Free Away Running by David Wright

maybe, but all of them stomping their feet and chanting, “ Olé! Olé-Olé-Olé! ”
    The Beach didn’t have a scoreboard. The ref told me, “Thirty seconds left in the half.”
    The Jets defensive players were in disarray, sniping at each other. Now was the time to go for the jugular. I called the deep flood pass, an all-or-nothing play that sent Moose and Sidi up the left sideline. It was a sure touchdown if the Jets didn’t adjust.
    I scanned the Jets defense as I walked to the line of scrimmage. They were showing cover 2, perfect for the call. (I hoped Sidi had seen it too.) I called the cadence, took the snap from Jorge and made a five-step drop. I pump-faked to Moose, who was cutting toward the flag, and launched it toward Sidi, who broke open inside their ten, right where he was supposed to. I watched the ball sail through the air, could hear our players on the sidelines, first “Aahh!” then “Ooooohhh…”
    Sidi had dropped the ball.
    I looked toward our bench. Coach Thierry was holding his head in his hands. Freeman just shook his back and forth. Then I heard a commotion coming from the other sideline.
    Instead of returning to our huddle, Sidi was across the field, in front of the Jets bench, swearing at them. I couldn’t make out his words, but their players and fans stared at him, kind of dumbfounded. The refs too. Everyone just stood and watched.
    But then someone started laughing, and Sidi really lost it. Utterly and totally. He kicked dirt in their direction, shot them the bird with both hands, grabbed his crotch.
    Coach Thierry and Moose rushed over and grabbed him. Aïda had come down out of the stands. They dragged him from the field, Sidi spitting insults all the while, even at our own fans, who were laughing now too.
    “Dang,” Freeman said when I got to the sideline.
    Dang was right.
    The tide turned in the second half. The Jets just bullied our defense. Their running back, a strong-legged nineteen-year-old Algerian kid, ran the ball down our throats. (Moose said he was a ringer they’d brought in from the high-rises in Saint-Denis, the suburb next to Villeneuve.) Freeman did his best to limit the damage, but they lined up their American on one side of the field, to draw Freeman over (Moose had googled the kid: he was a wuss receiver who’d graduated high school in California the year before), and then they ran their Algerian ringer in the other direction.
    Our 14–0 became 14–7, 14–14…By the fourth quarter, we were trailing by twenty points, 34–14, with only two minutes left. I couldn’t do anything about it. I had to watch from the sideline.
    “What’s wrong with Freeman?” Monsieur Lebrun asked. “Why can’t he stop them?”
    We were standing at one end of our bench.
    “He shut their offense down in the first half,” I said. “They figured out he’s American. They adjusted.”
    Monsieur Lebrun kicked an empty Evian bottle. “ Merde! So that’s what our opponents are going to do all season? That’s what we’re paying for?”
    I didn’t know what to say.
    With less than a minute remaining, Moose called our last timeout. The rest of us huddled around him on the sideline.
    “This isn’t about winning or losing anymore,” he said. “It’s about pride. We have to make these rich bastards pay. Tax them a little something for their time spent in Villeneuve!”
    I wasn’t sure Freeman had understood what Moose said, but he sure acted as if he did. On the next play, the Jets ran a fake to Freeman’s side, their big running back an obvious decoy. Poor kid. Freeman tagged him anyway—drove the crown of his helmet under the guy’s chin—right in front of our bench. The kid was out cold before he hit the ground, his arms limp at his side, his helmet knocked off and skipping down the sideline.
    There were only maybe fifty or so fans left, freezing their butts off on the metal bleachers, but they all popped up, roaring. Even the gangbangers in sunglasses and hoodies who