Mom Said, Come Home

(Paul Burmeister) — NBC Announcer

"Happy New Year, everyone — the first Saturday of the year is looking absolutely gorgeous. We're inside the Alamodome in San Antonio, Texas, just off the River Walk, where the nation's finest high school football players have gathered alongside the U.S. Army. Truly, this is the U.S. Army All-American Bowl."

"The biggest storyline today is the quarterback showdown. For the East, we have last year's consensus best high school player in the country — Trevor Lawrence, who is locked in to Clemson."

"And that's not all. The East also rosters last year's best defensive players — two of them, in fact. Xavier Thomas, who's also headed to Clemson, and Micah Parsons, who committed to Penn State. Both suit up for the East today."

.

.

(Paul Burmeister)

"Against that East sword-and-shield combination, the West fields plenty of firepower of its own. Amon-Ra St. Brown — the nation's top wide receiver last year."

"And there's Jaylen Waddle as well. A wide receiver from Belaire in Texas, bound ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠for Alabama."

"But then there's this young man. Dwayne Moi Stone. He's drawing an enormous amount of attention. For the first time in U.S. Army All-American Bowl history, a non-senior has been selected — a sophomore, no less. That alone tells you how immense the expectations for this kid are. Last season he racked up 4,049 total yards, along with 44 touchdowns and just 5 interceptions."

"Today's showcase might be the most anticipated yet. We'll be right back."

Today was, in every sense of the word, a festival.

Soldiers filled one side of the stadium wall to wall. And from the other side came the sound of a lively brass performance — the marching band of the U.S. Army itself.

"Let's go, baby. Time to put on a real show."

"You know it."

The stars of yesterday's awards ceremony had been the East squad. Player of the Year. Defensive Player of the Year. Lineman of the Year. All three winners belonged to the East, and it had knocked our West boys down a peg or two.

But.

Who am I, again?

I don't lose to things like that.

So starting from this morning, I spent the entire day pumping my teammates up. And thanks to that—

"You ready—?!?!"

"Woof! Woof!!"

Yes, it had come to this. With all 32 members of the West squad gathered around me, I raised my voice and the boys barked like dogs. Baha Men's Who Let the Dogs Out. A little old-school, sure — but I was determined to run the chant I'd cooked up yesterday.

"WHO LET THE DOGS OUT?!"

"WOOF! WOOF! WOOF! WOOF!!"

"Who's gonna smash those East fools?!"

"WEST! WEST! WEST! WEST!!"

"Who wants this win the most?!"

"ME! ME! ME! ME!!"

"So which team wins today?!"

"US! US! US! US!!"

"LET'S GO—!!!"

"AAAAARGH—!!!"

I love watching a team become a team. The energy that comes out of that transformation — it made my whole body tingle right now. Maybe the East really does have more elite players on paper, like people kept saying. But we were going to give everything we had to prove that belief wrong.

With the fighting spirit burning at full throttle, I turned toward the stands.

My family had to be somewhere out there.

I still hadn't found my family.

Where on earth—

Ah. There they are.

The moment I spotted my parents, I threw my arm up and waved. Beside them sat other families, along with the people from the restaurant, and farther down — Coach Travis and Coach Gavin. I greeted both of them too.

"Moi!"

A voice called from behind me. I snapped into motion. Coach Mark Fleetwood, our offensive coordinator for this game, held up the play sheet.

"First play of the game goes right."

"Yes, sir."

"Remember the call?"

"Yes, sir. Right Quick."

"Good. Start with that."

Two days of syncing up had brought us a long way, but like I'd said, running anything complex was still out of the question. So we built the offense around five core frameworks and grafted about ten strategies onto them. I'd have to mix them appropriately on every offensive snap.

But.

The receivers' route tree ran a little deeper than that.

And I had memorized every single one of them.

Coach Mohns had been floored yesterday.

Because of that, I'd been granted a measure of freedom — the freedom to call out route numbers for my receivers. Coach Jason Mohns was the kind of coach who tied the numbers a quarterback shouted to the primary routes of his key receivers, and since I'd committed the entire route book to memory, I could now audible based on the situation.

Up ahead, the coin toss was underway.

"What's the call?"

"Not yet."

"…."

"Aw, damn. Defense goes first."

The toss went to the East — they'd start with the ball. Special teams scrambled into position. The players not among the offensive and defensive starters made up the special units, and even then the numbers ran a little thin, so a handful of defenders were filing onto the field as well.

Toward our kicker, Charles Campbell, I clapped and raised my voice in support.

"Blast it out of the park, Charles!!"

Right before kickoff, the stadium announcer and the in-house DJ cranked the atmosphere up another notch. The cheers kept swelling. The moment the kick flew, the play clock would start rolling.

BOOM!!

The ball sailed down to around the ten-yard line and settled into James Cook's arms, followed by a casual stroll that no real game ‍‍‌‌⁠​​⁠‌​​‍​​‍​‌​⁠‍‌‍⁠⁠‌⁠‌‍‌‍‌‌‌‍⁠​‌​‌​‌‍‌‌‌⁠‍​​‌‍⁠‌‌⁠⁠would ever allow — and a tackle attempt that at least showed some fight.

Fun stuff.

Early in the game, nobody quite knew how far to push it. It would get razor-sharp as the second half approached — that's just how All-Star games are.

"Defense! Nobody gets hurt out there!! Let's go!"

Real offense and real defense began, and the defensive units took the field first. I went out to greet the returning special teams.

"Good tackle. Nice D."

Watching the linemen try to tackle each other, I couldn't help laughing.

They're going so soft out there.

Blitzes were banned too, which only heightened the feeling. With no linebacker support to count on, the middle opened up easily and Trevor slipped through the line.

Oh— nice escape.

Lawrence broke through and picked up a first down. On the next drive, he went to the air — reading a receiver breaking right, he launched a thirty-yard throw.

But.

"That's it!!!

"Let's go!!"

If the East collects the nation's best linemen, then the West owns the nation's best cornerbacks. Brendan Radley-Hiles — displaying jaw-dropping focus and technique — swatted the pass away with both hands, and Ronnie Perkins hovering nearby scooped it up to squeeze out a few extra yards.

Offense and defense swapped in at a blink. A penalty tacked fifteen yards onto us after the pick, but reclaiming possession in under a minute was more than encouraging.

Clamping on my helmet, I turned to the boys behind me and roared.

"We don't half-ass it like those guys!!"

"Hell no!!"

"Time to show the whole country who we are!!"

"Let's go—!!"

Rallying the offense, I sprinted out onto the field with everything I had.

The first huddle of the game. I kept it short.

"Right Quick."

One clap broke the huddle, and I took my place behind the line of scrimmage. Under center. I slid my hand toward Dedich's rear, swept my eyes across the defense once, and barked the play call.

"Turbo! Set! Hut!"

This drive was Right Quick — get the ball out to the right as fast as humanly possible. I took the snap and, instead of dropping back, spun immediately toward my target.

There he is.

I fired the pass without a heartbeat's hesitation.

Second and 2.

I called the next play just as fast.

"Sweep away. Left side."

This time the point was to force the defense to pile left. The O-line would shove them that way first, and the receivers would lean their weight left simultaneously.

Amon-Ra stood in the right slot. With a subtle foot movement, I sent him jetting left. Jet Sweep. The instant it developed, I called for the snap.

Thud.

CRUNCH.

The sound of big bodies colliding rolled up from the front. I took a small step back, feinted a throw toward the left, then bolted into the open space on the right. Waddle had dragged the right corner deep, leaving the lane wide open, and I covered serious yardage without any trouble. Just before the tackle landed, I darted out of bounds.

"Deep left. Say Hello, Say Goodbye."

"Who's what?"

"Eight's Hello. Seventeen's Goodbye."

"Fuck. Finally my turn to shine."

"Take it up with Coach. Let's go!"

Two first downs in a row, and you could feel the temperature change. Not on our side — on theirs. The East boys' eyes hardened in an instant.

That's more like it.

About time you showed up.

But right now, I figured it was only the linemen who'd woken up. The backs still hadn't settled into the game — the distracted hand gestures, the balance that wasn't quite set, the chatter between plays gave it away. In a state like that, this down would work too.

"Rea-dy!! Set! Hut!!"

Shotgun formation. I took the snap from a few yards back. First, a fake handoff to the running back. Harold Joiner, who wasn't even pretending to be fooled, drifted straight into the fullback role on the left — so much for selling it. I pulled the ball right back out and stared deep down the left sideline.

Say Hello.

Say Goodbye.

The concept bunched two wideouts together on the left, then split them — one breaking inward on a shallow route, the other streaking straight for the end zone. The one approaching was Hello. The one running away was Goodbye.

I watched Waddle fly. He was running even with the cornerback — but Waddle was the fastest player selected to this All-Star roster. I trusted him to shake loose, tracking the man's stride and speed. He was just crossing into the forty-five.

Layer in the arc and velocity of the ball I was about to send, and—

"…."

Hm. The answer came out to roughly the twenty-yard line. So I threw to a spot at the twenty where no one stood.

The ball climbed high off my hand. Someone yanked at my jersey — a real game would've brought a rush, sure — but I paid the pull no mind. My eyes followed the ball and nothing else.

It had come off perfectly spiraled.

Having devoured the East's yardage in a flash, we opened a fresh drive from around the seventeen. Red zone — a score was there for the taking.

From the sideline, Coach Mohns signaled in a play aimed at the wideouts.

"Maryland. Left 14. Right 5."

Clap — the huddle broke, and I took my spot under center again. The play clock showed plenty of cushion, so I scanned the field and—

"…."

Huh?

Jaylen Waddle — the man who was supposed to catch the ball on this very down — was staring straight at me. His eyes were screaming one thing.

What was that play again?

Dammit!

You've got to be kidding me. You should've asked back there!

At this rate, running the called play properly was impossible. My gaze flicked back to the defensive line, and in that instant, my conversation with Amon-Ra flashed through my head. So without missing a beat, I raised my voice.

"MOM SAID, COME HOME!!"

"?"

Dedich whipped around in shock, but I ignored him and called it again.

"MOM SAID, COME HOME!!"

The offense scrambled into place, half-dazed, and I immediately barked the cadence.

"Rea-dy! Set! Hut!!"

The snap hit my hands. Everyone was moving — but the only man I was looking for was Amon-Ra, and the moment I confirmed he was inside the end zone, I swung my arm through. And then—