MD - Chapter 278: Historic performanceNewApril 3
The stadium erupted in cheers.
Andrew, standing on the sideline alongside the rest of the offense, applauded with the others, though far more calmly than most.
"Nice job, defense!" Steve shouted, clapping hard with a wide grin.
The game had only just begun. It was the Team East's first offensive drive. That's why Andrew, Steve, and the rest of the offense hadn't stepped onto the field yet, they watched from the sideline, waiting their turn.
What had just happened was no minor play.
DeForest Buckner, the Team West defensive end, a high 4-star prospect, had blown past his blocker with startling speed and sacked Jameis Winston just as he dropped back, looking for time to throw.
Yes, he had just sacked Jameis Winston, the 5-star quarterback, the number one dual-threat prospect in the rankings.
Seven yards lost.
Before that, Team East needed eight yards to earn a new set of downs. Now, with those seven yards lost, the situation had suddenly become far more complicated.
It was no longer eight.
Now they needed fifteen to reset the downs. And they were on third down, their last real opportunity before being forced to give up possession.
It's true that a fourth down exists, a final chance to advance. But in practice, in this kind of situation and this area of the field, it's almost never used as an aggressive attempt. The reason is simple.
If you fail on fourth down, you don't just lose possession, you hand the ball to your opponent exactly where you were stopped. In other words, you're giving them a potentially very favorable field position to score.
That's why, in the vast majority of cases, fourth down isn't really an offensive attempt.
It's a strategic decision. You punt the ball.
You send it as far as possible to force your opponent to start their drive from a poor field position.
So in practice, the real final attempt was that third down.
'Winston… in theory, a future Heisman winner,' Andrew thought, watching him closely as Team East's offense lined up for a decisive play.
Jameis Winston had already made his college decision. He would attend Florida State, joining the Atlantic Coast Conference, the ACC.
The ACC was one of the five major conferences in college football. That wasn't up for debate. It was Power Five. But at that moment, it was also the weakest of the group.
Generally, the landscape looked something like this, blending recent performance with historical weight:
1. Southeastern Conference (SEC): the toughest league, without question. Total dominance in championships, elite defenses, and depth across every program.
2. Pac-12 Conference: consistently top-tier talent, explosive offenses, and powerhouse programs like USC, Oregon, and Stanford.
3. Big Ten Conference: historic and physical, though with less recent presence in national titles. Some analysts even argued it could rank above the Pac-12.
4. Big 12 Conference: high-powered offenses, fast pace, but often criticized defenses.
5. Atlantic Coast Conference (ACC): it had its era of dominance, especially in the 90s, with Florida State as a perennial powerhouse, but in recent years it had lost weight. Fewer BCS Championship appearances, fewer truly elite teams week to week.
Still, Winston's decision wasn't seen as a mistake.
Florida State remained a historic program. A big name. A place where a quarterback could develop properly.
But it was also true that the path could be seen as easier. Less internal competition, more chances to start early, and, on paper, a simpler road to dominating the conference.
And that's where the inevitable comparison came in. One that had already been discussed in more than one sports panel.
Andrew's decision to go to UCLA.
That was seen as the complete opposite. Not an easy path, a real challenge.
To understand it, you had to look at the actual competitive context.
The AP Poll, the most influential ranking in college football, voted on by journalists across the country, defined, at the end of each season, who the best teams truly were. It wasn't perfect, but it was the primary benchmark for measuring level.
In the 2011 season, the numbers spoke for themselves.
The Pac-12 had:
Stanford Cardinal football → no.7
USC Trojans football → no.6
Oregon Ducks football → no.4
Three teams inside the Top 7 in the country. It was a truly elite conference, and if you looked strictly at recent performance, arguably top two, only behind the SEC.
On the other side, the ACC had just one team in the final rankings:
Clemson Tigers football → no.22
That's why, even though Jameis Winston's decision to go to Florida State wasn't criticized, it was still seen as a cleaner path.
As Winston gathered with his offense in the huddle, the background noise of the stadium felt different.
It wasn't just the volume.
It was the tone, boos, whistles, and unfriendly comments raining down from the stands. From the sideline, you could feel it clearly.
Rush Propst, head coach of Team East, looked up and scanned the stadium, his expression caught somewhere between surprise and irritation.
'What the hell kind of atmosphere is this?' he thought, frowning slightly.
This wasn't new territory for him.
He had built his name at Hoover High School in Alabama, dominating for years and turning the program into a national phenomenon. Five state championships. Four in a row. Media exposure. Even a docu-reality show. Later, at Colquitt County, he continued competing at a high level.
And this wasn't his first U.S. Army All-American Bowl, either. But he had never seen anything like this.
Because this game, by its very nature, didn't work like this.
There were no deep rivalries. It was more of a family-friendly, neutral, highly respectful event. The stadium, despite often setting attendance records, usually carried more of a showcase atmosphere than real pressure.
But what he was witnessing at the start of this game was completely different. Team East wasn't playing an All-Star Game.
They were playing as if they were on the road. In an environment that felt unmistakably hostile.
The reason was obvious, and it had nothing to do with Team West itself.
It had to do with Andrew.
A huge portion of the crowd hadn't come for the event itself, nor for the East vs. West concept. They had come for him. Fans of his YouTube channel from all over the country. Years of following his videos, his games.
In the absence of traditional loyalty, something else had emerged, something no one had expected.
The ball reached Winston's hands. Instead of throwing, he chose to run.
For a moment, it looked like it might work. He found a gap, pushed forward with power, slipped the first contact, but it was fifteen yards. Too much. The defense closed in fast.
He was tackled with five yards still to go.
Fourth down.
The stadium reacted. But not because of the defensive stop because of what was coming next.
The offense taking the field. Team East's special teams unit came out for the punt.
Meanwhile, on the opposite sideline, Andrew picked up his helmet and put it on calmly.
The rest of the offense did the same and a murmur began to rise.
At first scattered, like isolated voices. Then clearer. More coordinated.
"Andrew…! Andrew…! Andrew…!"
The name rolled down from the stands, repeating, spreading across the entire stadium.
Winston and the rest of the offense walked back, some shaking their heads, others avoiding eye contact with the crowd.
The pressure was obvious. Propst watched them for a second.
'Well… at least he's going to feel this too,' he thought.
Because now the focus shifted. All that noise, all that expectation, it was turning toward Andrew and the rest of the offense.
Bob Ladouceur, the legendary head coach of De La Salle, was now leading Team West.
Ladouceur wasn't just any coach. He had spent over three decades at the helm of his program, since 1979. Between 1992 and 2004, he achieved something nearly impossible: 151 consecutive victories. Over 15 undefeated seasons. 27 North Coast Section titles.
In total, he had coached 412 games.
He won 382.
He tied 3.
He lost 27.
Twenty-seven losses in thirty-three years. An average of 0.81 losses per season. In other words, he lost less than one game per year, roughly four losses every five seasons.
A level of consistency that bordered on the absurd.
And yet, in the last two years, he had suffered two defeats.
Back-to-back, and against the same opponent.
Mater Dei High School, and, more specifically, against Andrew, who had been MVP in both games, beating the Spartans' defense again and again. He hadn't found a way to stop him. Not once.
It had been, without a doubt, the biggest headache he'd had over those last two years. Because it hadn't been a coincidence. Ladouceur had prepared for those games, knowing that matchup would come.
Still, it wasn't enough. And now that same player was under his command. In any other context, it might have been uncomfortable. Strange, even. But not for him.
It didn't bother him at all. In fact, that was why he had accepted the head coach position.
Ladouceur wasn't made for these kinds of events. He didn't need exposure or extra recognition. His legacy was already built. But there was something about Andrew he respected. The way he played. His work ethic. The way he handled his fame.
And also that detail. The final at the Rose Bowl, just a few weeks earlier. Andrew walking up to him after the game and asking for a photo.
"Just play your game," Ladouceur said, in that calm, almost low tone, giving him a pat on the back.
Nothing more was needed.
"Yes, coach," Andrew nodded, and started walking toward the field.
Chad Morris folded his arms, the Team West offensive coordinator, well known in the Texas high school scene, watching as the offense began to move.
"Well, it was obvious the first drive was going to be his," he muttered with a crooked smile.
Ladouceur let out a soft exhale, almost a chuckle. "Yes, otherwise these people would kill us," he said, briefly glancing toward the stands, where Andrew's name was still rolling down like a constant echo.
In one of the stadium's premium sections, Andrew's family stood, applauding along with the rest of the crowd as the offense took the field.
"Wow! Go Team West!" Phil exclaimed, his usual enthusiasm on full display, raising his arms.
"Come on, you've got this, Andrew!" Claire shouted, clapping nonstop, completely immersed in the moment.
Mitch, beside her, held a more restrained posture. He applauded, yes, but his gaze was fixed on the field, slightly worried something might go wrong. He wasn't exactly known for being the optimist of the family.
Gloria, on the other hand, had no such issue.
"Finally! Come on, Andresito! Crush them!" she yelled without any filter.
Cam was living it like it was the Super Bowl.
Jay just kept clapping, strong, steady. There was a smile on his face he couldn't quite hide.
Not because of the spectacle. But because he was watching an entire stadium react to his grandson.
"Let's go, cousin!" Haley shouted, leaning forward in her seat.
Alex, meanwhile, was watching the reactions across different sections of the stands with a serious expression. "YouTube really worked…" she murmured to herself.
What other prospect could generate something like this?
Even if there were someone just as good, she doubted it.
Because this didn't come from talent alone. It came from connection.
From nearly four years of videos: vlogs, games presented like documentary episodes, challenges, training sessions, diets, and more.
From people who didn't just watch him play, but felt like they knew him, had learned from him, had grown with him.
Manny was similar. Quieter and observing.
Luke was completely different.
"Destroy them! Make them never want to play again!" Luke shouted with far too much intensity.
Claire turned immediately. "Luke!"
"What?" he replied, shrugging. "I'm not the only one saying it…"
Claire shook her head, but turned her attention back to the field.
A bit farther away, in another premium section, another family watched the scene with a different mix of emotions.
The family of Andrus Peat, the Team West left tackle. Five-star. The best at his position. Now stepping onto the field alongside Andrew.
Marion, his father, kept his eyes on the roaring stands. Then he looked at his wife and children.
"See what I meant?"
This wasn't just football. And this same thing would happen at every UCLA game, at least at the beginning. When the hype would be at its peak. After that, everything would depend on results. It could hold, grow, or fade.
His wife nodded, understanding that at Stanford or USC, there wouldn't be anything like this.
Leilani, his daughter, pointed toward one of the highest sections. "This is insane…" she said, with a strange smile.
Up there, a group of teenagers wearing Mater Dei High School shirts wouldn't stop jumping, some with drums, cheering as if they were at a championship game.
In another section, with worse visibility, sat Monica, Ross, Chandler, and the rest. Not far from them, the Coopers as well.
Carol, next to Ross, watched everything with an expression caught between confusion and concern. "Why all this madness?" she said, looking around at the crowd in different sections. "I never understood why football in this country creates something like this, and I didn't know high school could reach this level."
She paused, then added, "Just because of that player wearing number nineteen?"
Monica turned her head toward her. For a second, she looked offended. But she held it in. She didn't dislike her brother's girlfriend, she just didn't understand.
"Andrew isn't just another player. He's different. He's helped a lot of people with his videos. Me included," she explained.
Ross couldn't help jumping in, with that half-smile of his. "Yeah, he definitely helped," he said. "A few years ago Monica was close to two hundred pounds, wore XL clothes. Even I couldn't fit into her shirts."
"Ross!" Monica snapped, turning sharply, caught between embarrassment and annoyance.
But she didn't deny it.
Carol blinked in surprise, looking at Monica, right now she looked very athletic. The last thing she would have imagined was that, a few years ago, she had been overweight.
Chandler raised his hand, as if joining the discussion. "Thanks to Andrew, I can run ten miles now without dying in the process."
Ross jumped in too, not wanting to be left out. "I improved too. I can run, and you can almost see my abs."
Rachel slowly turned her head toward him. "Wow… you can almost see your abs," she repeated, impressed. "A great achievement. Especially in four years."
"Thanks," Ross said with a smile, but then he frowned. "Wait, was that sarcasm?"
Rachel didn't look at him. "No, no, of course not. I'm seriously congratulating you on your great achievement of almost having visible abs."
Ross stared at her for a second, squinting.
Chandler let out a laugh. "As a sarcasm expert, my friend, that was definitely sarcasm."
Monica smiled, just slightly. She knew exactly what Rachel was doing. It wasn't to mock him, it was to return the jab Ross had thrown at her.
"If you keep going at this pace…" Monica said, looking at Ross, "Carol will probably see your abs when they're fossils, buried in a cemetery."
Chandler burst out laughing. Rachel smiled. Carol let out a small laugh, covering her mouth as if trying to hide it.
Ross went silent, staring at her. Then he raised both hands in front of his chest, clenched his fists, tapped one against the other, pulled them apart, brought them back together, and repeated.
"What the hell is that?" Rachel asked, confused.
"I call it the friendly finger. A classy and childish way of telling someone to go to hell without actually showing the middle finger," Chandler replied.
"Very mature, Ross," Monica said, rolling her eyes.
"I can't believe you still use that," Carol added, still amused.
Monica stopped paying attention to them and turned back to the field. Team West's offense was already lining up.
Andrew stood in position, looking straight ahead.
The offensive line settled in front of him. On the far left, though he couldn't see him directly, was Andrus Peat, the left tackle.
Minutes earlier, during warmups, Peat had approached him and told him straight up that he was going to UCLA, that he would announce it after the game.
Steve had been there, and Andrus hadn't cared that he heard, after all, they would be teammates too.
Steve smiled instantly and started talking with Andrus, connecting quickly. Though the latter was more reserved, a man of few words, at least with strangers.
Andrew was genuinely surprised, in a good way, by the news. Many recruits used this game, with its national broadcast and media impact, to announce their college commitments.
But Peat had told him first. He didn't have to, but he did. Later he'd surely announce it publicly so everyone would know.
And for Andrew, Peat was a valuable recruit. Not just a five-star, he was a left tackle.
For a quarterback, that mattered.
Andrew, being right-handed, had his left side as the "blind side", the one most at risk of getting him sacked. Having someone like Peat there meant time, time others simply couldn't give you.
Andrew pushed that aside and finally called out, "Set… hut!"
The ball snapped cleanly from the center. It reached his hands perfectly.
Andrew didn't hesitate. The read was immediate. He planted his foot and threw.
The ball left his hand with a clean spiral, direct, precise, with no unnecessary arc.
Steve was already cutting inside. The pass arrived just as he turned, and he caught it, pressing it to his chest as he took the next step.
Not before. Not after.
The first defender arrived late, trying to close the angle.
Steve left him behind with a short cut.
He gained yards.
Five.
Eight.
And only then did two Team East players manage to bring him down.
The whistle blew.
[Immediate connection between Pritchett and Rice! 14-yard gain and a first down!] Patrick exclaimed, his voice rising above the stadium noise.
[The old chemistry comes back to life,] Mike added. [A seven-yard pass and seven more after the catch. Absolute trust. Andrew released the ball before Steve had even fully turned.]
Applause poured down from every section of the stands.
Steve sprang up from the ground as if the tackle meant nothing. He started walking toward Andrew, and with a contained energy he could barely hide, he did a quick little celebration, moving his arms with messy enthusiasm. "We're back, baby!" he shouted, giving him rough pats on the shoulder.
Andrew smiled slightly and high-fived him.
"Good job," he said, as the huddle formed around them, "but we can't get comfortable. We've still got a long way to go."
Everyone nodded. Each of these elite players experienced it in their own way.
Some with absolute, almost cold focus, locked in on execution.
Others with a mix of excitement and adrenaline just from being there, being led by that quarterback they had heard so much about, watched on YouTube, followed through workouts, routines, and games.
Even those with bigger egos felt it differently.
The drive continued. Andrew had no intention of slowing it down. He wanted to play, and that meant moving fast.
But not selfishly.
He could have exploited his chemistry with Steve on every play. It was the easiest and safest option. But it wasn't the smartest.
The defense already knew it, so they adjusted.
Besides, he had talent everywhere, he had to use it. So he distributed the ball. Though in moments when the margin tightened, he went back to Steve, or ran it himself if needed.
The drive had barely reached two and a half minutes, and they were already close. Andrew took the snap, dropped back one step… two… and saw the opening.
Steve broke inside, created separation on the cut. The ball came out with force, over fifteen yards. Steve jumped, caught it, landed, and took a few more quick steps across the line.
The stadium exploded. A uniform, immediate roar.
[Touchdown Team West! Pritchett to Rice! Get used to it!] Patrick shouted, raising his voice.
Steve slammed the ball against the turf and raised his arms toward the stands, 'They really are intense,' he thought, taking in the faces and the noise.
[A special touchdown. The last time Pritchett and Rice scored together in an official game was December 11, 2009, in the CIF Division IV state final with Palisades High School. It's been 758 days since then,] Mike said, as if he had the stat ready to go.
Patrick let out a light laugh, impressed. [758 days to connect again for an official touchdown, and their chemistry still looks intact.]
They didn't go for the two-point conversion.
Andrew could have done it, but they had one of the best kickers in the country on the team, and they had to give him his moments.
The special teams unit came in. Clean kick, extra point.
7–0
The game went on. Back and forth in rhythm, but not in control. Because there was a clear dominant side.
Team West.
By the end of the first two quarters, the difference was already obvious:
Team West 24 — Team East 10
Andrew played three drives in the entire first half. And all three ended the same way:
Touchdown.
The first, with Steve.
The second, with Nelson Agholor, the five-star receiver committed to USC.
The third, through the ground game, finding Malcolm Brown, the top running back in the class, who finished the play powering into the end zone.
Total efficiency, spreading the ball around and dominating.
On the drives he had, Maty Mauk managed to move the offense enough to bring the team closer and put points on the board with a field goal. He did his job.
And Zeke Pike, the one who had said he came to win MVP, wasn't having the game he had imagined.
Zero touchdowns and one interception.
A play that briefly shifted the momentum. The defender returned the ball several yards before being stopped, putting his offense in a favorable position.
They capitalized. That's where Winston found his first touchdown of the game. Then Gunner Kiel managed to get them close enough for a field goal.
But even so, it wasn't enough.
Halftime began. On the field, a band started to line up. Instruments shining under the lights, simple formations, and music that blended the traditional with the patriotic.
Rush Propst, the East head coach, walked toward the tunnels with his team and couldn't help but glance toward Team West, who were also heading to the locker rooms.
His eyes locked onto Andrew. He was walking relaxed, talking with Steve and Peat. As if an entire stadium wasn't watching him.
Propst frowned slightly. 'Damn… why doesn't the pressure seem to affect him?' he thought.
He cut the thought short. This wasn't the time to observe.
It was time to fix things.
"Let's go! Everyone to the locker room!" he ordered, raising his voice.
He began giving instructions as they walked, things he had seen in those first two quarters and wasn't about to let slide. He didn't like losing, and even less like this.
Halftime was short. Barely fifteen minutes, and the game resumed.
In the third quarter, the same points were traded. A touchdown from Andrew on his fourth drive of the game.
And the second touchdown for Team East, scored by Gunner Kiel.
Team West 31 — Team East 17
The fourth quarter began.
The pace slowed naturally. Fatigue was already showing, in the legs, in the contact, in the speed of each play. But Team East had one thing clear: they didn't want this to turn into a historic blowout. If they couldn't come back, at least they wouldn't let the gap keep growing.
Andrew returned to the field for his fifth drive of the game. But this time, he was in a much tougher position.
Team East's punt had been excellent. Long, precise, and with great coverage. The ball died near the line.
Andrew literally had his own end zone behind him.
They were on their own 3-yard line. Ninety-seven yards to go. Practically the entire field.
One of the worst field positions possible. If not the worst.
[Difficult field position for Team West. From here, I expect the defense to bring heavy pressure,] Patrick commented, watching Team East's formation.
[No doubt,] Mike nodded. [The margin for error is minimal. If Pritchett takes the snap, drops back, and ends up inside his own end zone, he can't afford to get caught.]
If Andrew were to be tackled there, it would be two points for the opponent, and they would lose possession.
That's what's known as a safety.
A rare defensive play, but a punishing one. It happens when the offensive player is brought down inside his own end zone. The result: two points for the defense, and the ball goes back to them.
[But if they can get out of this…] Mike continued, lowering his voice slightly, [it could turn into a long drive. One of those Pritchett has shown he can execute. And if he does, it could end the game, and become one of the longest drives in this event.]
Andrew took the snap and felt it instantly. The aggression. The pressure.
He didn't have even half a second to think. He threw immediately, almost on instinct. The pass came out fast, but found no one. Incomplete. Still, it was better than holding onto the ball and ending up on the ground inside his own end zone.
Second down was the same.
'Damn…' Andrew thought, grimacing at the sudden intensity.
They were giving everything. So was he. But he wasn't finding space.
The stadium, which until then had been a constant roar, seemed to quiet down, focusing on what could be the last play of this drive: third down.
If they didn't gain yardage, the series was over. And even if the scoreboard wouldn't change much, even if Andrew would probably still win the game, it would be a blemish. A break in the perfect game he was playing.
"Set… hut!"
The ball snapped cleanly into his hands.
Andrew took two steps back. He needed that space, even if it meant going deeper into his own end zone.
He didn't have time. The offensive line collapsed almost instantly.
A defender came from the outside. Another from the inside.
Andrew had no choice. He started to move.
He slipped past the first defender by inches, twisting his body just enough. He took another step back and began moving laterally.
He couldn't go forward.
There was no gap, and there was also a clear rule.
As long as he stayed behind the line of scrimmage, that imaginary line where the play had started, he could still throw the ball forward. But if he crossed it, he couldn't pass anymore. Only run.
And running in that situation, with the defense collapsing on him, was practically surrender.
Chaos took over completely.
Players crashing into each other, blocks that lasted barely a moment, hands reaching for him from every angle. But in the middle of it, some of his linemen reacted. They held just enough. Pushed just enough.
They gave him seconds. Few, but enough.
"Shit, shit, shit…" Steve muttered, realizing his initial route had been useless.
Without hesitation, he broke off the route, turned, and sprinted deep.
A long route. Improvised. Not something decided in the moment. A scramble drill.
It's a football training routine that prepares players for improvised plays, usually when a quarterback is running under pressure. It trains receivers to adjust their routes and find open space.
Andrew kept moving. Dodging. Feeling time slipping away. And then he saw it.
'There it is,' Andrew thought, extending his arm, and he threw with everything he had.
The hit came at the same time. A defender slammed into him, driving him to the ground. But Andrew was no longer in the play. His eyes were up. Tracking the ball.
Watching it rise, leaving behind the chaos of his own end zone and crossing the field.
The entire stadium seemed to hold its breath.
During those seconds of pure disorder, bodies colliding in the end zone, Andrew escaping by inches, everything had been noise. But not now.
Now there was silence. Thousands of people watching the same thing.
The ball. Spinning through the air. As if time had slowed down.
Out there, in open field, Steve kept running.
He had shaken his defender, especially because the other hadn't expected it. No one had. The play was broken. Chaotic. The logical outcome was Andrew getting sacked or throwing short.
Not an improvised deep route with a pass like that.
Steve turned his head slightly, and saw it.
The ball dropping toward him. He adjusted his stride, just a detail. Enough to keep his speed while placing himself perfectly under its trajectory.
An instant later, he jumped. Both hands up, the ball dropped cleanly into them.
He secured it against his chest before even touching the ground again.
The moment his feet hit the turf, he kept running. No one ahead. Open path.
He crossed the line.
[TOUCHDOWN!] Patrick shouted, jumping to his feet and gripping the microphone.
The stadium exploded. It wasn't applause. Not a single shout.
It was an immediate, massive, almost violent reaction, as if all the tension from those seconds had been released at once.
A play that had been a heartbeat away from disaster turned into something that bordered on the impossible.
On Team West's sideline, players had already run the length of the field parallel to the play, following Steve from the moment the ball left Andrew's hand, shouting, pointing, running along the sideline. Some nearly ran onto the field, but the coaches stopped them immediately, arms extended, ordering them to stay back.
Meanwhile, Steve celebrated facing the crowd, arms raised, shouting.
A second later, the receivers reached him. They surrounded him, shoving, hugging, yelling.
On the other end, Andrew was getting up. Or rather, being helped up.
Andrus Peat pulled him off the ground like he weighed nothing, lifting him with one hand before pulling him into a hug.
"You're insane!" he shouted, almost yelling over the noise, patting his back hard and clumsily.
Andrew smiled, patting him back. "Luckily, I'm not," he murmured.
[Just when you think he can't surprise you anymore… he does this!] Patrick exclaimed, completely caught up in the moment.
Mike, though clearly stunned, managed to keep some analysis in his voice. [A throw of over seventy yards in the air, under pressure, drifting back inside his own end zone. Rice read the play, broke his route, trusted, and finished it with more than fifteen yards after the catch.]
Patrick barely seemed to hear him. [Enjoy it,] he said, lowering his tone slightly but still full of emotion. [This is what makes him, by far, the greatest player in high school history. You can't defend him. But you can definitely admire him.]
"Did you see that?!" Phil exclaimed, completely overwhelmed, turning to everyone without knowing who to look at first. "That was insane!"
Claire didn't respond right away. She was still processing the play.
Cameron was on another level entirely. "THAT'S MY SON!"
Gloria, with absolutely no filter, was clapping and shouting in a mix of Spanish and English, completely lost in the moment.
Jay wasn't shouting. But he wasn't still either. He kept clapping, with a wide smile he wasn't even trying to hide.
Higher up, with worse visibility, Monica's group reacted too.
"Did you see that?!" Monica shouted, grabbing her head, completely overwhelmed. "Did you see that?! It was worth every single cent to come to Texas!"
Rachel was standing, staring at the field, with a mix of shock and something harder to define.
Ross, beside her, had his mouth slightly open. "That shouldn't have worked," he said, almost analyzing it. "I mean, statistically speaking, that play…"
"Dude, statistics don't work in Jesus Christ!" Chandler cut him off, punching him lightly on the shoulder without taking his eyes off the field.
Ross looked at him, confused for a second. "That makes no sense."
"It's the best explanation I've got. Take it or leave it," Chandler replied.
Carol let out a small laugh. "I don't understand much about football, but that was impressive."
"It was, dear," Jack said, adjusting the binoculars Judith had handed him. "It really was."
That was Andrew's final drive. Five drives, five touchdowns. Team East didn't manage to score another touchdown.
Team West 38 — Team East 17
And with that, the U.S. Army All-American Bowl came to an end.