In one of those dangerous conversation starters that couples sometimes perpetrate on each other, my wife asked me if i could choose five minutes to live over again, which would they be?
I parsed the question silently for a moment and then replied that I would have to give a couple of minutes to our engagement in that little pensione in Venice and another two from our wedding vows, and perhaps another 55 seconds from the crazy sex we had on the floor of the walk-in closet just before our guests arrived for that cocktail party. Then, somewhat tentatively, because I knew she wanted the whole five minutes, I added, âCan I have five seconds for my catch?â
At Catholic High School in the 1970s, Iâd been a moderately successful football player. My senior year, I started at wide receiver, but we ran an option offense that featured a fullback who rushed for more than a 1,000 yards, and we didnât pass much. I didnât have particularly good hands. I wasnât fast. Downfield blocking was really my specialty.
But one Friday night, the proverbial sodium-vapor lights of high school football glory shone brightly on me. After falling behind against McClellan High at War Memorial Stadium, we Rockets mounted a furious comeback, ending on our opponentâs 24-yard line with five seconds remaining and the score 28-22. All that was left to do was throw a Hail Mary, our parochial school lips mouthing the prayer itâs named for. Our quarterback, the redoubtable and alliterative Hank Hooper, scrambled away from the rush and heaved the ball goalward. It found its way between the arms of some defenders, and I clutched it to my gut as I fell into the end zone to tie the game. My first thought before my teammates rushed me was to get the ball to the referee, so we wouldnât be penalized for delay of game or something on the extra point. Robert Hudgensâs kick was true and we won the game.
It wasnât a difficult catch, not like two later Miracles on Markham for the Razorbacks, where DeCori Birmingham in 2002 and London Crawford in 2008 each grabbed last-second passes to beat LSU. Its closer relative was Gerard Phelanâs reception of the 48-yard pass from Doug Flutie to lead Boston College over Miami in 1984 â” except that mine was half the distance. Still, it was my moment. I caught only one other pass that year, so I liked to say that half my catches as a senior were for touchdowns.
After the season (in which we finished a disappointing 7-5), I filched the grainy 16mm game film from the coachesâ office, justifying that my one shining moment would be lost to oxidation under piles of damp socks and towels unless I acted. Later, I had it transferred to VHS and labeled it âMission of Mercy,â which was the headline in the Arkansas Gazette the next day. It was among my other prized tapes â” a Monty Python marathon from PBS, Bill Forsythâs âLocal Heroâ (still my favorite movie), and Bruce Brownâs motocross classic, âOn Any Sundayâ â” when I met my wife, who thought it might be some obscure action film. Oh, indeed it was.
With that catch, as modest as my athletic career had been, I joined a select fraternity of athletes, famous and not, who had passed, through skill or luck, the most nerve-wracking test that sports sets up â” coming through in the clutch. In its most dramatic incarnations, the clutch occurs only once a game, as the clock ticks away the final seconds. Not many legitimate high school heroes get the chance to deliver, but now, when I watch a player hit a last-second shot in the NCAA tournament, or a batter belt a walk-off home run, or even see Tiger Woods roll in a putt from 24 feet on the 18th hole to win by one stroke, I have some small inkling of the finger-pointing, hat-spiking, fist-pumping joy that brings. I am Tiger Woods, kind of.
Most athletic triumphs exist only in the 3â¦2â¦1 driveway countdowns of our imaginations. So I gratefully savor my faint kinship with those large-stage winners. And I have a highlight reel of one clip to remind me of the feeling. Real life so rarely provides an occasion for such unambiguous, unleashed, unadulterated joy.
After a good run of 10 years, the joy of my marriage became adulterated, and we split up. So Iâve got my five minutes back. Now, I can start at the beginning of the drive, when Hank Hooper trotted out to the huddle on our own 16 with 1:22 left and caught a cleat on the Astroturf and almost fell on his face in front of us, which made us laugh and released the tension. I can relive the 31-yard dash down the sideline by running back Robert âBoâ Cook that put us at midfield and got us thinking we might have a chance. (If Iâd made a downfield block, he could have gone all the way.) I can savor the effort by the better wide receiver on the team, the speedy, sticky-fingered Stephen Chaffin, to get out of bounds and stop the clock with 33 seconds left, leaving his right shoe in the hands of a would-be tackler in the process. And after the winning extra point, I can use the rest of my time for the wild celebration with my teammates. After all, what good is joy if itâs not shared.