Quick Pitch Right

I stood in the huddle, raindrops cascading down my helmet, the cold rain stinging my eyes. It was a typical October night in Seattle, 41° with a steady stream of rain. I could see everyone’s breath steaming as eleven of us stood at the opponents’ 42-yard line. We were playing in the legendary Memorial Stadium, located downtown at the Seattle Center.

My uniform was soaked through, but I don’t think any of us were feeling the cold. We had 42 yards to move the ball for a game-winning touchdown. Our common purpose in that moment was to score and win the game.

As we stood in the huddle—linemen facing away, our backs to the ball, running backs facing forward, toward the line of scrimmage. The receivers filled in the sides of our somewhat egg-shaped huddle.

The quarterback stepped in to call the next play. He would call it twice, followed by a loud clap to break the huddle. We waited expectantly. “Quick pitch right on one,” “Quick pitch right on one,” Steve called, followed by a loud CLAP as we broke the huddle, running to the line of scrimmage.

As the huddle broke, Mike’s and my eyes met briefly. A small smile broke out on Mike’s face, that ever-present twinkle in his eyes. My determined look softened into a small smile when I saw his grin. He always had a way of making people smile.

Quick pitch right was Mike’s and my favorite play, designed for a speedy run to the outside with me pulling around to block for him. I made my way to the line of scrimmage. Settling in quickly, I knew the play would start on the quarterback’s first sound.

The Roosevelt Rough Rider across from me started trash-talking. “I’m going to blow you up, man. You’re going down, #76!” Through the raindrops and fog of our frozen breaths, I gave him a wicked grin and winked.

“HUT!” Steve shouted at the line of scrimmage, setting the play in motion. I pivoted my body 90°, taking quick steps in a short semicircle toward the backfield. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw our tight end, “Big O,” make a sensational block on the Roughriders’ defensive end—a great start. As I continued pulling deeper into the backfield, I saw our slot receiver, Kerney, deliver a solid crack block on the outside linebacker.

I turned, now fully facing our quarterback. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Mike, his vaunted #42 glowing in bright gold against the deep green of the Blanchet Braves High School jersey, arc toward the sidelines. Mike loved the number 42, his idol John Brockington’s number, and wore it in every sport he played.

Mike and I were now running parallel on the same arc. I saw Steve make a perfect lateral pitch to Mike, who caught the ball flawlessly and secured it in his outside arm. In that brief moment, our eyes met again… but what a long moment. It captured a lifetime of memories for my best friend Mike and me, all 17 years at that point. Memories of second-grade sleepovers, grade school basketball championships, our first beer together, double-dating with our girlfriends, car rides to nowhere, a brief stint in jail, surviving vocal blasts from our fiery dads, and being senior year football captains. More than anything, that moment held the total trust and comfort we always shared.

Mike caught the ball. We turned our view up field. He reached out, placing his hand on my back, silently saying, “Lead the way, Murns!” (Yet another nickname from Mike, who had one for just about everyone.)

With initial blocks from our teammates, we had open field ahead. The crowd roared as only one Roughrider stood between us and the goal line, a small, defensive back. My technique was to run at his outside shoulder, forcing him to turn inside or face us head-on. Foolishly, he chose to take us on. Now picking up even more speed, mist steaming from our helmets like two freight trains barreling down the tracks, we closed in. As he turned to face us, I charged at him, running him out of bounds. Now #42 had a clear path to the goal line and the game-winning touchdown.

After the game, it was time to celebrate. We emerged from the locker room, up the stairs, and into the school’s back parking lot to meet our girlfriends. Then we were off to celebrate a Friday night victory. Our celebratory drink was Rainier Beer, better known to us as “Vitamin R.” Most Friday celebrations meant a kegger at North Acres Park, drinking with teammates and friends out of Dick’s Drive-In cups, before the local police inevitably chased us away.

This past year I lost #42, my brother and lifetime friend of nearly 60 years. Almost 50 years later, I can still see that play in my mind’s eye our eyes meeting as we turned up field, only a slice of memories we’d go on to share for a lifetime.

I remember the last time I saw Mike, the pain and suffering of his illness too much to bear. I gave him a hug as I walked to my car, just like 50 years ago, our eyes meeting for a brief moment. Only this time, the eyes that once twinkled as bright as the nighttime stars were dim, with a darkness I did not recognize.

As I climbed into my car, he closed the door for me looking through the half-open window. I said, “See you next week, brother.” He bent down, his gaze drifting well beyond me before snapping back. He reached through the window, put his hand on my shoulder, and said, “See you later, Big Daddy Murns.” For the briefest moment, I saw that twinkle sparkle in his eyes as he turned and walked away.

Little did I know, that moment would be the last I’d share on this earth with my beloved #42.