Chapter 7 - The Halftime Countdown
We tore back through the streets of Westridge like a fire truck on a call. Washington drove with both hands glued to the wheel, running two yellow lights while Derek coordinated with the broadcast producer on speakerphone.
"Producer says if we are on the mark by 8:02 PM, they will run the four-minute package live," Derek reported, his navy blazer rumpled, his clipboard tucked tightly under his arm. "They've already set up the floor lights in your living room."
When we pulled into my driveway at 7:55 PM, the quiet neighborhood street looked like a movie set. A forty-foot satellite truck was parked on the curb, thick black cables snaking across my snowy lawn and through the open front door. Technicians in black headsets were running back and forth.
Harriet’s sedan pulled up right behind us. She jumped out, holding the red leather case against her coat like a quarterback holding a prized possession.
"I got it! I got it!" she called out.
I took the red case into my hands. The leather was cool and smooth. I unlatched the brass hooks and lifted the lid.
Inside lay the real 1984 championship football. The silver ink wasn't just bright—it caught the moonlight. Samuel’s precise handwriting was on the laces.
I looked up at my house. The neighbors were still there, standing along the porch, holding their coats tight around them, waiting to see if the widow Fennimore could pull off a miracle.
"Two minutes to air, Mrs. Fennimore!" a stage manager with a headset shouted from the porch doorway. "In position!"
I walked into my living room. The broken glass had been swept into a neat pile by my neighbors. The cake-smeared carpet had been covered with a dark blue runner. The walnut stand was wiped clean, illuminated by two massive broadcast umbrellas that turned my cozy living room into a sunlit stage.
Washington stood by the door, his eyes red, his suit jacket off. He looked at me with a pride I hadn't seen in his face since the day he passed the bar exam.
"Mom," he whispered. "You look incredible."
I smoothed down the front of my purple gown. I picked up the pristine, authentic 1984 championship ball from the red case, walked over to the walnut stand, and set it squarely in the center of the cushion where Samuel had intended it to rest.
"Thirty seconds!" the stage manager yelled, counting down with his fingers. "Ten... nine... eight..."
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I sat down in my armchair beside Samuel's empty leather seat. Derek Hollis stepped into the frame beside me, holding his clipboard, looking every bit the professional museum director.
"Three... two... stage is live!"
