The Making of Tibias Ivory: Freedom's Quest

By D. Allen Jenkins

In the southern town of Principle, men work hard, women care for their families, and children laugh under placid skies while they watch kites dance on a warm prevailing wind. Everyone has a role, and everyone knows their place, and they are content for things to remain as they are— idyllic. There was no expectation of anything different, until two teenagers, Hog Worthington and Bethany Ivory, on individual quests to be released from their own perceived set of shackles, discover each other and set out to challenge the seemingly predetermined course of their lives. The ensuing events unravel the thin stitchings of perfection in the town, and reveal the reality of character within themselves and in all who come in contact with them. Courage is tested. Thinking is challenged. Ideologies are assaulted and faith is shaken to the core. Friendships and families are formed and broken, and lives are shattered beyond repair. But out of the turmoil comes a tiny ray of hope that no one in the town would have anticipated.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Casa de Snapdragon
• Release date: Nov 17, 2011
• ISBN: 9781937240806

D. Allen Jenkins

D. Allen Jenkins, Doug to all who know him (which you now do), hails from the heart of Buckeye Nation in Columbus, Ohio. Raised in Ohio’s first capital city, Chillicothe, he writes from the prospective of a husband of 28-years, the father of one son, and of being an ordained minister for over thirty-two years. Formerly a recorded minister in the Evangelical Friends Church (Quaker), Doug is now an ordained Elder in The Church of the Nazarene, and is on staff at the Pickerington Church of the Nazarene in Pickerington, Ohio, where he has been actively involved for more than 17 years. In 1998, Doug started experiencing a pervasive “pins and needles” tingling in his back that soon spread all over his body. A year of intensive and repetitious testing revealed that he was battling the debilitating disease of Multiple Sclerosis that has left him numb over eighty-percent of his body. His musical talents were affected tremendously by the eroding effects of this malady, making his love of playing the piano an increasingly difficult task, as were his abilities to enjoy simple things like pick-up football games with his son and playing softball. At the inspiration of a pastoral friend, George Sisler, Doug realized the closing of one door was the opening of another, and he began reviving a latent longing to write creatively of the things held most important: his faith in Christ and his love for his family. His work seeks to honor them in both spirit and truth. Doug’s writing talents have won him accolades on every level of his career, from award winning sermons in both college and in his pastoral endeavors, to numerous recognitions for his poetry, including publication in several poetic journals, such as Illuminations (2005), The Private Lantern (2004), and Shadows of the Season: The Members Collection (2004). His poetry has been featured in many online venues, including JBStillwater.com, PoemTrain.com, and Faithwriters.com. In 2005, he earned The Gold Seal Award from FaithWriters.com for his début novel, The Making of Tibias Ivory: Freedom’s Quest. Reader responses have echoed this endorsement, and many have been clamoring for the continuation of this entrancing and inspiring saga. He is happy to oblige their requests! Doug, a 1983 graduate of Ohio Christian University, the alma mater of New York Times bestselling author John Maxwell, is more than willing to share his incredible story of grace and courage with your church, book club, or to you personally. He believes that the first and biggest step in conquering your life challenges is daring to face them head on with the knowledge that you are not alone in your quest to overcome. There is power and purpose for your life. Doug invites you to contact him through his website at www.tibiasivory.com.

Book preview

Copyright

The Making of Tibias Ivory

Book One: Freedom’s Quest

D. Allen Jenkins

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2011, D. Allen Jenkins. All rights reserved.

All rights reserved. No portion of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, or recording without the prior written permission of D. Allen Jenkins unless such copying is expressly permitted by federal copyright law. Address inquiries to Permissions, Casa de Snapdragon Publishing LLC, 12901 Bryce Avenue NE, Albuquerque, NM 87112.

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Pending

20111115

Casa de Snapdragon Publishing LLC

A traditional, independent publishing company

Dedication

To those who dare to live,

and all who offer grace when daring fails.

Acknowledgements

Without question, all honor is due God for His grace and blessing to and of this writer.

I must decrease; He must increase.

From a human perspective, the effort of producing this story has not been solitary; the DNA of many has contributed to the creation of Principle, and its inhabitants. At the risk of my own embarrassment, I would like to thank some of those who have assisted and encouraged me in this effort, including, but not limited to Donna Reagan, Heidi (Dru) Kortman, Alexandria Jordan, Lisa Foster, Bill (the Magic Man) Maxwell, Darin Simms, Martell Biddy and Marvina Smith. All of these had direct influence on this writing either through technical expertise, taking the time to read the manuscript, or making suggestions to dislodge whatever boulder was blocking my thoughts, or just keeping my feet to the fire through timely words of encouragement. Some did all of these.

Special recognition goes to Rev. George Sisler whose words the Holy Spirit used to prompt me to exercise all my talents in a prudent and profitable way. Thank you George; I hope my readers will thank you too.

Finally, my deepest gratitude and love goes to my wife Cindy, and son, Craig who were widowed and orphaned for many months during the various stages of this effort. The grace you demonstrated to me is the under girding rock on which this story rests. May God return to you one-hundredfold all you have given me. I love you.

Doug

Chapter One

Bethany

The large, dark hands of Bishop Jericho raised the tiny form of Tibias Ivory and cradled him in the crook of his left arm. His mother, Bethany, his paternal grandmother, Matilda Worthington, and an entourage of aunts stood before the congregation of Shiloh Temple as the deep and impassioned voice of the Bishop resounded off the arched ceiling of the newly built sanctuary.

Jericho loved baby dedications, but this one was special; the infant in his arms was as close to a grandson as he would ever have.

Bethany, he said, looking her squarely in the eye, you have brought your son to the house of the Lord just as Hannah did with the young Samuel to dedicate him to God.

Bethany nodded in agreement as the Bishop spoke.

Yet unlike Hannah, you will not leave him here in this holy place, but will take him home to be the guardian of his life and soul.

The Bishop paused and gazed into Tibias’ large brown eyes. Unless, of course, you’d like to leave him with Mrs. Jericho and me, which we wouldn’t mind at all.

The congregation, knowing full well the love their pastor had for this child, broke into laughter. Bethany smiled as well, but gave a not-on-your-life look in her eye that the Bishop acknowledged with a wink.

Well then, he continued, since you seem to want to have him all for yourself, I will remind you that this is not so much a dedication of this child, as it is a dedication of yourself to the task of raising Tibias in the ways of God.

A few amens sounded from those observing the proceedings, and Bethany again nodded her head in agreement and acceptance of these words. Bishop Jericho then looked into the wide eyes of the baby in his arms.

Tibias, he said, his voice softening with even greater compassion, you are the most precious result of your parent’s quest for freedom. The ingredients of your making were courage, determination, and hope, yet the genesis of your character has been tempered by tragedy and pain. But as you lie here in my arms, you are as a jewel in the hands of God— uncut, unpolished, but precious and worthy of his attentions. He desires to craft you into a pearl of great price, a gem of immeasurable worth.

The Bishop cradled the infant in his left arm, and placed his right hand into a silver bowl of water, placing his wet fingertips on Tibias’ forehead.

Therefore, Tibias Mahognus Ivory, I dedicate you to God in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit. May the grace of our Lord Jesus Christ guide you and prosper you all the days of your life. Amen.

AMEN, the congregants echoed. They stood in synchronized response to the prayer’s conclusion, and vacated their pews to engulf the bewildered mother and child.

Bethany was enveloped by an overwhelming sense of oddness. She knew she and her baby were loved and accepted by these kindhearted worshipers, but despite the hugs, she felt very alone.

The congregants filed from the service and gathered on the front steps of the church. Someone said, Let’s get a picture of this moment. A consensus opinion was rapidly reached, and the small but exuberant gathering pulled themselves together as one, a familiar experience these last few months, and smiled an unified smile of thankfulness and praise for this moment they were experiencing. The shutter snapped.

A week later, the Bishop sat in the Worthington’s living room. Mrs. Jericho, Matilda, and Bethany holding Tibias, sat on the sofa next to the Bishop examining the photograph.

The Bishop stood in the center of the front row of the gathered parishioners, his wife of thirty years stood next to him, their dark hued skin standing in stark contrast with the fresh white paint of the structure behind them. Likewise, the congregation stood distinctively against the alabaster backdrop. The brilliance of the clean white was surreal, and singular— with one exception: Bethany Ivory.

That’s my girl.

James watched his energetic 9-year-old deftly snatch the football out of the air. I guess what they say is true: the apple never falls far from the tree.

The pride of a father was evident in his expression, and his deep voice resonated expressively as he laughed with his only child. His wife raised her gaze from the green beans she was snapping, and looked at her husband with a satisfied grin. This could be good and bad, she thought as she watched them play.

In the background of this lighthearted game of catch, rose the gleaming gold steeple of the Grace Haven Church. For nearly fifteen years Rev. James Ivory and his wife Martha had pastored this parish, which stood in the center of Principle, a medium sized community well south of the Mason-Dixon line.

Throw it higher, daddy came the gleeful request of the energetic young girl.

Go deep, Bethany.

Short and slender, with golden hair reaching the middle of her back, Bethany ran as fast as her spindly legs could carry her; her father cocked his arm back and let a high spiraling pass fly. Bethany turned her eyes upward into the afternoon’s brilliant blue sky; her hands reached into the air and captured the ball. TOUCHDOWN she cried.

James raised his hands in a concert of celebration with his princess; she was daddy’s little girl.

Indeed, from the moment of birth, Bethany belonged to daddy. As the nurse placed her in her mother’s arms, the cries of the newborn were constant and piercing, but the instant Martha allowed James to take the tiny form into his arms, the screams stopped, bringing a welcomed calm to the room.

The closeness of the father-daughter relationship did not translate into the elder serving the younger; Rev Ivory would not be manipulated by his daughter. He was the definitive magistrate of his home and church, and his daughter and congregation were equally guided under the strictest of regulations.

In childhood, Bethany was dutifully obedient; she had little choice. Standing over six-feet, six-inches in height and weighing 300 pounds, James Ivory was an intimidating figure. The preacher man, as townsfolk called him, dwarfed most in stature and attitude. So it was with young Bethany. Her little voice was often heard saying, yes, sir or no, daddy. Puberty, however, brought a not so subtle change to her sense of duty.

Rev. Ivory’s never-say-die attitude was developed while playing high school football, and he was not one to give into a situation easily. This characteristic was cloned perfectly in his maturing daughter, and soon it became obvious that daddy’s little girl was becoming daddy’s big headache.

Entering seventh grade, the once spindly tomboy suddenly looked quite womanly. A game of catch still interested her, but it was boys she caught, not a football thrown by her dad. Her male classmates gawked at her new shapeliness, and soon several young men were smothering her with attention— a development that caught the Reverend off guard. Bethany wasn’t a little girl anymore, and he now thought it necessary to frequently, not to mention loudly, make his feelings known about the kind of boys he would allow her to associate with.

Bethany Ivory, he said one morning as she was leaving for school, a stern, preacherly stare engulfing his brow, I better not find you with any of those older boys. They do not have your best interest in mind.

This did not sit well with Bethany, who was still a little naive and didn’t understand the import of her father’s admonition. She rather enjoyed the attention she was receiving, especially from a young man named Jason Wiley.

Jason was a member of three school sports teams. He was a good student and quite charming, not arrogant like so many other athletes in the school. He liked reading poetry and classic literature. He would often visit Bethany’s house after school, when he didn’t have some type of practice, and sit with her on the porch swing talking about everything from music and movies to politics and religion.

Discussions about popular culture were of great interests to Bethany, because she wasn’t allowed to listen to secular music on the radio, or go to the movies. Those things are of the devil and have no place in a Christian’s lifestyle, her father would often say, and those who listen to such noise will burn with him in the pits of hell. Thus, chats about such things didn’t go very far, and were rather one sided.

However, their discussions about religion had more depth, not because she was interested in it above other things, but because this was all she ever heard her parents talk about. To Bethany’s great relief, Jason didn’t seem to mind the limited scope of conversation, though, to him, it did seem a bit odd.

Despite his rhetoric, Rev. Ivory was often too busy with his own world to pay much attention to the company Bethany was keeping. If his passing glances didn’t reveal long hair, odd clothing, or poor manners, he never seemed to mind his daughter’s visitors.

Jason did not fit any of these molds, and as Rev. Ivory came up the front walk one evening, Jason promptly stood and met the Reverend’s eyes as he ascended the porch steps.

Hello Rev. Ivory. How are you today, sir?

Ivory paused and studied the boy. And you are? he queried.

Jason Wiley, sir. came the reply, I’m a friend of Bethany’s from school.

James’s eyes shifted from Jason to Bethany. Her smile was timid yet pleading, hoping her father didn’t make a fuss about things. His eye came back to the young man before him.

Yes, well nice to meet you, Jason. It is good to know that there are still young men with manners among us.

Ivory’s eyes turned downward to the picture on the newspaper in his hand. It showed an unruly mob protesting the war in Viet Nam.

These hooligans aren’t fit to live.

He slapped the photograph with the back of his right hand. Jason didn’t respond, and Bethany’s face turned flush. Ivory didn’t notice either one of their expressions, and continued into the house still muttering about hooligans.

After Ivory was safely inside, Jason returned to his place on the swing. Guess I passed the test, since I’m still here.

Bethany’s face grew brighter, but still bore some redness in the cheeks. I’m so embarrassed she said.

Don’t worry about it Jason chuckled, you should see my dad sometimes.

The two laughed and soon were engrossed again in conversation, but— Bethany, dinnertime— brought their visit to an abrupt end.

As the family ate their supper of fried chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, and corn on the cob, Rev. Ivory’s favorite meal, Bethany seemed distant.

Is something troubling you sweetheart? Martha asked.

No, I was just thinking about what Jason and I were talking about.

And what was that? asked Mrs. Ivory, passing the gravy bowl to her husband who, occupied with wiping his mouth after a particularly juicy bite of chicken leg, seemed unaware of the conversation.

Oh, we were talking about the Bible. Jason said his church believes Jesus’ mother, Mary, can be prayed to just like God.

Reverend Ivory jolted upward in his chair, knocking the chicken leg from its place on the edge of his plate; it fell to the floor.

What did he say? he bellowed.

He said he asks Jesus’ mother, Mary, to pray to God for him just like he prays to God for himself. Bethany stammered, taken aback by her father’s abrupt response. Jason says he believes Mary can hear our prayers too. I just wanted to know…. The look on her father’s face cut her sentence short.

Reverend Ivory stretched his massive frame upward from his chair. His face grew ever redder, and he pointed his finger toward his cowering daughter.

I don’t care what you want to know, he shouted, causing Mrs. Ivory to shudder, you will never see him again, nor will you listen to any more of that devilish hogwash. He has poisoned your mind.

But daddy…

But nothing, the Reverend retorted, I will not have my daughter cavorting with a heretic; Hell will be brimming with such infidels as the Catholics. Have I taught you nothing, young lady?

Bethany, showing a surge of her father’s bulldog tenacity, didn’t back down.

Yes, father, she retorted, that is all you’ve taught us: how bad the Catholics and the Pentecostals and the Methodists are, but never once have you explained why.

Rev. Ivory, completely incensed at this insubordinate outburst, removed himself from the table into his study, slamming the door behind him. Concurrently, his twelve-year old daughter, burst into tears, and ran screaming up to her bedroom.

I hate you, I hate you, she screeched, banging her bedroom door closed with a force equal to her father’s.

Mrs. Ivory sat alone at the dinner table stupefied as to how she should respond. However, she knew one thing; from this moment on nothing would ever be the same— the dike had cracked; the question was how soon the dam would break.

Following the Jason Wiley incident, Bethany’s wild side emerged in earnest. Her attractiveness did not diminish as she matured, and her perfect complexion and well-proportioned curves, united with a sarcastic wit, enamored many a testosterone-flooded young man.

Her female classmates did not despise her either. By her junior year, at age 17, she not she was elected by her peers as captain of the Principle Tigers’ Cheerleading Team, the first time the honor went to a non-senior.

Cheerleading practice coincided with football workouts after school, which gave the girls a prime opportunity to check out the boys.

Come on girls, Bethany called out to her fellow cheerleaders, Let’s get some window shopping in before practice.

All six girls ran out of the locker room onto the lawn separating the school from the football field. Finding a good vantage point, they eagerly awaited the team’s arrival for practice. As the team appeared in their padded workout jerseys, the girls did a purposefully unconvincing job of appearing uninterested in the obvious stares of the players.

That baby can wrap his arms around me any time he wants said Dee-Dee Lozier, as she swiveled her hips and stared at one of the muscular defensive players. All he has to do is call.

Yeah, but you better bring a spit-up rag for the drool, quipped, another. I had to get my sweater dry cleaned after I went out with him last year.

Groans of disgust rose from the girls.

So who are you interested in, Bethany, or has your daddy preached that out of you by now? said Dee-Dee.

Bethany stared her down. If my daddy knew what I thought about, he’d keel over and die. Besides I’m not gonna tell you who I’ve got my eye on, ‘cause you’ll try to take ‘em. Dee-Dee Lozier.

The girls laughed, and Bethany turned from her teammates in an effort to regain her composure. The one thing she didn’t want her friends to know was her real fear— not of Dee-Dee, or anyone else taking her boyfriend, but a dread much more serious.

Turning again toward her squad, Bethany’s eye wandered briefly in the direction of the practice field where a lanky young man plucked a pass from the cloud dotted sky. She spent but a moment in her voyeurism, but it was an exhilarating moment that caused her heart to race. The object of the slender captain’s gaze was Mahognus Worthington, the star wide receiver for the Principle Tigers football team.

Mahognus was a senior, one-year Bethany’s elder. Tall and slender, yet surprisingly muscular, he never made comments toward the girls, but his eyes always made contact with the young head cheerleader. He wasn’t merely the strong silent type; there was another reason for his apparent disinterest in the group of alabaster-skinned girls—

Mahognus Worthington was black.

Chapter Two

Hog

Aside from his athletic interests, Mahognus, or Hog, as his family called him, was becoming interested in political and social issues. The civil rights movement, and assassinations of Rev. Martin Luther King Jr. and Robert Kennedy in the months prior to the beginning of his senior year in 1968, profoundly influenced Hog, and he felt he should do what he could to effect a change.

Hog was not ignorant of the world in which he lived. He was cognizant of the lines drawn in the sub-conscious sands of people’s minds that separated white from black, Protestant from Catholic. He was also aware of what had happened to some who pushed too hard. You didn’t have to be overly intelligent to understand these things, just alive. Hog was very much alive.

However, now, on the edge of adulthood, Hog thought the time had come to make a definitive statement about what he thought about the world. He wanted to confront the common, socially accepted answers and assumptions bantered about on every street corner in the country, especially in Principle, where, two years prior, the mayor of the town, the Honorable William Jennings Riley, ran his campaign platform of anti-desegregation with the slogan It’s the Principle thing to do.

All Hog needed was opportunity and courage.

Kerry Richards was the instructor for Hog’s first class of the day, Senior English.

A newcomer to Principle, Richards grew up in Nashville, but attended college at the University of California at Berkley. Eager to make a difference, he took the opportunity to come to Principle with hopes to provide a balanced view of things to these young minds.

Richards was no stranger to confronting difficult issues. He was a supporter of, and participant in the Vietnam War protests, a nightly event in the nation’s newspapers and on its televisions, yet he avoided the war legitimately due to a hunting accident as a teenager— a shotgun blast, which left him with only a partial toe on his left foot.

Left to fend for himself via academics, he followed his love of reading and writing, and earned a degree in Education and English literature, which lead him to the classroom filled with curious students sizing up their new teacher.

Good morning, he said in his still extant southern drawl, my name is Mr. Richards, and this is Senior English. Here you will learn to write and think as adults and not… he looked at Gordon Crum, who had started to assemble his yearly supply of spit wads like third graders.

Gordon covered his creations with his hands and tried to remove them to his jacket pocket, only to have them spill out onto the floor; the classroom filled with laughter. Richards continued his monologue.

"As you know, and as I have recently learned, our local newspaper, The Principle Truth, sponsors an annual essay contest. Each year the members of the senior class are offered the opportunity to write their personal viewpoints about a current issue that faces them. This class will be no different, with one exception— you will each be expected to provide an essay of at least five-hundred words due four weeks from today."

The class of twenty-five stared at their new instructor in disbelief. They knew about the contest, which was voluntary for their predecessors, and had hoped for a more lenient task as their first assignment for the year. Richards noted their distaste, but continued with further instructions.

There are other important considerations, he said "the essays will all have the same title, Real Freedom. They will not be identified by your names; rather, each of you will have a number assigned to your work, unknown to anyone else but me. I will grade each essay on its academic merits— including spelling and grammar, and the essay committee will adjudicate them on their inspirational value. Not only will the papers receive a grade from me, but the winner of the contest will receive an extra mark of double A for his or her efforts."

Some of the class looked around at each other intrigued, while the apathy of others was obvious.

Oh, and before I forget, Richards continued, "The winner will be published in the Truth for all to read."

As Hog took in all this information, his brain went into overdrive. Not an exceptional student by any means, he was a determined one. He knew he had something to say, and he knew this was an opportunity to say it without fear of prejudice.

The next four weeks, were a blur. Between football, where he excelled, catching six touchdown passes in the first four games of the season, and the rest of his classes, in which he held his own, his time was constantly interrupted. Yet he would stay up late each night working on his thoughts and putting them down on paper.

He wanted to win this contest more than any game he ever played. He wanted his mamma to be proud. She always taught him to be aware of his obstacles, but to ignore them. "The only thing that should stop you from reaching your goals is death itself," she would say, and Mahognus took the lesson to heart from a very young age.

Mahognus’ father, George Worthington, left the family when Hog was eight, leaving his mother, Matilda, as the sole provider of the financial and material needs for her four young children. Somehow, she managed to carry out this task for the last ten years, and Hog was not going to spoil her dream of seeing him graduate from Principle High School and maybe, just maybe, go to college— an accomplishment never achieved in the Worthington household.

From an old typewriter rescued from a condemned office building, the sound of keys clacking filtered though the heating vents, invoking nightly cries from Hog’s three sisters to stop that typin’ and git ta bed. Nevertheless, he was determined, and endured their pleas, often into the early hours of the morning.

At last the day came to hand in the papers. One by one, the members of class laid their efforts on their teacher’s desk, and Mahognus felt both anxious and proud as he followed suit. The essay committee would not finish their work with the essays for at least a couple of weeks, and Richards would not disclose the grades until after the essay committee decided on a winner.

Fortunately, football season diverted Hog’s mind. The Principle Tigers, yet undefeated, were tied for first place with two games to go. The first game, scheduled for Friday, was against the Johnsontown Tigers, a winless team, and one the Principle Tigers recognized as a terrible misuse of their name. The final game of the season would be with the Grayville Eagles, co-leaders in the conference with Principle.

Coach Sam Bruner, a.k.a. the Bruiser, would not allow his team to overlook an opponent like Johnsontown. He knew very well what it was to be embarrassed by an underdog.

Coach Bruner played for the Principle Tigers twenty years earlier, when the scenario was nearly identical. He was the star halfback who set the school record for rushing yards and touchdowns scored— records that still stood. However, the confidence gained by those achievements turned to arrogance, and Bruiser, with his best friend, Jimmy, chose to go out for some fun the night before the game, chasing down girls as well as a few brews.

Unfortunately, a few brews turned into a few too many, and the pair drank so much that they passed out along the shore of a nearby lake. They woke up mid-morning the next day with two county cops over them. Unable to go to school, both boys missed the game, and the Tigers lost to the then last place Grayville Eagles 17 to 3.

Not about to let this happen again, Coach Bruner worked the team harder than they had worked all season. Hog didn’t mind this at all. It kept his thoughts off the results of the essay contest, and helped him relax and perform at maximum potential.

Game day arrived, and the hometown Johnsontown Tiger fans packed the stadium, and smelled an upset in the cool night air. The crowd erupted in cheers as the orange and black striped jerseys flooded out onto the field. If enthusiasm won games, Principle was in big trouble.

The flaming red and black jerseys of the visiting team ran in from the opposite side of the field. Hog, # 9, felt as if he could out run a car as he and his teammates exploded into the stadium’s lights to an equally loud, but varied sound of boos and cheers.

As Mahognus passed the cheerleaders, he thought he heard one of them say, You’re the man, Hog. He glanced behind him to see who it was, but his teammates running up behind him eclipsed his view.

Coach Bruner gathered his players around him, staring one by one into each face. Raising his voice above the tumult of the crowd, Coach Bruner told his team, The only thing between you and the championship game are those ugly orange jerseys on the other sideline. We have more talent. We have more skill. We have more wins, and have scored more points in one game than they have all season, he paused, peering into the eyes focused on his every movement, "but I don’t know if we have more desire to win than they do.

This is their championship game! If they can send us home, right here, right now as losers, they will have erased their entire season of losses and wasted our entire season of wins. They have the kind of desire that could shock this stadium tonight and