Bragging Rights

It is Thanksgiving Day, and that means the annual Interfaith Bowl between crosstown rivals the Amnesty Black Cats and the Amnesty Catholic Friars. Will the Black Cats win bragging rights?

BRAGGING RIGHTS

Wiccans vs. Christians.

The Interfaith Bowl. That was what it was called. The annual Thanksgiving high school football match-up between the Amnesty Black Cats and the Amnesty Catholic Friars. Both teams were consistently at the top of their divisions every season. There were also numerous conference championships. And through twelve years of rivalry, the Black Cats led the series, 6-4-2.

This year was anybody's guess as to who would have bragging rights in Amnesty. The Black Cats won their division for the third straight year, with an 8-2 record. As usual, they were playoff and possibly conference championship bound. The Friars were also at the top of their game, winning their division for a second straight season with a 7-2-1 placement.

So, in a sense, the Interfaith Bowl was a stop-over for both teams, on different paths. But the brief stay-over by both teams was always a much-looked-forward-to, enjoyable and entertaining one for Amnesty football fans, regardless of what quarter of town they were from.

And this year, the Black Cats were talking of a secret weapon. A powerful, all-star running back that played varsity his first two years at a public high school in south Boston, and was averaging almost eight yards per carry, breaking all previous school rushing records. A player that had received offers from Syracuse, UMASS, Rutgers and Pittsburgh, among others. This seventeen year-old juggernaut went by the name of Fontana "Freight Train" Fergesson. He was five foot nine and two-hundred pounds of solid muscle. Capable of bench pressing three-hundred pounds and leg pressing five-hundred. "Freight Train," because he hit like one. Because when he got going, he was one, out of control.

But to Black Cat coach Aleister Anderson, Fergesson was a train wreck waiting to happen.

"Assume the position," Aleister ordered as he roughly pushed his star running back up against his desk and pulled out a pair of handcuffs. "Hands behind your back. Spread 'em."

"C'mon, coach," Freight Train yelled loudly in protest. "What the hell are you doing?" He made a move to straighten up, an attempt that was quickly quelled by his coach, who slammed him back down again, cheek against desk surface.

"Shut the hell up," Aleister yelled back as he yanked each one of Freight Train's muscular arms behind his back and slapped on the cuffs. He straightened up his prisoner and stared down into his rebellious face, from a vantage point of six inches. "You want to act like a thug? You think this is Southie Beantown? Fine. Go ahead. Be my guest. We'll treat you like one."

"Take these f*****g cuffs off me!"

"I SAID, SHUT UP!" Aleister yelled and slammed Fergusson with authority into his swivel chair. "When you're in my office, my locker room or on my field, you do not use profanity, do you understand me?"

"You use it."

"Button it. I'm the coach. I'll do whatever the hell I want. You're the team member, which means you're subordinate to me, you keep your mouth shut and you follow orders. Do you understand?"

"Yes, coach."

"I said, do you--

"Yes, coach. But, you can't do this!" Freight Train protested loudly. "Don't you know who I am? You need me. You'll see!"

Aleister stared down at Fergesson, solemnly amused. "Do I know who you are?" He shook his head "Not really. I haven't figured you out, Frieght Train. Sometimes you're one of the best football players I've ever seen. Then there's times like this, when you're nothing but a punk."

"Then try to win without me. You'll see!"

"I'll tell you what I see, Fergesson. I see a boy that in a couple of years is going to end up a guest in my county jail." Aleister shrugged. "Or maybe even federal prison." A pause. "Or maybe even dead."

This got Freight Train's attention.

"That's what I see. So, you get it, Fergesson? We're talking about more here than a damned football game. Maybe you should think about that while you're spending the entire game sitting here on your a*s, alone. 'Cause there's no way in hell you're playing tonight."

Freight Train was silent as Aleister walked towards the door of his office. When he reached the doorway, he turned around.

"Oh, and one more thing. Don't even think of trashing my office or escaping. Because after I mop up the floor with your face, I'll charge you with vandalism and escapement and throw your a*s in jail. You have a good evening, Freight Train."

When Aleister was outside of his office, in the process of locking the door, his assistant coach Frank Southland turned to him. "Don't you think you were a little hard on him, Al?" He asked. "Besides, we need him tonight."

"Actually, Frank," Aleister said, "I'm not sure I was hard on him enough, considering that there's more at stake with that boy than football." He looked at Frank. "A lot more."

Frank returned a slow nod and patted Al on the back. "I'll go round up the troops." He checked his watch. "Ten minutes to prime time."

When all of the Black Cats were present and accounted for in the locker room, Aleister entered.

"First things first. Anyone who asks me about and/or questions the absence of one Fontana "Freight Train" Fergusson at any point from here on out tonight will be joining him in my office for the duration of the game. Is that understood?"

"Understood."

Aleister held a hand to his ear. "What was that?"

"UNDERSTOOD!"

"Second. You are the Amnesty Black Cats. If that doesn't instill in you a sense of pride, then there's the door to the parking lot, gentlemen, not to the playing field. You are representing this school, your town, your friends and family... and last but definitely not least, yourselves. You can only go forward, gentlemen. 'Cause Black Cats never run away from a fight. So, go forward. Go out of these doors, onto that playing field tonight, be safe, have a hell of a lotta fun, AND BRING US HOME A VICTORY! BRAGGING RIGHTS! WHO ARE WE?"

"BLACK CATS!"

"WHO?"

"BLACK CATS!"

"LET'S GO!"

Jubilant and with a high sense of morale, the Black Cats exited the locker room and made their way onto Queens' Field. After the National Anthem was sung by Glamourama lead vocalist Guenevere Goode, the team captains made their way out onto the field. The coin toss was called by Amnesty Mayor, Pandora Osbourne.

"Call it in the air."

"Heads."

"Mayor Osbourne calls 'heads'. And it is tails. Amnesty Catholic Friars, you being the visiting team, have won the toss. Do you choose to kick or receive?"

"We'll receive."

"Very well. Black Cats, what end zone do you chose to defend?"

At this point, the team captain of the Black Cats glanced over to Coach Anderson and his staff, who motioned for the appropriate end zone, based on wind activity. Therefore, the Black Cats would be kicking off to the Friars with the wind.

"That one," the team captain said, and pointed to the end zone in question.

"Very well. Gentlemen, shake hands and take to your respective end zones. Let's play some football."

The captains shook hands and trotted towards their respective sides of the field with their teammates.

"ALL RIGHT, BLACK CATS, LET'S GO!" Aleister yelled from the sideline.

The first quarter saw the Friars take the field at their own twenty-seven yard line, after a twenty yard kick-off return. This was the beginning of a ten play scoring drive ending in a 40 yard field goal that put the Friars ahead of the Black Cats, 3-0. The score remained 3-0 at the end of the first quarter, due to some fine defensive play on both sides of the football. The Black Cats were successful in shutting down the Friars always dangerous passing attack, while the Friars held the powerful Black Cat rushing attack to only seven yards rushing and 2 for 5 in passing.

"You guys have got to loosen the hell up," Aleister said to his team at the end of the quarter. "They're reading everything you do out there. Don't make it so damn obvious, alright? In a 3-0 game, there's no need to rush. Now, I want to see their passing attack shut down this quarter. We already know they can't run on our defense. Be aggressive, force errors, be disciplined, have fun, be Black Cats. On two. One, two...

"BLACK CATS!"

"Get out there."

The second quarter was even more of a quagmire than the first. Although the Black Cats made a few adjustments on both sides of the ball, they still could not penetrate the Friar defense, which held the Cats to only thirteen yards rushing. The highlight of the quarter was a beautiful Black Cat punt that came to rest inside the Friars three yard line. On a second down and ten, the Black Cat defense sacked a scrambling Friar quarterback for a two-point safety. The subsequent possession after the safety for the Black Cats was in vain, as the Cat quarterback was picked-off inside the Friar thirty yard-line.

Halftime: Amnesty Friars 3, Amnesty Black Cats 2

"You guys signed up for football, correct?" Aleister asked his team in the locker room.

Nods and responses in the affirmative.

"Well, you could have fooled me, gentlemen. Because the score reflects a baseball game." He intently studied his players. "Where the hell is our offense? Can somebody tell me that? Do you want me to send Coach Southland down to the sporting goods store to stock up on bats and gloves? Is that it? If you people on offense think for one moment that we're actually gonna win this test in futility with twenty-seven total yards rushing and going 4 for 16 in passing for a whopping thirty-seven yards and an interception to boot, you're greatly deluded, gentlemen. The defense isn't going to cover your asses all night."

"Put me in, coach." It was Freight Train.

"YOU SHUT THE HELL UP, FERGESSON!" Aleister yelled loudly at the voice coming from the room next door. "DON'T YOU EVER INTERRUPT WHEN I HAVE THE FLOOR. DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

Silence.

"DO YOU UNDERSTAND?"

"YES!"

"THEN, SHUT UP!" Aleister glared at the players before him. "You're dismissed. Get out there and make it happen. This is not Amnesty Black Cat playoff caliber football I'm seeing here, tonight. And I will be satisfied. Do I make myself clear?"

"CLEAR!"

"Get outta here. And if you don't want the week from hell, gentlemen, then I strongly suggest doing something about that scoreboard."

But nothing was done about the scoreboard in the third quarter. At least, for the Black Cats. For it was a quarter riddled with mistakes. The Black Cats committed five penalties for almost sixty yards and gave up possession on a fumble in scoring territory and another interception that resulted in a sixty-eight yard sprint down the sidelines for the Friars second score of the game. The extra point was blocked by the stingy Black Cat special teams unit.

Friars 9, Black Cats 2. End of the third quarter.

"Everyone get their asses over here, front and center," Aleister said, his anger starting to show. "You people are really starting to piss me off. What have we stressed all season, gentlemen?"

"Discipline."

"Yes, discipline. Somebody was actually not brain dead the day I introduced that topic. So, why the hell can't I get some damn discipline, gentlemen? Instead, I get nothing but sloppiness and absolutely no attention to detail. We do not win football games, gentlemen, with twelve penalties for one-hundred and twenty yards, 2 interceptions, one for a sixty-eight yard touchdown return and a fumble. You have twelve minutes, gentlemen. And if I don't get

discipline in this quarter, I definitely will get it at practice next week and in the playoffs. And you can quote me on that. Black Cats, on three. One, two, three...

"BLACK CATS!"

"Go get it."

The fourth quarter started out with both teams exchanging fruitless downs. On the Friars second possession, they executed a four-and-a-half minute, eight play drive that started at their own twenty five yard line. A successful mixture of option pitches to the outside and well-timed passes into the slot earned the Friars first and ten at the Black Cat thirty five yard line. After yet another penalty, an offensive pass interference that put the ball first and ten for the Friars at the Black Cat seven yard line, Aleister had seen enough. He threw his clipboard down in disgust.

"WHAT THE HELL!?" Aleister barked and screamed at the offensive party in question. "Sanders, get your a*s over here, son."

"Coach, I didn't--"

"SHUT UP! What, you didn't touch him? Like hell, you didn't. I've seen murder victims that came out looking better than that. You're out, Sanders. You want to make a dumb, blatant, bonehead play on my field inside the ten yard line when the game is on the line, and then try to tell me you didn't, then you don't deserve to be on my field. Period. Get your a*s on that bench and warm it up. Delassandro! Where the hell-- Delassandro, you're in. Get in there. Maybe you won't f**k things up like your counterpart. Ya think you can do that?"

"Yes, coach."

"Show me. Go."

"It's not their night, Al." Assistant Coach Frank Southland said, shaking his head in disgust.

"I can see that, Frank," Aleister said, his voice dagger-edged. "Tell me something I don't f****n' know. Fine. It's not gonna be their week, either. That's all. We're not going up against Hampstead in the playoffs looking like this s**t, Frank. I will get what I want outta them. I guarantee that."

Frank nodded. "I believe ya, Al. I work with you on and off the field, coach. Sheriff. I know."

"I know you know, Frank," Aleister said with a nod.

And then there was a sliver of light. A slice of hope. On the very next play, the new safety Delassandro came from out of nowhere and sacked the Friar's quaterback from behind, stripping him of the ball.

"FUMBLE! FUMBLE! GET IT!" Aleister frantically yelled at the mass of black and green uniforms scrambling to take the bouncing pigskin away from the ones in brown and white. The entire population of Queens' Field, some five-hundred in attendance, sat in a collective hush, awaiting the referee's call.

"Black Cats' ball!"

"YES!" Aleister exclaimed, pumping his fist and slapping coaches and players five. "SMASH MOUTH FOOTBALL, SMASH MOUTH FOOTBALL. TIME OUT! TIME OUT!"

The head referee acknowledged Aleister's request. "TIME OUT, BLACK CATS."

Aleister reached into his pants pocket and pulled out two sets of keys. One was to his office. The other was to his set of handcuffs. He handed them to Coach Southland. "Take these. If he hasn't trashed my office, get Freight Train out here. After he's warmed up, have him report to me."

Frank grinned. "Sure coach." Frank started off, then turned around. "And what if he has trashed the office, Al?"

"Then arrest him for vandalism, chief deputy."

But when coach Southland had reached Aleister's office, he wasn't greeted by rack and ruin,

but by a very quiet Freight Train, derailed. A Freight Train belching tears.

After the fumble recovery, the Black Cats managed to work the football out to their forty yard line over the course of the next four plays. A sack on a second and eight play for a six yard loss created a third and fourteen situation at the Black Cat thirty-four yard line. There were just over three minutes left in the game.

"Listen to me," Aleister was saying to his quarterback. "We need twenty yards on this play. We need to keep possession until Freight Train gets in there, understand?"

"Understood, coach."

"Alright. Shotgun, three strong right, 84 left slant right and go multiple option, got it?"

"Got it, coach."

"And don't miss, or this game is all but over. Go!"

The play that Aleister called for required the quarterback to start from the shotgun position, to give him and the receivers time. Three receivers would load up on the right side of the field, while a fourth, the tight end, would cut across the middle from the left. It was the tight end's responsibility to position himself five yards after the first down and give the quarterback a look and signal to hit him there if he was free. If not, the tight end was to continue downfield with the other receivers towards the end zone. It was a "multiple" option play, because the quarterback had the final decision on whether to throw to the tight end, the three receivers downfield, or to all four in the end zone. Although the play created a high percentage of three receivers in a concentrated area and a possible fourth, it was a potentially slow developing play that needed perfect timing, focus and an unmolested quarterback to work effectively.

"ARC 48! ARC 48! Hut, HUT!"

The Black Cat quarterback received the snap from the shotgun as the four receivers sped downfield. As he spotted the tight end starting his cut, the front line protection began to break down. Eluding a rushing defender with a perfectly executed reverse pivot, the quarterback began to run in the direction of the sidelines, keeping an eye on his tight end. He saw the tight end stop and give him a look, motioning for the ball, as he had at least a two step jump on his defender. The quarterback threw the football across his body to the tight end just before getting rudely laid out by a rushing linebacker speeding towards him at full gallop. The ball reached the tight end at the exact same time that the coverage did.

Or, maybe a second later. Flags on the play.

"INTERFERENCE!  INTERFERENCE, REF!" Aleister screamed at the official, who motioned for him to calm down and to get off of the playing field.

Aleister was silent, beside himself, as the referee made the call:

"PENALTY. FIFTEEN YARDS, OFFENSIVE PASS INTERFERENCE--"

The jubilation of the Black Cat coaching staff and team members was decisively drowned out by the partisan Black Cat crowd.

"--PENALTY WILL BE TACKED ON TO THE SPOT OF THE INFRACTION. FIRST DOWN, BLACK CATS."

"YES! THAT'S WHAT I'M TALKIN' 'BOUT, RIGHT THERE!" Aleister shouted, fists pounding the air. High fives.

With the penalty, the Black Cats had the ball first and ten at the Friar 32 yard-line, with two minutes and forty-five seconds left in the game.

"TIME OUT! TIME OUT!" Aleister signaled to the official, who granted him the Black Cats second time out of the quarter. They would have the two minute warning time out and one more, their last. "Where the hell is Freight Train? Is he ready yet?"

"He's ready, Al."

"Get his a*s over here."

Coach Southland and special teams coach Matt Workman called out the running back's name and frantically motioned to Fergesson to join them.

"You wanted me, coach?"

Aleister grabbed Fergusson's face mask. "Listen up. You have exactly two minutes and forty-five seconds on that clock to prove something. You hear me?"

"Yes," Fergusson nodded. "I'll prove to you--"

"You're not proving anything to me, son. Nothing at all. You understand what I'm saying?"

Freight Train nodded.

"This is all you. Your chance. Your time. Now, what would you like to do?"

Freight Train smiled. "Thirty-eight reverse, coach."

"Thirty-eight reverse?" A nod. "Alright. Thirty-eight reverse, left. Got me?" A nod. "Thirty-eight reverse, left." A head slap. "Do it."

"Right, coach," Freight Train said and jogged out onto the field.

In the huddle, Freight Train informed his teammates of the play, which would be run to the Friar's consistent weak side, the left side of the field. In short, the play was a basic reverse to the left side of the field.

And it worked. Like a charm. Fourteen yards later, the Black Cats were at the Friar 18 yard-line, the Freight Train leaving a path of destruction in his wake.

"YES, BABY!" Aleister shouted with a huge grin on his face. "THAT'S BLACK CAT FOOTBALL. GET READY, HERE WE COME. RED ZONE, BABY!"

"What are we doing, Al?" Coach Southland asked his head coach.

"Let's go with 38 draw," Aleister said, looking at his play list. Coach Southland nodded and signaled the play to the Amnesty quarterback.

The play was to Fergesson again, this time right up the middle. After bowling over two or three Friar defenders, Freight Train finally came to a stop at the Friar twelve, for another six yard gain. Second down and four.

"TWO MINUTE WARNING!" The head referee announced, manifesting the "time out" signal. "TWO MINUTES. TIMEOUT."

"All right, listen to me," Aleister said to his team. "They're on their heels. So, knock 'em on their asses. Keep it up." He looked at Freight Train. "This, gentlemen, from here on out, is going to be the Freight Train path. Destination: end zone. Got it?"

"GOT IT!"

"Listen up. Same play, here. Almost. Thirty-eight draw fake, on two. Ram it down their throats. If we don't score here and we're inside the five, then it's thirty-eight draw dive. If not, it's basic draw plays until the five. Yes?"

"YES."

"Black Cats on three. Ready? One, two, three...

"BLACK CATS!"

"Let's win this one, gentlemen. Bragging rights. Go."

Thirty-eight draw fake was different from thirty-eight draw in that the former employed both the half and full backs lined up in an "I" position behind the quarterback. On the snap, the quarterback faked the ball to the halfback and then handed off to the fullback, who followed the path (hopefully) cleared by the halfback, who was now a blocking back.

"WARD 83-2, WARD 83-2, hut, HUT!"

On the fake, the halfback charged through the middle, making contact with the first defender he saw, and Freight Train hot on his heels. The secondary, realizing that the first back did not have the ball, rushed in, but not before Fergesson bowled over two or three men and was finally brought down at the four yard line.

"OH, YEAH!" Aleister yelled and slapped his coaching staff five with a wide smile. "We got 'em now, baby. That's the Freight Train on the tracks and rolling." He looked at the clock, which was down to approximately ninety seconds.

The Friars called a time out with one minute and twenty-five seconds remaining. They had two more.

"We still going with 38 draw dive, Al? Inside the five?" Coach Southland asked.

Aleister nodded. "You got it. Thirty-eight draw dive to Freight Train. Let's get the train safely in the station, Frank."

Frank nodded and signaled to the quarterback that the play had not changed.

The Friars made their way back onto the field and up to the line of scrimmage, as the Black Cats matched up with them. On the snap, the Friars brought a linebacker blitz that laid out the Black Cats halfback and backpedaled the Freight Train. Before he could regain his balance, he was knocked on his back by three or four Friars for a five yard loss. Third down and nine at the nine yard line with fifty-five seconds left.

"Damn it!" Aleister grunted and shook his head.

"What now?" Frank asked. "Same play again?"

Aleister thoughtfully shook his head. "No. Whatever Fergesson wants to do. He's got the call."

"All right, Al," Frank said. "Free reign, Freight Train. All you." He called out. Freight Train nodded.

"Alright," Freight Train said to his teammates in the huddle. "Listen up. Let's do a pitch option 38 left and set. I need people in the end zone. Got it? Pitch option 38 left and set."

"Shotgun?" The quarterback asked.

"Shotgun, on two. Ready?"

"BREAK!"

The play required the quarterback to line up in the shotgun formation, flanked by his backs on

each side. Number 38, Freight Train, would be lined up left. Just before the snap, the halfback would run motion to Freight Train's side of the field, to serve as his pass protection. Upon the snap, the quarterback would toss the ball out to Freight Train, who would hopefully find a receiver open in the end zone.

"They're going pitch option 38 left, Al," Coach Southland said to his head coach. "Can Freight Train throw?"

Aleister's face formed a wry grin. "Well, we're sure as hell gonna find out now, aren't we, Frank?" He said.

Frank nodded and shrugged. "It could work."

"That it could."

And it did. Sort of. Upon the snap, the ball was tossed out to Freight Train. With the halfback in front of him, he sprinted up to the line of scrimmage. Side stepping the desperate would-be lunge tackle of a cornerback and not seeing anyone clear in the end zone, Freight Train tucked the ball under his arm and took off.

"He's gonna go!" Aleister exclaimed with excitement.

And go the Freight Train did. Breaking tackles all the way to the end zone, where two defenders met him head on.

But the train would not be stopped.

"TOUCHDOWN!" The referee called with upraised arms, to an explosion of cheers and applause by the Black Cat faithful.

"OH, YEAH!" Aleister shouted with emotion and hugged his assistant coach. When Freight Train came off the field, he was greeted by Aleister with a helmet slap. "That was showing something, son." He said.

The Freight Train nodded. "You, too, coach?"

Aleister smiled. "Me too, son. Me, too."

Amnesty Friars 9, Amnesty Black Cats 8. Twenty seconds left.

"What are we doing, coach?" Special teams coach Matt Workman asked Aleister. "Tie, or win? You want us out there?"

Aleister looked at Freight Train. "Whatdaya think?"

"I wanna win, coach," Freight Train said.

Aleister grinned and nodded, before turning to Coach Workman. "We're winning this thing, Matt. Stay put." He turned to Freight Train. "You got one more in ya?"

"Oh, yeah."

"Good. Your call. Bring it home."

Freight Train jogged out onto the field and entered the huddle. "Alright, this is on me." He looked at the quarterback. "Bootleg right. Follow me in. I'll get you in."

The quarterback nodded.

"Long count, alright? Let's see if we can get them to bite. Ready?"

"BREAK!"

The play was a naked bootleg to the right side of the field, with the quarterback following Freight Train's blocking.

The teams lined up on both sides of the five yard line. The quarterback surveyed the Friar offensive line.

"BLUE 58, BLUE...58, hut, hut--"

Whistles blowing. Black Cats clapping.

The referee with the announcement.

"PENALTY, DEFENSE--"

Cheers and applause.

"--OFFSIDE, NUMBER 63. FIVE YARDS. BLACK CAT BALL AT THE ONE. FIRST DOWN."

The Friars called their second time out, with seven seconds left.

"OH, YEAH!" Aleister shouted. "Great call, Train!" He waved Freight Train back when he and the quarterback attempted to jog to the sidelines. "All you, babe. All you. Bring it home."

No huddle, hurry up offense.

"EIGHTY-THREE WARD D-2, EIGHTY-THREE WARD D-2! " Freight Train yelled out to his teammates, frantically motioning to everyone to get set.

The Black Cats got set. The Friars did not.

"PENALTY, DEFENSE --"

The roar of the partisan Black Cat crowd.

"DELAY OF GAME. BALL WILL BE SPOTTED HALF THE DISTANCE TO THE GOAL LINE. PLEASE PUT THE GAME CLOCK BACK TO SEVEN SECONDS."

"SAME SET! SAME SET!" Freight Train yelled to his teammates.

The teams lined up. With only three seconds left on the play clock, the ball was snapped and handed off to Freight Train.

Freight Train timed his jump and went airborne...

"...Frieght Train stopped! The ball is loose! A scramble... picked up by the Black Cat quarterback back at the five! Desperation throw to the end zone... deflected, tipped... and

it's... CAUGHT BY FERGESSON! BLACK CATS WIN! BLACK CATS WIN! I DON'T BELIEVE IT! OH, MY!"

"YES! YES!" Aleister shouted, arms up in the air in victory as the Black Cat faithful swarmed the field. After shaking hands with the Friars' head coach, Aleister attempted to make his way to his star player, who could only be seen in the distance, on the victorious shoulders of his teammates.

Final score: Amnesty Black Cats 10, Amnesty Catholic Friars 9.

The win,

and bragging rights.

Author's Note

This is a story from my collection, entitled Amnesty Tales