Page 183 of Never Say Never
I come off the line quickly, juke around the defender trying to hold me up, and cut to the middle. Just like the route requires.
Find me, Tony.
Only he passes it to our tight end instead, who secures the first down.
A perfectly reasonable play.IfI wasn’t trying to earn this surprise from Avery.
With the first down, though, there’s going to be at least three more chances for me to score a touchdown on this drive. And now we’re almost to the fifty-yard line, the halfway point.
Once again, the first call on this set of downs is a running play, and our running back breaks through a gap for seven yards.
A great start again—but not what I need.
As I get back to the huddle, Tony calls out the next play. I process the call he shouts and—oh shit yes—it’s a passing play, one where I’m the first option.
Right as I have that realization, Tony turns to me. “Light them up, Rawley.”
Let’s fucking go.
When the snap comes, I’m ready. The route has me slipping to the outside, and then using my speed to sprint down the sideline.
Once I’m by my primary blocker, I get bumped by a second defender who tries to tackle me, but with a twist of my hip, I’m free.
Come on, come on, come on.
I get to my intended place within a couple of feet of the sideline, and with no one near me now, I bolt down toward the end zone.
I pass the thirty-yard line, then the twenty.
Come on, come on, come on.
With the design of this play, I know Tony’s going to place the pass to me around the fifteen. As I approach that hash, I turn and look, already prepared to shift if the throw is off at all.
Come on, come on, come on.
But nope, Tony’s pass hits me square in the middle of the numbers on my jersey. I use my hands to cradle the ball against my chest, and then move it to be snug under my right forearm and elbow.
Fifteen yards are left until the end zone.
Come on, come on, come on.
And now some of the quicker defensive secondary players are closing in on me.
Not today, guys.
I book it again, as if it were the Super Bowl with a Waves championship on the line, forcing my body to reach its maximum speed.
Come on, come on, come on.
And you know what happens next?
“Touchdown, Orlando Waves, 6-0.”
FUCK YES.
45
RAWLEY
