ers called their last timeout.

They were at the 36. That was field-goal range. Fifty-three yards. Long, but kickable. Definitely kickable.

You’re kidding,I thought numbly.How can you make that kick and still lose?

The stadium was a mass of sound, but nobody around me was saying anything. We were on our feet, watching. Frozen.

The timeout ended. The long snapper sent the ball sailing back. The holder spun it around expertly. The kicker ran forward and kicked it. Head down, arm swinging.

He had the distance.

16 to 14. Or 16 to 17.

The ball hit the left upright.

My heart stopped.

It bounced left.

I was jumping. I was screaming. I was hugging Ben, the tears running down my face, and Ben was laughing his head off and shouting, “Why are you crying? We won! We won the fuckingSuper Bowl!”

I didn’t even care that he swore.

57

CHAMPIONSHIP SEASON

Sebastian

I’d played on a championship team once before. Nearly nineteen and green as grass, I’d gulped champagne out of an enormous trophy and been drunk even before I’d left the locker room. I’d shouted myself hoarse even though I’d only played eleven minutes, had tried to sing along to songs I didn’t know the words to. It hadn’t really felt like my victory, but I’d been part of it, right? It was my team, right?

We’d gone to a strip club afterward. I believe I tried to climb on stage, but it’s hazy. I’d woken on somebody’s couch the next morning with my head pounding and my mouth like the bottom of a garbage can, and had spent most of the day throwing up. There’d been a fair amount of vomiting, in fact, during my time in Newcastle.

There was a reason I hadn’t been all that fussed by Ben’s Laphroaig adventure.

Today, I stood in the locker room, my jersey off but my shoulder pads still on, laughing as Kelsan Simmons sprayed me with champagne and Harlan did the most ridiculous chicken dance you’ve ever seen with our brutally effectivefree safety, Lionel Fairchild, who’d tipped that pass late in the fourth quarter and given us our chance. Fairchild had a grin the size of Alberta on his broad face, and Harlan looked, as usual, like a movie star. They were both very good dancers. They were also being sprayed with about a case’s worth of champagne, at least the part that wasn’t disappearing down fifty-three thirsty throats. I slapped backs, yelled congratulations, got the life half squeezed out of me by Owen Johnson, and felt good.

Everybody was singing, and then only one voice was, and then that one broke off. I turned to look.

Bob Lomax, the Niners’ GM, was standing in the doorway in his white polo shirt with the 49ers logo.