Hickham nodded. “Well, it ain’t great, but we’ll take it, right?” He handed Cole a squirt bottle of Gatorade. Cole sucked it dry in seconds.

His knees creaked like bags of loose gravel when he sat up. He reached down to rub them and another pain stabbed his left elbow, the result of a hit in the final play of the half that had undoubtedly torn cartilage.

“Tell me again why I didn’t just take up golf as a kid.”

Hickham patted his shoulder. “You’re doing fine.”

“They’re getting a little crazy out there, Coach.”

“Well, they’re walking dead, what’d you expect?”

“I’m not talking about the Jackrabbits.”

“Oh.” Hickham sighed knowingly. “Yeah, I’ve noticed. Whatever junk those Badgers are on, it’s got no place on a football field.”

“They’re like animals, Coach. Hell, they’re much worse than our guys.”

“Yeah. And getting worse every minute. It’s like the damn Lord of the Flies without spears.”

“You notice that Elmwood did us the courtesy of supplying their own officiating crew?”

“It occurred to me, yeah. Listen, you just keep doing what you’re doing. I’m gonna stack your left side as much as possible, try and keep Flamont off your blind side. That middle is still opening up off the blitz, so I want to keep going shallow.” He glanced at his watch. “It’s almost time. Take another minute to catch your breath, and I’ll see you out there. I’ll take care of the rest of the guys.”

“Wait. Shouldn’t I be there? I mean, what are you gonna say to them?”

“Nothing. I’ve just gotta turn the shower heads on, hose ’em off.”

Cole took Hickham’s advice and threw shallow across the middle. It wasn’t glamorous, but it was efficient. On the opening play of the second half, he hit Shane Butler on a slant for a gain of nineteen. He followed it up with a dump to Zack Moody for a pick up of twelve—an admirable grab for a man playing without a liver. On the following play, he hit Butler again on a hook. Butler spun from his coverage after the catch, broke two loose tackles, and made it to the end zone on a thirty-eight-yard play.

Booker waited until after the referee signaled the touchdown, then went in for the sack, driving a shoulder into Cole’s kneecaps.

“That’s it!” Ned Balooka, the Killington Daily sports editor beamed at the others in the press box. “You see that pass? Perfect!”

“Oh, hell, what happened? I was scribbling a note.”

Ned wagged a finger at Savannah. “Ah, you just learned the first rule of sports reporting, young lady—hands stay on the pad and pen, but the eyes never leave the field.”