years old, and his right knee had more tracks than the Union Pacific. Six surgeries left him with a permanent limp but an ability to scrape out a living in the pits once he ingested sufficient pain killers and was wrapped in several dozen yards of tape and supported by titanium braces. The offensive line dropped from a two-point stance to three points as the holder called out the signals. From the moment of the snap count, the center, the holder, and the kicker would have 1.3 seconds to accomplish their interdependent tasks.
The holder barked 'set-set-set' and Stynchula, looking at the world upside down between his legs, snapped a perfect spiral to the holder, then raised his head and brought his right leg a step backward. Automatically, he searched for the guard's left leg, trying to lock up, hoping to push the Cowboy rushers to the outside of the cup, but Buckwalter Washington, who was blessed with what coaches call quick feet, lunged straight and low, driving a wedge between the two offensive linemen. T.J. Moore, a cornerback who had nearly made the Olympic team as a high jumper slipped past Washington's ample backside and jumped into the gap Buckwalter had just created between Stynchula and the guard. Moore took two steps and leapt high with one hand extended, a graceful cherry- picking leap which left him suspended while the kicker's leg swung through the ball.
Bobby Gallagher saw none of the action on the interior of the line. He kept his eyes on the holder, in fine appreciation of the unrecognized talent of such men. He noted that Stynchula's snap was perfect and that the holder, a backup quarterback, made a smooth catch, spun the laces forward and placed the ball down at just the proper angle.
From the corner of his eye, he saw a Cowboy defender — T.J. Moore — leaping, and it occurred to him that Moore had invaded two yards or so behind the line of scrimmage.
Oh shit!
The thwack of the ball striking Moore's hand could be heard over the hushed crowd. The ball tumbled end- over-end and appeared to be headed out of bounds.
Damn, Bobby thought, watching the blocked kick careen toward the sideline. Dallas will survive by a point, and I'll have to put up with Kingsley's gloating.
At least, I'll still win sixty grand.
Suddenly, Nightlife Jackson, on double duty as a defensive back, sped into Bobby's line of vision. He jumped high, speared the errant kick with one hand just before it crossed the sideline. He caught the ball in full stride, a fluid, effortless play of such beauty and grace as to belong to the special preserve of the supremely gifted athlete. Jackson accelerated down the sideline past the Mustangs' bench, his cohorts waving their arms toward the Packer end zone, windmilling him home.
The scene was surreal, the stadium in numbed shock, only the voices of the Cowboy players and their scattered fans breaking the silence.
The sole pursuer was the kicker who gave half-hearted chase to the sprinting Jackson. The game, after all, was over. Except for the bettors.
Dallas had won the game the instant Moore's hand touched the kick, but now Jackson carried the Vegas point spread, as well as the football, down the sideline. Falling farther behind, the Green Bay kicker gave up, shaking his fist in disgust at the fleeing Jackson. Looking back over his shoulder, Jackson slowed to a dancing, knife-twisting waltz at the twenty, then high-stepped into the end zone where he boogied, pirouetted, and feigning a faint, toppled over backwards as if knocked unconscious by his own sheer brilliance.
Bobby watched, reeling from the ramifications.
No! No! No!
20
Kingsley jumped to his feet, a roar exploding from his chest. 'How 'bout them Mustangs!' He turned to hug Scott, lifting him off his feet. 'You did it, my boy! He turned to the others and bellowed: 'My grandson called the play! He's a genius. We're going to the Super Bowl!'
'And then Disney World,' somebody called out from near the bar.
Christine squealed with joy, laughing and crying at the same time. Kingsley released Scott and grabbed his daughter. They hugged fiercely. Friends and team executives crowded around to slap Kingsley on the back and share the purest moment of sheer ecstasy and exhilaration.
Only Scott did not join in the celebration. He blamed himself.
Oh Dad, I'm so sorry.
The scoreboard showed 20–13 Dallas, and the kicking unit was taking the field to try the PAT. Scott didn't need the calculator to do the math. With the extra point, his father was stuck in the middle of the two bets, and he'd done it to him.
Even if the Mustangs blocked the field goal attempt, I never thought they'd run it back for a touchdown. Aw Jeez, I should have kept my big mouth shut.
Scott had suffered despair before, of course. When his parents sat him down to explain, oh so calmly, that they were divorcing but that they both loved him and nothing would change-yeah right-he had hit bottom. He loved them both so much. Dad was a cool guy who took him everywhere and treated him like an adult. Mom was neat, too. Okay, she worried about him too much, but that was a Mom thing. She couldn't help it.
For as long as he could remember, they were all gooey-eyed toward each other. Touching all the time, embarrassing him at Little League, sitting there in the stands holding hands, kissing after he got a hit or even reached first base on some stupid error. He pretended they were someone else's parents or recently released patients from a mental hospital who had arbitrarily chosen to root for him. Mainly, he figured they were a little goofy, but that was okay.
Why the hell did they split up? He knew it had to do with Dad working for Pop, that they disagreed about the way to do things, but why didn't Dad just get a different job? He remembered the argument with Mom at the end, right after Dad went on TV. It was the only time he ever heard her raise her voice to him. 'You didn't have to make a spectacle of yourself! You didn't have to humiliate my father and me. Or did you?'
Yeah, Scott figured, he did. Right after it had happened, he'd asked Dad why he was so mean to Pop. 'Because I had to get my balls back,' his father said. Scott didn't understand it then, but now that he was older, it was starting to make more sense.
Now, more than anything, he wanted to help get his parents back together. If Dad could get out of debt and clean up his act, then maybe things would work out.
I should be helping him, but look what I've done!
Bobby did the addition and subtraction even before the Mustangs made the PAT. Fourteen plus seven equals twenty-one. Final score 21–13. Twenty-one minus thirteen equals eight.
Eight points!
Dallas would win by eight, and he'd be middled. Vinnie LaBarca cleaned his clock on both bets. One million, two hundred thousand dollars.
'The kick is up. It's go-o-o-d! What a game, Brent.'
In the millisecond it had taken T.J. Moore's fingertips to slap a football out of the air, chaos had replaced order. Suddenly, Bobby was cold again, frozen to the core. He felt as if his knees were locked and he'd never be able to stand. The Packer faithful, quiet as Quakers in church, filed sadly to the exits while Bobby sat in his seat, his mind a vague, cloudy wasteland.
Suddenly, a jarring sound stirred him. His cellular. He punched a button, figuring the Cantor was calling him back. 'Jeez, Saul, can you believe my bad luck?'
'I believe it, asshole,' Vinnie LaBarca said with a liquid laugh that sounded like he was hacking phlegm. 'One-point-two million clams! Now pay me my fucking money.'
