By Justin Rapp

It was a cold, rainy day in mid-November, but it was football championship game day. I had played every Saturday for eight weeks, and the season was coming to an end that day, win or lose. I worked so hard to get there. I jogged a kilometre daily, threw at least 50 passes in my basement, and worked on my stretching and mobility. I knew I had to make the most of this game. This was my moment.

At 15 years old, my team was about to face off against a senior high school football team that regularly played flag football in the off-season. I knew they were faster, stronger, and tougher, but I had enough belief in myself that I could go out and beat them. My parents were away in Halifax, checking out the Dalhousie campus with my older brother. My grandma, who is always cooking, wanted me to have the best pre-game meal, so she spent the entire afternoon preparing her classic beef on a bun, Caesar salad, and a protein shake. It was the perfect fuel for the big game.

The game was scheduled for 6:00 PM, so I had to be ready for warm-ups by 5:00. The cold weather made me a little anxious, but I had trained for this, and nothing would stop me now. My grandpa, who had always been there for me since I was little, was waiting for me in the car. He had a way of calming my nerves, and I knew I could rely on him to be there when I needed it most.

I suited up, trying to avoid overdressing and staying warm enough for the cold night. I could hear my grandpa’s voice from outside, calling out to me to hurry. “It’s time to go,” he said. My heart raced, but I grabbed my gear and rushed to the car, the rain making a steady rhythm against the roof as I climbed inside.

As we pulled away, the rain picked up a little more, but it felt like the perfect soundtrack for what was about to unfold. My grandpa turned to me and smiled. “You ready for this?” he asked. I nodded, though my mind raced, and simply said, “I hope so.”

The drive to the field seemed to take forever. The senior high school team was tough, no doubt about it. They had the experience and skills, but I knew my strengths: reading defenses, arm strength, and focus under pressure. I trusted my teammates, and most of all, I trusted myself. The cold weather didn’t bother me anymore, not with adrenaline pumping through my veins.

When we got to the field, warm-ups began. I had been playing the entire season through a torn hip flexor, an injury I had been battling for months. Rehabilitating it had been a challenge, and I was still working to regain strength in the muscle. I felt limited in my ability to run, but I wasn’t about to let that stop me. I had worked too hard for this moment. My teammates and I tossed the ball around, and I slipped my hands inside my heated hand warmer to keep my fingers warm.

The ref blew the whistle, signaling five minutes until kickoff. I massaged my hip to prevent it from tightening up. Everything had to count—every throw, every decision.

We received the ball first and quickly found ourselves in the red zone. It was fourth-and-goal on the eleven-yard line. I rushed left and threw a cross-body pass into the end zone. It was a prayer, but it worked. My teammate caught it for a touchdown, and we were on the scoreboard first.

The rest of the game was tough. The defense took over, and by the start of the fourth quarter, we were down 21-14. The rain was coming down harder, and the ball was slick. On the first play of the fourth quarter, I saw my teammate break free from his defender. I put everything I had into the throw, and he caught it. He sprinted for the end zone, and we were tied.

With five minutes left in the game and we were down by seven, I threw a short slant pass over the middle. The wet ball hit my teammate’s hands but slipped through his fingers and into the arms of the opposing team. The interception was a punch to the gut, and the thought of losing weighed heavily on all of us. In that moment, I knew that as a quarterback, the blame would always fall on me.

I walked over to my teammate, who was visibly upset, and put my arm around him. “Don’t worry about it,” I told him. We’re still in this. “Our defense made a huge stop, and with 45 seconds left, we had the ball, down seven, with good field position.

I quickly threw a short corner route to the sideline, trying to stop the clock and gain yards. The ball was now on the 20-yard line, and there were only 37 seconds left. The game was on the line. My coach called a quarterback run, a play that had worked all season. I lined up in the shotgun, the center snapped the ball, and I faked left. I scrambled out of the pocket and took off, seeing nothing but wet, muddy turf before me. The end zone was in sight, and with every stride, I felt like I was closing the gap. The typical NFL broadcast call of “20, 15, 10, 5” echoed in my head.

Just as I reached the pylon, I dove head-first for the end zone. SMACK! A defender hit me hard, knocking the wind out of me. I lay there, covered in mud, trying to catch my breath. But once I realized we had scored, all the pain in my body disappeared. We were now one extra point away from tying the game.

My coach immediately called for a two-point conversion. This was it. The final play to decide the championship. I looked down at my wrist for the play call, which was complicated—more complicated than anything I had heard all season. “Gun. Empty HB Wide. Seams Wide Corner,” my coach said. I didn’t fully grasp it, but I trusted him. I called my wide receiver in motion, hoping to mess up the defense’s alignment.

I lifted my leg and shouted my cadence, and the ball was snapped. I fumbled the ball for a second, trying to get control of it, but as I threw it, the wet ball slipped and was batted down by the defense. We had just lost.

I sat on the wet turf, rain pouring down, trying to comprehend what had just happened. Cold droplets soaked through my jersey, and everything around me became a blur—the muddy field and the rain merging into one. After all the hard work and obstacles, I couldn’t seal the deal.

I walked over to my grandpa, who was waiting for me with a warm towel. He wrapped it around my shoulders, and we walked away from the field together. He reminded me of something Billie Jean King once said: “Champions keep playing until they get it right.” It was a full-circle moment, as my grandpa was the one who had introduced me to football and caught my very first pass when I was just 6 years old. Even though I had failed then, I knew the journey wasn’t over. I would keep playing, keep learning, and keep pushing myself until I got it right.