Football

I walked out on the roughly cut field, feeling the cold chill and rain hitting my face rapidly against my face. The clouds were as dark as the pavement in the parking lot. Eyes furiously staring at me on the line of scrimmage. So quiet, you could hear a pin drop. The sound was loud to my ears. “HUT!” The thunder of shoulder pads hitting and helmets smearing against each other roared the field. Mud soaring in the air as I am running after the ball carrier. Once I am at full speed down the field, all I can see are the numbers on the
jersey. The I jump into the end zone, dirt dispersed over my sweaty face. The ref looks closely and he raises his hands fiercely. You leave the rest to be said with the roar of the crowd.

Down by two touchdowns, we had to cooperate. The ball flew as high as a bird when it was kicked. Feet hit the field strongly as we approached the line. Seconds ticking away in a blink of an eye. We hiked the ball and it was secluded from the quarterback’s hand. Hearts skipped a beat and breathing could only be heard from the receiver. His hands clapped brutally. The ref's whistle blatantly blew as loud as a plane engine. The game was over; we had lost. From my own perspective, our spirit had won.    By Bobby H