Out of the Pocket by Bill Konigsberg Page A

hell to break loose from Coach and the other guys on the team. I ran to the sideline slowly, deliberately, petrifi ed.
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    “That’s just a miscommunication,” Coach said, slapping me on the rear. “That happens when you don’t get good protection. Head up, Bobby.”
    I looked around. Was he for real? I’d probably just cost the team the game, and I wasn’t being screamed at? Who was this coach?
    When I saw my teammates weren’t cursing at me either, but were focused on the game, I bucked up and stopped thinking of myself.
    La Habra got to our fifteen-yard line as time ran under thirty seconds. We were out of time-outs, so they let the clock run down to about five before bringing their kicker out. Basically, Roger Gordon was money.
    I watched as Gordon lined himself up, talking to himself, settling himself down. I prepared myself for how I would feel after the kick, knowing he wouldn’t miss, and that my senior season wouldn’t end with us undefeated, as I’d hoped. It was prayer time.
    The long snapper snapped the ball back and I watched as the holder received it cleanly and placed it under his finger at the correct angle. I watched Gordon stride toward the ball.
    Then out of the corner of my eye, I saw a disturbance around the left side of the line of scrimmage.
    I saw the maroon-and-gray jersey first, couldn’t make out the 81
    on the back, but knew it was Rahim.
    He flew untouched past the right-side blocker and extended fully, aiming his hands not toward the ball exactly but toward where it would be a moment later. In the silence, I could almost hear the scrape of ball against bone.
    The ball continued upward and I held my breath, wondering if it was possible that Rahim had blocked the kick but that it would still be good. I imagined Rahim’s finger attached to the ball as it sailed through the uprights, but was relieved seconds later as the trajec77
    tory changed and the ball wobbled well short and to the right of the goalpost.
    Sometimes you feel like you might explode out of your body. The power of your happiness overwhelms your body and can’t be held by it, and you feel it rush out of you through your fingers, your hair, every part of you.
    This was one of those moments.
    The scream from our sideline was nearly deafening, and it was joined quickly by a roar from our home crowd that threatened to carry for miles. I rushed out to find Rahim, who was underneath a pile of our guys who were screaming and hollering and beating down with celebratory fists. I looked for other bodies to envelop, and found, fi rst, Mendez. We tangled into each other and jumped up and down, ecstatic. Then I saw Austin. I lunged toward him.
    “Careful of the ribs, dude!” he yelled.
    I finally found Rahim, who was exhausted from the pileup and soaking from the Gatorade shower the guys had given him. “I owe you one!” I yelled as we hugged.
    I was psyched up after the game, talking to reporters, when my mother and father found their way to me.
    “Yahoo, Bobby Lee! Sensational!” my mother shouted, throwing her arms around me. I hugged her hard, laughing with giddiness into her shoulder.
    “Thanks, Mom!” I yelled, over the blaring noise of the crowd around us. I looked to my father, who was standing by her side, smiling contentedly at me.
    “Hey, Dad,” I said, hugging him hard. He felt warm and wet.
    He hugged me back for a moment before pulling away. “What a game! Other than the one play, you were perfect.”
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    “Can you believe Rahim?” I said, pointing to where the other guys were hoisting him up and carrying him around the fi eld.
    “You almost lost it there. What you should have done,” he said,
    “is tried a pump fake on him. If he bit, you could have gone right around him.”
    My father was a great guy, but he had lots of stupid ideas. He was wrong. No way could I have done that. I just stared at him.
    “All’s well that ends well,” he said as he started walking toward the car. “See you back at