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Scott said. “I might suck.”
    “Nahhh, come on, Mitchell,” said Andy. “We’ve been hearing about this, we want to see it.”
    “What’s in this for me?” Scott thought.
    “What’s your longest kick?” asked Derric.
    “In a game, 52 yards,” Scott said softly. “I’ve hit from 60 in practice.”
    “SIXTY?” Carl said. “You’ve made a 60-yard field goal?”
    “Yeah. About a year-and-a-half ago,” he said.
    “OK,” Andy said. “How about this?
    “We won’t make you go 60, or even 50, but if you can make, say, three out of five from 40, we each owe you 10 bucks. If you don’t, you owe each of us five.”
    Scott had already sent $125 in savings bonds home, hit the snack bar and bought four cartons of cigarettes and picked up some new t-shirts and socks. He had about $50 left and if he had to give the other nine guys five bucks each, he’d have $5 for the rest of the month. On the other hand, if he won, he’d have an extra $90. What the fuck?
    “Alright, you’re on,” he said. “I’ll probably live to regret this.”
    Breakfast went great and after the meeting, so did inspection. Second Platoon was strack and after lunch, they were dismissed, with orders to be back by 1700 for dinner.
    The squad leaders hustled to the first post bus and took the 10-minute drive to the TRADOC (Training Division Command) NCO Club. It was a recreation building for trainees and other staff who were involved in basic training. In back was a football field with a track around it. Inside were a bar and cafeteria on one side and a gym on the other. Scott went to the check-out and picked out a couple of decent-looking footballs.
    “Got a kicking tee?” he asked the PFC behind the counter.
    “Yep,” he said. The PFC went back to the shelf and returned with an orange Voit kicking tee.
    Carl and Andy were waiting by the back doors as Scott joined them, tossing each of them a ball.
    “Swede, if this blows up, I will kick your ass,” he said.
    “I have total confidence in you,” Carl said. “And I need the extra money.”
    Andy laughed. “You could make a lot of money, Mitch. Fucking rolllllling in it!”
    “I’m screwed,” Scott thought.
    The rest of the guys were out on the field. Derric, Terry and the Slick Man already had beers in their hands. Everyone looked ready for fun. Except Scott, of course.
    The further into this challenge, the more nervous he became. It’s been too long, he thought, as he changed out of his boots and green socks and slipped on his white knee-high civilian socks and his white Puma tennis shoes. He wondered if he could still do this. And he wasn’t sure he wanted the answer.
    Scott hit his first extra point, then another. Pretty soon he ripped off 10 straight. They moved back five yards. Five for five from 25 yards, all boomers, all sent his shagger buddies back to the track.
    As he moved back to the 20 for the 30-yarders, Scott saw the crowd had grown. By now, it seemed half of Delta 5-2 was there. “What the fuck, Day?” Scott asked Andy. “I thought this was just a few people.”
    “Oh, that,” Andy said. “Yeah, it kind of got out.”
    “Just what I need,” Scott said.
    He’d kicked in front almost 20,000 people before. But that was a lifetime ago. A lot had happened and he’d caused most of it to happen to him.
    For a moment, he thought about Roni. “She’d love this,” he thought. “Hell, she’d be betting on me.”
    Scott hit all five kicks from 30 yards. He was still nervous, but the rhythm was there. He finally missed one at 35 yards, wide left. “Don’t open your hips so fast,” he muttered to himself. “Stay tucked, dumbass.”
    He settled in and nailed the last four and moved back to the 30. Now, seemingly the whole platoon was there. Guys were swapping money, so there were side bets everywhere. Half the crowd was cheering and half was chanting, “Choke!”
    Scott took his approach step, hit his mark and swung his leg. It was long enough, but faded