The Badgers had possession on their own fourteen at the two-minute warning. First and second downs reaped no gain. On third and long, a spry Mexican halfback with tree-stump legs churned his way through the grappling arms of Cody Bender, Marvin Bumbgardner, and Slick Gilpen before Cole got him down by a belt loop on the Jackrabbits’ thirty-eight.

Cole came up seeing double. Hickham threw his cap to the mud and cursed a blue streak over the halfhearted arm tackles his team had displayed. Back in the huddle, Cole told his defense to pull their heads out of their dead asses and make their tackles stick.

The Jackrabbits complied.

On the next play the Badgers got cute, and paid handsomely for it. Stacking the right side of the line, the Elmwood quarterback juked left as the ball was hiked. The tailback received the snap and hurled the ball toward three open receivers running the right sideline. Only one man stood in their way. Tucker Jolson, the Jackrabbits cornerback, stuck an arm up, bobbled the ball, then caught it for an interception. Tucker’s momentum carried him out of bounds, stopping the clock.

The Jackrabbits had regained possession on their own eighteen, fourteen seconds remaining on the clock, down by three, no time-outs.

Cole looked to Hickham for a signal, then relayed the play in the huddle, adding: “For all of you not going long on this fucker, you damn well better be putting the stick on someone. It’s heaven or hell time, boys. The choice is yours, on three.”

Cole stepped under center.

Booker angled straight toward him. The linebacker’s face was a mask of mud through which washed-out eyes glowed white-hot.

Cole shut his own eyes to erase his nemesis from sight and mind.

His head went silent.

The bands muted.

The crowd vanished.

His pain—physical and otherwise—faded away.

Suddenly, Mona’s dying words fell on him in a whisper: “Only victory can save their souls now . . .”

Eternal victory—for his teammates, Mona, Curtis, even for himself—would be gained or lost in this moment. This play.

His eyes opened.

He went into the count.

“Hut one … hut two . . .”

He took the snap on three, a blistering crack of leather slapping skin.

A wall of jerseys rose before him.

He dropped back. Sam Toony, tight end, cut a quick slant across midfield into heavy coverage. The pass rush closed in immediately. Cole was left with no choice but to risk a desperation pass. He went into his motion, then stopped. Booker had broken through the protection, too close now for Cole to get the pass off.