SYLO

ONE

It was the perfect night for a football game.

And for death.

Not that the two have anything in common. When you hear the term “sudden death,” you normally don’t expect there to be an actual loss of life, sudden or otherwise, but there was nothing normal about that night.

It was the night it began. The night of the death.

The first death.

I was sitting on the end of the team bench, more interested in the cheerleaders than the game. To be honest, I didn’t have much business being on the team. There weren’t many freshmen on the Arbortown High varsity, but with a student population that barely squeaked past two hundred, if you had two legs and didn’t mind being brutally punished by guys who were older, bigger, and faster than you, you were in. I’m not exactly sure why I accepted the role of living tackling dummy, but I liked football and figured that in a few years I’d be the one running over hapless freshmen. So I guess I was paying my dues.

My main duty during a game was to be the sprinter on the kickoff team. That meant I had to run directly for the guy who fielded the kick…which made me the first to get taken out by the wall of blockers who were intent on stopping that very thing. It was an ugly job but at least it meant I’d come out of a game with a little dirt on my uniform.

My other duty was to be the backup for our senior tailback, Marty Wiggins. That’s why I spent most of my time on the bench watching the cheerleaders. Marty was a legend. He’d had big-time colleges sniffing around him since he was a sophomore. He was that good.

But on that night, he was just sick.

The stands were packed. For Arbortown High that meant maybe five hundred people. It wasn’t exactly the Rose Bowl but you wouldn’t know that from the excitement Marty was generating. The place went nuts every time he got his hands on the ball because he was running over guys and knocking them aside like bowling pins. When he was tackled, which wasn’t often, it took three players to drag him down. It was like watching a pro beating up on Pop Warner boys. He was in for most every play of the game until, with only a few minutes left, he dropped down next to me on the bench to take a rare breather.

He sat there gulping air, staring back at the field.

I figured his night was over so I held up my fist for a knuckle-bump and said, “Dude. Awesome.”

Marty looked at me…and I froze.

He had a fiery, wild look in his eyes that made me think for one terrifying moment that he was going to hit me. The guy was totally charged up with…what? Excitement? Anger? Insanity? He didn’t bump knuckles. Just as well, he might have broken my hand. I sat there like a fool with my fist hovering, un-bumped. I didn’t want to say anything else for fear he’d drive his helmet through my face. Instead, he grabbed my forearm in a grip that was so fierce I had black-and-blue marks the next day.

“What’s happening?” he whispered through gasping breaths.

He said it with a disturbing mix of fear and confusion that made me believe he truly didn’t understand what was going on around him. Or with him.

“Uh…what do you mean?” I asked tentatively.

“Wiggins!” barked Coach.

Marty jumped to his feet and sprinted back into the game as if he had been launched from a catapult.

I was left on the bench, not knowing what had just happened.

The play was called and the team went to the line. Marty was pitched the ball and he rumbled around left end for another fifteen yards. All was well. Marty was fine. I chalked up his odd behavior to adrenaline and the excitement of the game and went back to my all-important cheerleader review.

Arbortown is a pretty small place, so going to a high school football game was the best thing to do on Friday nights in the fall. Okay, the only thing to do. As I scanned the crowd, I saw many people I knew, including my mother and father. Dad gave me a big smile and a thumbs-up. Mom wasn’t as enthusiastic. She hated that I played football. Her deep frown meant she was expecting me to get injured just by sitting on the bench.

I gave them a small wave, then looked away…to notice a strange face in the crowd. It belonged to a man with longish blond hair wearing a hoodie. He looked like a surfer dude, complete with beard stubble and a single earring. He stood out amid the sea of fans because he was the only one not cheering. Instead, he wrote furiously in a small notebook. I figured he might have been a college scout. It would explain why Marty was playing like he was possessed. This could be a scholarship showcase for him.

“Button up!” Coach ordered as he strode past. “We’re going to score again.”

That meant all the wretched scrubs, like me, had to be ready for another kickoff. We were on the ten yard line and about to go in. There were only a few seconds left in the game and I was surprised that, seeing it was a blowout, Coach hadn’t pulled Marty. Maybe he knew there was a scout in the crowd taking notes. Or maybe he didn’t trust Marty’s backup—me.

I stood up with the rest of the team and cheered for the offense. It felt cheesy to be screaming for another score since the game had been over since halftime, but what can you do? It’s football.

The team came up to the line, the QB called signals, and the ball was snapped. Marty took the handoff—no big surprise—and blasted into the line off right tackle. The defense had had enough. They didn’t want any part of him. There were a few halfhearted arm tackles that didn’t even slow him down as he burst into the end zone.

Touchdown.

The crowd exploded once again, cheering ecstatically while the band kicked in with our fight song, “Jericho.” The cheerleaders jumped around and hugged each other like we’d just won a championship when all we’d done was add pad to an already lopsided score.

Marty sprinted to the back of the end zone, turned to the stands, threw his arms up in triumph…

…and dropped dead.

Of course, I didn’t know that at the time. All I saw was Marty fall over and land on his back. At first I thought it was some new kind of celebration dance, like spiking himself instead of the ball. Our players were jumping on each other, chest-bumping and high-fiving. When they finally got around to focusing on the guy who was the cause of the celebration, they pulled on his arms to help him up…but Marty didn’t respond.

In seconds the emotion of the moment flipped from elation to concern.

“Hey!” our guys yelled while waving to the sideline for help. “He’s hurt!”

The crowd noise died instantly. It was a rude jolt to experience the sudden and dramatic change from joyous cheers and music to absolute silence.

Coach sprinted onto the field, waving at the other players to back away. He was quickly joined by a paramedic. With the rest of our offense huddled nearby, watching expectantly, the paramedic knelt down to examine Marty.

There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that something serious had happened to our superstar. As he lay still on the grass, two more paramedics ran onto the field with a fracture board.

I turned around to look at my parents. Dad’s expression now matched Mom’s. They knew something horrible had happened. Everyone knew. A few seconds later we heard the urgent scream of a far-off siren.

I didn’t look back to the field right away because I was mesmerized by the communal look of anxiety and horror on the faces of each and every person in the stands. All eyes were on the end zone and the guy who lay on his back, not moving.

People cleared a path for Marty’s dad, who pushed his way through to get to the field. The poor guy was about to find out that his son had just gone from playing the game of his life to taking the final breath of his life.

Every last person feared that they were witnessing something horrific. Something they would never forget. Nobody moved as they waited for the news they knew wouldn’t be good.

Almost nobody, that is. As I stared at the stands, I noticed that one person had already left. He hadn’t even stuck around long enough for the ambulance to arrive.

The surfer dude with the notebook was gone.

It was the night of the death.

The first death.

And it was only the beginning.