[And now, please welcome the visiting team, the UCLA Bruins.]
A professional voice, though without much enthusiasm, announced the Bruins' entrance into the stadium.
Andrew and his teammates ran out through one of the visiting tunnels without any kind of spectacle. There was no artificial smoke, no confetti, and no special lights.
The boos came down instantly.
A deafening roar from more than fifty thousand people erupted around the stadium, with thousands of eyes fixed on Andrew as he ran at the front of the group without trying to hide.
Steve, not far from him, whistled when he noticed the hostility in the atmosphere, "Without a doubt, this is the most hostile stadium we're going to play in," he commented.
His voice was almost lost beneath the noise.
Amari, who managed to hear him, shook his head, "Nebraska is Nebraska, man."
Arizona Stadium was a pressure cooker. Its architecture helped trap the sound, making it bounce around and crash down onto the field with even greater force.
But Nebraska's stadium held more than eighty thousand people. And although its fans were known for being courteous, that did not mean they were quiet. They also booed and tried to make the opposing team nervous.
The difference was something else.
In Nebraska, the noise had been enormous.
In Arizona, it felt personal.
Especially from the student section. ZonaZoo was not merely booing. They were shouting with anger. A lot of it.
Andrew noticed several fans in the front rows leaning over the railings to yell at him.
"Overrated!"
"We're breaking you today, freshman!"
"Welcome to the desert, Hollywood boy!"
"Fischer's going to kill you!"
"This isn't YouTube, Pritchett!"
"Three quarters, right?! You won't even survive two!"
"Run back to Los Angeles!"
Andrew did not respond. He did not even turn his head.
He kept running alongside the rest of the team and headed toward the visitors' sideline, where the coaches were already beginning to organize the players.
After UCLA's entrance, the stadium changed completely.
The lights went out for a moment.
Then red and blue spotlights came on and swept across the field. Bear Down, Arizona began thundering through the speakers at an incredibly high volume, and the crowd reacted immediately.
[Now, Tucson! Let's welcome your Arizona Wildcats!]
It was the same announcer's voice, but this time it was filled with excitement.
The Arizona team came running out of the home tunnel. The players burst through a banner held by the cheerleaders as columns of artificial smoke erupted on both sides of the entrance. The band began playing loudly, the cheerleaders jumped along the sidelines, and the entire stadium rose as one massive body.
At the front were Jake Fischer, the defensive captain, and Matt Scott, the Wildcats' offensive leader.
Both of them came out jumping, pounding their chests, and shouting toward the stands.
Matt Scott was a senior quarterback. He was having a great season by his standards, driven by the arrival of Rich Rodriguez and his new fast-paced spread offense. His best game had come against Stanford, where he had set program records by throwing for 491 yards, although Arizona ultimately lost that game by six points in overtime.
Up to that point, he had accumulated 18 touchdowns and 8 interceptions.
Compared to Andrew's 30 touchdowns and only 2 interceptions, his numbers might have seemed lesser.
But they were not. Not really.
They were still good numbers for a starting quarterback in a Power Five conference who played for a team that was not a powerhouse like USC, Stanford, Alabama, and the other major programs.
"BEAR DOWN!" the stadium roared in unison.
The chant thundered with such force that it seemed to shake the stands.
Bear Down was more than a phrase for Arizona.
It was the Wildcats' official motto, a tradition born in 1926 from the final message John "Button" Salmon, the team's quarterback and student body president, gave to his teammates. Over time, those words had become a century-old legend.
Tonight, beneath the lights of Tucson, thousands of voices used it as an obligation. They had to defeat the freshman who had said the game would be a formality.
After the entrance, the Wildcats players jogged toward their sideline. They passed close to UCLA's line, and several of them deliberately sought eye contact, especially with Andrew.
Fischer was the most obvious. He pointed at Andrew from a distance and shouted something that, amid the noise of the stadium, could barely be heard.
"Your fairy tale ends today, freshman!"
Steve did not hear all of it, but he caught enough.
His expression hardened instantly.
In normal games, Steve was already competitive. In games like this one, against opponents he genuinely wanted to destroy, his patience disappeared long before kickoff.
"These guys act like they're a big deal," he said with a grimace, "and they only entered the rankings a week ago."
Jordan, who was standing nearby, nodded. Although he was a backup, his expression carried the same intensity as the starters'.
"Destroy them," he said, giving Andrew a pat on the shoulder. "That way I can deliver the finishing blow in the fourth quarter."
Xavier Su'a-Filo, one of the offensive linemen, then spoke with a dangerous calm, "We will. They're going to understand that they aimed too high."
Xavier had left college in 2010 to serve a Mormon mission and was now back. He stood six feet four inches tall, weighed more than three hundred pounds, and had the kind of massive presence linemen possessed when they did not need to raise their voices to command respect.
He was always kind, with a calm voice, but now his brow was slightly furrowed, and he did not seem to have his usual easygoing demeanor.
Steve turned toward him, surprised, "Wow. If even Xavier is angry, this is serious."
"That's a good line, Mormon guy! A little dramatic, but good," said Fauria, the tight end, laughing and giving him a powerful slap on the back that did not even move him.
Fauria stood six feet seven inches tall and weighed 265 pounds of pure muscle. He had a more wild personality, which was why he was always clashing with Xavier, but this time, something united them.
Everyone understood what Xavier meant.
Arizona had talked as if UCLA were an overrated team that had not proven anything yet.
No one on the offense liked that. Neither did the rest of the team. They also did not appreciate Arizona talking so much when, historically, their program was far smaller than UCLA's.
Arizona was not a college football giant.
It did not have the prestige, titles, or national weight of programs like USC, Oregon, Stanford, or even UCLA. The Wildcats had never won a national championship. USC had nine titles in its trophy case. UCLA had one. Oregon and Stanford, although they did not have the same old history as the Trojans, had become modern powerhouses, regulars in major bowls and in the national conversation.
Arizona, meanwhile, had not won a conference title since 1993.
It was true that UCLA was not living through a golden era either. Its last conference championship had come in 1998, as had its last meaningful appearance in a major bowl. Fourteen years was a long time.
But even so, historically, UCLA was still a bigger program than Arizona. More prestige, the legendary Rose Bowl as its home, more titles, and players who had passed through the program and become legends, like Troy Aikman, a quarterback who won three Super Bowls with the Dallas Cowboys.
That was why, with all that context, with UCLA ranked inside the top ten and playing its best season in years, Arizona acting as if it had the right to question their competitiveness did not sit well with them.
[The opening kick is underway, Kirk! The Arizona Wildcats strike first!] Brent said from the booth.
The ball flew beneath the lights of Arizona Stadium and landed in the hands of the home team.
After the return, the Wildcats began with fairly standard field position. Seventy yards to go before reaching the end zone.
They wasted no time.
Rich Rodriguez's offense came out with the pace everyone expected. No huddle. No unnecessary pauses. They ran quick plays, short passes, simple reads for Matt Scott, and designed runs that forced UCLA's defense to line up immediately, without being able to catch its breath.
It was an offense built to make opponents uncomfortable. It did not only seek to gain yards, but also to wear them down.
As soon as one play ended, Arizona was already at the line of scrimmage for the next. The linemen got into position quickly, Scott looked toward the sideline, received the signal, and the ball was put back into motion before the Bruins could fully reorganize.
In just one minute and twenty-five seconds, Arizona ran six plays and gained 50 yards.
The stadium celebrated with fervor.
Every completed pass was met with applause and whistles from thousands of people who could already smell the first touchdown. But then UCLA's defense managed to hold its ground.
On third down, Scott tried to find a window over the middle, but the coverage closed just in time.
Three plays and fewer than ten yards.
Arizona ran out of room.
The offense had started in electric fashion, but it could not finish the job. So the Wildcats had no choice but to settle for a field goal.
The snap was clean, the ball sailed between the uprights, and the crowd celebrated again.
[An early lead for the Wildcats! Three to zero on the scoreboard!] Brent narrated as the Arizona players celebrated on the sideline. [What did you think of that opening drive, Kirk?]
[It was a very good start, Brent, exactly what Arizona wanted,] Kirk replied. [A lot of pace, confidence, and Matt Scott making quick decisions. That's important, especially after everything that happened leading up to this game.]
The camera showed head coach Rodriguez applauding from the sideline, although his expression was not one of complete satisfaction.
[But it also has to be said,] Kirk continued. [When you gain fifty yards in a little over a minute and still have the opposing defense adjusting to the pace, you want to finish that drive with seven points, not three. Those are the details that matter against a team like Jim Mora's UCLA.]
If you wanted to beat one of the best offenses in the country, you had better score touchdowns that gave the defense some breathing room.
[Without a doubt,] Brent added. [The crowd is happy to open the scoring, but looking at some of the faces on the sideline, you get the feeling that three points do not feel like enough.]
On the visitors' sideline, Andrew watched the scoreboard without much change in his expression.
After the return, Andrew, who had been sitting on the bench, stood up and put on his helmet, 'Sixty-eight yards isn't bad,' he thought as he fastened the chinstrap.
The moment he stepped onto the field, the stadium reacted.
A massive wave of boos came down from the stands, mixed with whistles, shouts, and voices distorted by the overall noise. From the front rows, some fans tried to make themselves heard above everyone else.
Andrew paid no attention and walked toward the huddle.
Before the offense and defense had finished getting into position, the head official stepped between the two groups. He was a bald man with thick eyebrows and a severe expression, with the kind of unfriendly face that seemed to come included with the uniform.
He made a sharp gesture toward Andrew and Fischer, "You two. Here."
Fischer approached from the defensive side. Andrew did the same from the offense.
The referee looked at both of them with absolute seriousness.
"Listen to me carefully," he said in a sharp, professional tone. "I've read the papers all week. I'm not going to tolerate a single bit of nonsense today. Play clean, or you'll be watching the rest of the game from the locker room. Understood?"
The game was being broadcast on ABC. The entire nation was watching. The last thing he wanted was to be the referee who could not control the game he was officiating.
Fischer spat to the side, "Yeah, understood."
Andrew only nodded.
The official watched them for another second, as if he wanted to make sure the message had been burned into their minds, and then gestured for them to return to their positions.
Andrew lined up behind the center.
The noise was brutal. ZonaZoo shouted without pause.
Andrew raised his voice, "SET… HUT!"
The ball reached his hands. In his field of vision, helmets collided immediately.
Arizona's defensive line exploded forward faster than usual. It was not just execution. It was adrenaline. It was the momentum of a team fueled by its stadium.
'That'll last them for a while,' Andrew thought with a certain cold contempt as he dropped back.
They had come out with intensity, yes, but they did not have the level to maintain it for the entire game.
That difference mattered.
Andrew did not wait for the pressure to fully close in. He released the ball quickly, a short pass toward Steve, only a few yards beyond the line of scrimmage.
Steve caught it cleanly. He took one step, then another, and was brought down.
Four yards.
It was not an explosive play.
But it was four yards.
Andrew took the hit as well.
Fischer arrived just after the pass and drove him into the turf. The impact was hard. But it came from the natural momentum of the play. The referee watched closely and decided not to throw a flag.
Legal hit.
Fischer got up quickly, leaning slightly over him, "Get up, freshman," he said with a crooked smile. "We're just getting started."
Andrew slowly got back to his feet and brushed some dirt off his uniform. It was not that it did not hurt.
Getting hit at full speed by a guy that size always hurt. But he had already played too many games to let it show.
"Enjoy it," Andrew replied, looking at him calmly. "Even though it didn't accomplish anything."
Fischer narrowed his eyes.
The head official took a step toward them, barely raising one hand, and that was enough. Fischer gave him one final look before returning to the defense without saying anything else.
[Great pressure from Arizona on this first play,] Brent said from the booth. [They broke through the line quickly and gave Pritchett less time than he normally needs to throw.]
[Yes, but that's one of his greatest strengths, Brent,] Kirk replied. [The ball comes out quickly. He doesn't stand there waiting for the perfect play. He reads, decides, and delivers. Arizona manages to hit him, yes, but UCLA gains four yards and now has second and six.]
[Exactly,] Brent added. [They didn't sack him, they didn't make him lose the down, and even though the hit fired up the stadium, the Bruins' offense began with a gain.]
Andrew returned to the huddle without changing his expression. He gave a couple of quick instructions, signaled the adjustment with his hand, and everyone lined up again.
This time, he did not look to throw. He took the snap and handed the ball off to Johnathan Franklin.
Franklin was not just any running back. Not that season. It was true that, with Andrew at quarterback, UCLA's offense could lean too heavily toward the passing game or even Andrew's own legs. But that did not mean Franklin had faded into the background.
Franklin was having an excellent season. He was one of the leading rushers in the Pac-12. Every time he received the ball, he forced defenses to respect UCLA's ground threat.
Franklin took the ball, followed his blockers, and attacked a gap, managing to move forward.
Not by much, but enough to leave UCLA in a comfortable situation.
Five yards.
Third down and one.
Fischer was not involved in the tackle, but he still took a few steps toward Andrew, wearing a mocking smile beneath his facemask.
"Already handing it off to the running back?" he said. "Did one hit already make you tired of getting hit? Not very tough."
Andrew barely looked at him.
But the head official did react.
The official took a firm step toward Fischer and raised his voice, "Number thirty-three, back off! Get back to your huddle or I'll flag you!"
Fischer raised both hands, pretending innocence, and backed away.
Andrew lined up behind the center.
The noise rose again.
"SET HUT!"
The ball reached his hands.
The pocket began to collapse almost immediately. Arizona's defensive line attacked with everything it had, trying to close the gaps before Andrew could release another quick pass. For a moment, it looked as though the play was about to break down.
But Andrew decided to run it himself.
[Pritchett keeps the ball!] Brent exclaimed. [He has room up the middle!]
Fischer reacted late, diving toward him with his arms spread wide.
Andrew avoided him with a short spin that left the linebacker falling onto the turf without touching him.
The stadium let out a mixture of shouts and frustration.
"FUCK, SO CLOSE!" a young man shouted, bringing his hands to his head as he watched Andrew escape.
[Fischer can't bring him down! There goes Pritchett! First down and much more!]
Andrew accelerated across the line of scrimmage, passed the first-down marker without slowing down, and kept running through the middle of the field. An Arizona defensive back closed the angle, but Andrew had already gained too many yards.
When he saw that the defender had the advantage and was coming in to hit him, he did not try to force anything more.
He stepped out of bounds.
"Good, Andrew! Good!" Mora shouted, clapping hard from the sideline.
It was not only a great gain, but Andrew had also been smart enough to step out of bounds and avoid taking a hit.
[Huge gain for UCLA!] Brent shouted. [Twenty-four rushing yards for Andrew Pritchett-Tucker! The Bruins cross midfield and move into Arizona territory!]
The stadium fell silent for a moment. In their first three plays, UCLA had gained 33 yards.
[There's the running side of Pritchett. He hasn't used it as much lately because he's been destroying defenses from the pocket, but we can't forget that this kid has already had a ninety-five-yard run,] Kirk commented.
The replay showed the exact moment Fischer missed the tackle.
The camera returned to Andrew, who was exchanging high fives with his teammates as they went back to the huddle.
[Twenty-four yards, first down for UCLA, and now the Bruins are at Arizona's thirty-five-yard line,] Brent added. [Pritchett's first major warning of the night.]
With a fresh set of downs, UCLA quickly lined up again.
The ball reached Andrew's hands again, and this time he handed it off to Franklin once more.
The running back found a small gap between the blocks, lowered his shoulders, and powered forward before Arizona's defense managed to close the lane.
Five yards.
Fischer was involved in the tackle, finally bringing him down, although he got back up with a frustrated grimace.
Five yards was not insignificant.
UCLA continued advancing with an efficiency that was irritating for any opponent hoping to intimidate them.
Andrew trotted toward Franklin with an overly innocent expression, as though he were only going to check whether his running back was all right.
But as he passed near Fischer, he turned his head slightly, "Did the grass taste good, number thirty-three?" he asked in a clearly mocking tone.
He was obviously referring to the previous spin, when Fischer had fallen face-first onto the turf while Andrew ran for more than twenty yards.
Fischer's face hardened instantly. Since he was close, he placed one hand on Andrew's chest and gave him a light shove, enough to make him stumble back a couple of steps.
The head official reacted immediately.
"Hey, thirty-three!" he shouted, approaching quickly. "I don't want to see your hands on the quarterback!"
Fischer raised both hands.
"Get back to your defense," the official cut in.
In a game like this, a simple shove could turn into something much bigger.
Football was already a sport built on contact, strength, and controlled aggression. Players made their living hitting, blocking, tackling, and responding physically on every play. Add an entire week of provocation, a hostile stadium, and two teams with wounded pride, and any misplaced gesture could ignite a fight.
The referee turned his attention back to Andrew.
"And you," he said, pointing at him with two fingers. "Don't provoke him."
Andrew raised his eyebrows slightly, as though he had no idea what the official was talking about, "I didn't say anything."
The official looked at him with little patience, "I saw your mouth moving. I don't know whether you were talking to him or your teammate, so I'm not throwing a flag for it. But don't take me for an idiot."
Andrew remained silent.
Franklin, still nearby, pressed his lips together to keep from smiling.
It was strange to see Andrew like this. Provocative. As though he did not only want to win the game, but also win inside the head of every Arizona defender.
In fact, it was the first time Franklin had ever seen him behave that way against an opponent.
On second down, UCLA returned to the line.
Andrew took the snap, dropped back only two steps, and released another short pass toward Steve. Three quick, safe yards, enough to leave the offense in a manageable situation.
Steve caught the ball and was brought down almost immediately.
But Andrew also ended up on the ground.
This time, it was not Fischer.
Another Arizona defender arrived after the pass had already been released and hit him with too much momentum, taking him down to the turf. The impact was not brutal, but it was late enough for Andrew to feel that it was more than a simple consequence of the play.
The defender remained on top of him for a second too long.
From the ground, Andrew placed both hands on the opponent's chest and shoved him hard, knocking him to the side before getting back to his feet.
"That's twice, ref," Andrew said, looking toward the nearest official as he stood up. "Can you watch the late hit?"
The official looked at him.
Andrew was not shouting for no reason. He had seen it from the front row. The defender could have slowed down better. Maybe not completely, but enough to avoid ending up on top of him again.
"It was close," the official replied firmly. "I'm watching it."
Mora reacted from the sideline as well. The head coach took several steps toward the boundary, pointing at the nearest line judge, "Come on! That's after the ball is out!" he shouted, spreading his arms.
The sideline official raised one hand, signaling for him to stay back.
Mora did not cross the line, but he kept talking, demanding that they call what, in his eyes, was starting to become a pattern.
As the Arizona defender returned to his team, he looked at Andrew over his shoulder, "Shut up and play."
Andrew did not respond. He only adjusted his helmet slightly and returned to the huddle.
Third down.
Two yards to go.
The stadium immediately raised the noise level, wanting to add even more pressure. If UCLA failed to gain the two yards, they would have to settle for a field goal, and the game would be tied.
The ball reached Andrew's hands. Arizona's defensive line attacked violently once again. The pocket began to break down almost immediately, so Andrew dropped back and moved laterally toward the right without crossing the line of scrimmage.
He did not panic or lower his eyes. He kept looking.
One defender broke free from his block and charged directly at him. Another closed in from the inside. For a moment, it looked as though Andrew would have to run or throw the ball away.
But then he saw Fauria. The giant had broken free over the middle, crossing behind the linebackers.
Andrew planted his right foot while still moving and threw.
The pass traveled high, just over the coverage.
Fauria jumped and caught it.
[What a pass and catch by the tight end!] Brent exclaimed, leaning forward, not expecting a throw through such a small window with two defenders about to tackle him.
Fauria did not stop.
Two defenders tried to close him down, but Amari and Shaq managed to block them, buying Fauria another second.
[Touchdown, UCLA!] Brent roared, [Joseph Fauria! Twenty-seven yards! Pritchett extended the play and found his tight end to give the Bruins the lead!]
[Great pass by Pritchett. The pressure gets there, the pocket breaks down, but he still manages a twenty-yard throw and the first touchdown of the night in this atmosphere. Pressure? What's that?]
In the end zone, Fauria celebrated by pounding his chest as his teammates surrounded him.
Andrew did not run over there. He turned around and looked toward the defender who had hit him late on the previous play. He was on the ground after diving in Andrew's direction again and arriving too late this time.
"Come on, didn't you want to play!?" Andrew shouted, taking a step toward him. "Let's play!"
The defender got up angrily and also took a step toward Andrew.
But the referee quickly appeared between them.
"Back up!" he ordered, looking first at the defender and then at Andrew. "Both of you!"
In a game like this, penalizing every word could make the night impossible to control.
The Arizona defender clenched his fists, but backed away.
Andrew did the same.
The kicker came in, and UCLA took the lead.
[Seven to three!] Brent commented, [A great start to the game for the Bruins. Do you think Pritchett is beginning to back up his words?]
[So far, yes,] Kirk replied without hesitation. [Six plays. One run of his own, two handoffs to Franklin, and three passes. With that, UCLA drove down the field and finished with a touchdown. Arizona, meanwhile, also opened with six plays and gained fifty yards very quickly, but came up short when it mattered most and had to settle for a field goal.]
[If the game keeps going at this pace,] Kirk continued, [then I think we'll see Pritchett sitting on the bench in the third or fourth quarter. But it's far too early to say for sure.]
Arizona needed touchdowns, not just good offensive drives between the twenty-yard lines.
That pressure began to show.
Arizona's offense returned to the field with the obligation to respond. The stadium was still fired up, but it was no longer the same confident roar from the opening minutes. Now there was urgency. The crowd wanted to see its quarterback lead the Wildcats all the way into the end zone.
At first, it seemed possible.
Once again, the no-huddle offense found its rhythm. Arizona moved the ball well again.
But once again, when the field tightened and every yard began to matter more, UCLA held firm.
The defense gave up space, yes. But it held.
On third down, Scott looked for a crossing route near the red zone, but the coverage arrived in time and the pass fell incomplete.
Rodriguez paced along the sideline with a tense expression, clapping once to encourage his players, "Good, that's not bad!" he said. Three points were still three points. Better than nothing.
7-6.
The Wildcats kept adding points. But they were not truly punishing UCLA.
When UCLA received the ball again, Andrew had seventy-four yards to go. A little farther than on the previous drive.
The problem for Arizona was that the feeling did not change.
The Wildcats' defense could not stop UCLA's offense from advancing. On one down, they gave up three yards. On the next, four. Then seven. Then another play moved the chains. They were not always explosive gains, but they kept piling up in a steady and irritating way.
The motivation from the opening minutes began to change.
First into anxiety. Then into frustration.
On second down and five, that frustration became obvious.
Andrew took the snap and dropped back three steps.
Fischer read the play and charged toward him aggressively, trying to close the space before Andrew could release the pass. For a moment, it looked as though he had him.
But Andrew moved just in time.
He slid his body to the side, avoiding the pressure by inches. Fischer lost his balance and fell forward, barely brushing the air where Andrew had been a second earlier.
Then Andrew planted his foot and unleashed his arm.
[Pritchett avoids the pressure!] Brent shouted. [He has a man deep! Long pass toward the end zone!]
The ball traveled more than thirty yards in a perfect spiral.
Shaq, the senior deep-route receiver, accelerated down the sideline, gained half a step on the cornerback, and turned his head at the exact right moment.
The pass dropped into his hands. He caught it in the end zone.
[Touchdown, UCLA!] Brent roared. [Shaq Evans! What a throw by Andrew Pritchett-Tucker! He avoids Fischer, resets quickly, and connects on the deep pass for the Bruins' second touchdown!]
The stadium was stunned.
Not completely silent, because ZonaZoo was still trying to shout, but there was that pause that appears when a crowd realizes that what the freshman had said a few days earlier might actually happen.
Shaq dropped the ball and pounded his chest, "Yeah, baby!" he celebrated, while his teammates ran toward him.
On the visitors' sideline, Mora clapped several times, "Good!" he said as he exchanged high fives with the other coaches.
They knew the beginning would be the hardest part, since that was when their opponents would be at their most motivated and energetic, fueled by the support of their crowd.
But they were already handling it much better than expected.
Chow, more restrained, merely nodded. That was exactly the kind of play they had worked on during the week.
Andrew did not go over to celebrate either. He only raised one arm toward his teammates, his fist closed, shaking it slightly, then turned his head a little and looked toward the ground.
Fischer was getting back up, still with one knee resting on the turf.
Andrew moved close enough for him to hear through the noise.
"Get ready," he said, leaning slightly toward him with a mocking yet serious tone, "Because you're going to have a bad time. I'm going to score so many touchdowns on you that you won't even know where you stand."
Fischer's brow furrowed behind his helmet.
Andrew smiled slightly without backing away.
The linebacker took a step toward him, but one of the referees immediately appeared between them, extending both arms.
"Enough!" he ordered. "Back away!"
Andrew quickly walked off.
On Arizona's sideline, several defensive assistants reacted immediately.
"He's provoking him!" one of them shouted toward the sideline judge. "That's taunting! You have to call it!"
Another coach raised both arms, looking toward the nearest referee, "He's been talking the whole game!"
The official barely turned his head, paying little attention. He did not throw the flag.
If he had, UCLA would have been forced to begin its next offensive drive fifteen yards farther back.
He had not heard enough to justify a penalty, and Andrew had not shoved anyone, pointed in an exaggerated manner, or made any obvious gesture toward the stands or the defender on the ground.
In a game like this, the referees seemed willing to allow a certain amount of leeway as long as there was no physical contact or an overly obvious provocation.
Brent noticed something on the field. UCLA's kicker was not coming out.
[Well, Kirk, it looks like we already know what's coming,] he said with a mixture of surprise and familiarity in his voice. [UCLA is not sending out the extra-point unit. Here comes another two-point conversion.]
[That's right, Brent,] Kirk replied. [And it has already become part of the Bruins' offensive identity this season. Not many teams attempt them this often, but UCLA has found a formula that works for them.]
In college football, the two-point conversion was a rarity.
Most teams did not even attempt one during an entire game. After a touchdown, the normal decision was to send out the kicker and secure the extra point. An almost automatic play, with a success rate of around 97 to 99 percent.
The two-point conversion was reserved for specific mathematical situations.
When the score demanded it and you needed to correct a particular point differential.
The reason was simple: its overall success rate in the NCAA hovered between 45 and 50 percent. Far too risky to use without necessity.
But UCLA was different.
Since Andrew's arrival, the Bruins had begun practicing and executing it with unusual confidence. And up to that point, their internal data showed a success rate close to 72 percent.
With Andrew, the play had more possibilities: he could pass, run, and improvise if necessary.
[Pritchett can do more than just pass and run. There are quarterbacks who can do that. But his decision-making is extremely fast. That makes this play much more difficult to defend,] Kirk explained.
[It would also put immediate pressure on Arizona,] Brent said.
[Exactly,] Kirk said. [If UCLA converts, they go up by nine. That forces Arizona to answer with a touchdown and probably a two-point conversion of its own just to keep pace with the game. It's an aggressive decision, but a very intelligent one.]
Andrew received the play from the sideline, nodded once, and gathered the offense.
Andrew lined up in shotgun.
It is an offensive formation in football where the quarterback lines up 5 to 7 yards behind the line of scrimmage instead of directly behind the center.
The center delivers a long snap, allowing the quarterback to receive it through the air. This formation gives him a better view of the field and more time to make a decision.
"SET!"
The defense shifted slightly, making Andrew smile inwardly.
"HUT!"
The ball reached his hands, and he wasted no time throwing a touch pass to Steve toward the corner.
[Successful conversion! The percentage keeps improving. It doesn't matter if fifty thousand people are screaming against you, the connection between Andrew Pritchett-Tucker and Steve Rice never fails!]
Steve immediately raised both arms with a wide, almost innocent smile.
The problem was that he had landed directly in front of ZonaZoo.
To him, it was only a celebration.
To the thousands of Arizona students standing only a few yards away, it was mockery.
The boos erupted over him, accompanied by insults and waving arms from the front rows. He simply kept his hands raised and held their gaze for a second longer than necessary before returning to his teammates.
The referee watched him closely but did not throw the flag. There was not enough to call taunting.
Taunting is an unsportsmanlike conduct penalty punished with fifteen yards. In the NCAA, if the taunt occurred before the play ended, it could even erase the touchdown.
Although the fans saw it as provocation because Steve was smiling broadly and raised his hands while looking at them, the referee only saw a normal celebration.
Arizona's offense returned to the field with even more urgency.
They were down by nine points. That meant they needed a touchdown, a normal extra point, and a field goal to take the lead. Of course, all of that only mattered if their defense managed to stop UCLA at some point.
If they could not, the only way to stay alive would be to turn the game into a constant exchange of points.
That was the problem.
After two drives, it was beginning to feel as though Arizona's defense had no clear answers for Andrew's offense. UCLA was not ranked seventh in the country only because of narrative or hype. It showed on the field. Pace, execution, variety, quick reads, and the constant feeling that any play could break open and end in a deep pass or a run of more than 20 yards.
Besides, Arizona was not exactly a team built around its defense.
The stadium began to realize it too.
The excitement was still there, but it was no longer the same. Even worse for them, UCLA's defense adjusted.
Scott tried to move the offense with the same pace as the previous drives, but the Bruins no longer gave ground so easily. They closed the gaps better, tackled with more confidence, and forced Arizona into a long third down that ended with an incomplete pass.
No touchdown. Not even a field goal.
Arizona had to punt.
Andrew returned to the field with little time remaining in the first quarter. This time, UCLA's offense rushed more than it should have. They moved the ball, yes, but not with the same clean execution.
In the end, the Bruins settled for a field goal.
It was not perfect. But it increased the lead to twelve points.
The second quarter began even worse for the Wildcats.
Scott averaged close to one interception per game, and that night, under pressure, the statistic appeared.
[Pass intercepted!] Brent shouted, [Aaron Hester jumps the route! Number twenty-two for UCLA has room down the sideline!]
Hester caught the ball with both hands, turned his body, and began running through a chaos of opponents trying to bring him down.
The stadium erupted in a cry of alarm.
In the student section, an Arizona junior brought both hands to her head, "This is going to get ugly…" she murmured.
She had been at the tailgate since early that morning. The atmosphere had been legendary, far better than at previous games. Everyone had been talking about the same thing. About Andrew and his arrogant words dismissing the Wildcats. And about how the defense was going to make him pay.
They knew he was putting up incredible statistics, deservedly leading the Heisman watch, and that he had beaten Oregon State, but it had only been by one point. That was the only ranked team he had faced and defeated, and it had happened in his own stadium.
They had truly wanted to see blood. But the game was going far too badly.
"I told you they shouldn't have pissed off the Jesus Christ of football," her friend Kate said, shaking her head.
She did not sound anxious. Not even surprised.
She had been a fan of Andrew since his YouTube channel, so that resigned expression seemed more like an I told you so than sadness or anger over the result of the game.
Her friend looked at her the way someone would look at a heretic.
"What?" she said, shrugging as she pulled out her phone. "Complain to Fischer, not me."
And she started writing a tweet.
[Hester crosses the forty-yard line! He has blockers in front of him! He's still on his feet… and they finally bring him down near Arizona's twenty-eight-yard line! What a play by UCLA's defense!]
On the field, Datone was the first to arrive. He lifted Hester almost as if he weighed nothing and hugged him tightly, "Great job!" he shouted.
On UCLA's sideline, Steve was one of the first to react. He jumped with his fist clenched, pumping it with a grin.
"BEAR DOWN, ARIZONA!" Steve shouted, using the Wildcats' motto as a taunt.
Several teammates laughed and shoved him.
"Don't go too far, we don't want to get penalized," Thomas said in his usual serious tone, but there was a faint smile on his face.
UCLA's offense took the field and immediately capitalized on the interception.
Arizona had handed them field position that was far too valuable, and Andrew did not forgive them. In only a few plays, he moved the Bruins into the end zone and recorded his third touchdown of the night.
Once again, UCLA went for two.
And once again, they converted.
Arizona 6 - UCLA 26
The atmosphere in the stadium began to change. Many sections started falling silent compared to the beginning.
UCLA's defense returned to the field with a different kind of energy, and this time they stopped Arizona's offense again without allowing any points.
Another empty drive.
On the visitors' sideline, Mora exchanged a high five with his defensive coordinator.
Andrew used the next possession to add a field goal.
Arizona 6 - UCLA 29.
The atmosphere inside the stadium became heavy and quiet.
It was still only the second quarter, but the scoreboard was already beginning to look like a threat being fulfilled.
Andrew's words that he would decide the game in three quarters and then be sitting comfortably on the bench were beginning to feel like a countdown.
It was no longer the arrogance of a freshman.
On Arizona's sideline, the coaches were losing patience. Head coach Rodriguez paced back and forth with his jaw clenched, shouting adjustments, pointing out mistakes, and demanding more speed.
The defensive assistants argued among themselves after every series. The players stared toward the field with frustration written across their bodies, unable to look toward the stands.
But it made no difference. The Wildcats ended another drive without points and punted.
UCLA got the ball back before halftime.
Sixty-five yards to go. Little time left on the clock. Enough for Andrew.
Andrew took the snap.
The pressure came from the edge.
Fischer tried to close the angle, desperate to touch him at least once before halftime. But Andrew moved inside the pocket, took one step to the side, then another forward, keeping his eyes downfield while the offensive line tried to rebuild the protection around him.
For a moment, it looked as though he was going to run. But he did not.
Andrew planted his foot. He rotated his torso and threw with tremendous power, 'Catch it, bastard!'
[Pritchett has time! He loads up and throws!] Brent shouted. [He's looking for Shaq Evans again!]
The ball left his hand in a perfect spiral, rising beneath the lights of Tucson.
Sixty yards through the air.
The camera followed the pass while the stadium held its breath.
Shaq raced down the sideline with the Arizona cornerback tight against his shoulder. He turned his head at exactly the right moment, adjusted his speed, extended his arms, and caught the ball at the three-yard line.
The defender tried to push him out of bounds.
Too late.
Shaq took two more steps and crossed the goal line.
[Touchdown, UCLA!] Brent roared. [Sixty-five yards on one play! Andrew Pritchett-Tucker finds Shaq Evans, and the Bruins strike again before halftime!]
The UCLA section in the upper corner of the stadium went wild, a small blue patch screaming in the middle of the stunned sea of red.
"I TOLD YOU!" Luke shouted, pounding his chest over his Bruins jersey.
Brent wasted no time adding the statistic everyone had been waiting for, [And with that pass, Kirk, Andrew Pritchett-Tucker ties Drew Olson's historic record: thirty-four touchdown passes in a single season for UCLA. What a way to do it.]
Kirk let out a brief laugh of disbelief, [He did it in his eighth game. That's the craziest part. Drew Olson did it over a twelve-game season. Pritchett has just tied the record before even reaching November.]
The two-point conversion was successful again.
Three for three for UCLA.
The screen showed Andrew walking toward the sideline, calm, as though he had not just written another page in the program's history.
But this time, when he reached the sideline, they did not welcome him like they would after any ordinary touchdown.
Mora was the first to approach him. He grabbed him by the shoulders and pulled him into a tight hug for a second, then slapped his helmet with a wide smile.
"That's history, kid," he told him.
Rip Scherer, the quarterbacks coach, appeared right after and gave him a pat on the chest, "Thirty-four," he said, pointing at him with a mixture of pride and restrained emotion, "And there's still so much left."
Chow was more composed, as always. He approached with the notebook he never seemed to let go of during games and nodded, allowing a faint smile to escape.
Coming from Chow, that smile was practically a standing ovation.
His teammates also came over to congratulate him.
Andrew smiled.
Not with the cold provocation he had shown in front of Arizona's defenders. Nor with the sharp confidence of someone trying to destroy an opponent mentally.
This time, it was his usual smile. Even a little shy.
"Thanks," he said, accepting the pats from his teammates.
Mora watched him with his arms crossed. Now he really looked like an eighteen-year-old freshman who had just tied a historic UCLA record, rather than the kid who had promised to humiliate Arizona.
The first half ended shortly afterward.
Arizona Wildcats 6 — UCLA Bruins 37
[Four touchdown passes tonight,] Brent said on the broadcast. [In the first half, on the road, and against a ranked team. After an entire week in which everyone debated whether he had talked too much.]
Then he smiled and looked at his partner, [Well… so far, what do you think, Kirk?]
Kirk took barely a second to answer, [I'd say he undersold it.]
Brent laughed, [Undersold it?]
[Yes,] Kirk said. [Pritchett said that, at some point in the third quarter, he would be sitting on the sideline. But looking at this score, looking at the way UCLA is playing, and looking at the trouble Arizona is having sustaining drives against Jim Mora's defense, he might not even need to play in the third quarter.]
[Really, you think he might not come out for the third quarter?] Brent asked.
That would be even more humiliating for Arizona.
He would not even have needed three quarters to leave them beaten.
Only two.
[It's possible,] Kirk replied. [I don't know what decision Mora will make, but Brett Hundley is more than capable of protecting this lead. He may not throw four touchdowns in two quarters like Pritchett, but he can move the chains, control the clock, and close out the game without any trouble.]
UCLA had an excellent backup quarterback. Hundley did not need to do anything spectacular. He only needed to protect the ball, sustain long possessions, and keep Arizona from finding any spark of life.
With a thirty-one-point lead at halftime, the logical decision was to protect Andrew.
Not expose him to unnecessary hits. Not give a frustrated defense the chance to take out its anger on the most important player in the program.
Especially with Oregon waiting the following Saturday.
The Ducks.
The number two team in the country and the true monster on the Bruins' schedule.
But what Brent and Kirk did not know was that, as Andrew walked through the tunnel toward the locker room, he had no intention of staying on the bench.
He had said he would come out in the third quarter, and he intended to do exactly that. Because, to him, the humiliation had only completed its first phase.
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