whole process, the way fish must watch fishing from beneath a glass-bottomed boat.
I called out Plan B. I swear I heard giggling from my own offensive line as I grunted out meaningless decoy numbers and directions before taking the snap.
“Hut, hut, hut.” I’d thought I would never get a chance to say those magical words into some guy’s big butt. But here I was. It was a storybook ending.
“Hut, hut, hut.”
My hands were sweating so hard, I spent the entire six seconds of my dropback trying to squeeze a grip on the ball, passing it to myself from hand to hand, to knee, to hand. I wasn’t even looking up at what was coming my way until finally, just balancing the ball on the fingertips of my throwing hand, I looked up. I shouldn’t have.
How true it is that the greatest things in life seem to whiz by a person—like Alfredo sauce in a fantastic northern Italian restaurant—and the most wicked things always take forever to unfold, dragging and dragging and dragging by in almost suspended motion until all the agony has been wrung out of them and into you.
Whether my linemen merely stepped out of the way, or whether the defense was just so hungry to get me that they were unstoppable, I’ll never know. All I know is that I raised my eyes just in time to look directly into the face mask of the animal who got there first, and see over his shoulder as the ball flitted off to a better place without me. The guy was just then landing from leaping at me. The grille of his mask pressed into mine, so I could watch the shifting of his insanely gritted teeth while he carried me down. When we landed, we bounced. He bounced right over me, ripping my helmet along with him. This made way for the second guy, who landed high, his protective cup smashing me in the chin. It was just as hard as a helmet, only somehow more degrading. A third guy drove his helmet into my side. The fourth ambled up casually and just fell on me. I made a sound like a whoopee cushion out of both ends as all the life gasses fled me.
The stretcher I was carried away on was wider and softer than the cot I slept on. The sky was powder blue and blissfully, peacefully cloudless. The stretcher carriers were good, very good—in sync, gently swinging me as they all stepped together, left-right-left-right. I thought, “I might like to ride in a hot-air balloon someday, just like this. Blue.”
I was a success. One play, and I was out.
“Making a mockery of my fine football program,” Coach was muttering as I wafted by. “ Mocking it. Mocking football ?” he questioned, in total disbelief.
“Hut,” I said. “This doesn’t count, does it? Hut. Hut. If I can’t make it on my own? Hut, hut, hut. This doesn’t cost me any vouchers, hut, does it?”
When they got me back to the nurse’s station, I perked up. I felt like I was home. “Hi, guys,” I said to all the people I didn’t know. I felt great, but I was still lying down.
There was no available cot for me because apparently day two is the biggest day for sick bay. That’s when all the other athletic bottom feeders wake up and realize what I was sharp enough to pick up on day one. Which is: “Holy shit, Batman, get me out of here.”
So they dumped me off the stretcher and propped me in a chair. I no longer felt great. I slumped forward until one of the stretcher bearers put a big paw on my chest and straightened me up. Undaunted, I slumped again. He straightened me again. The nurse came over, joined in a discussion I could not hear clearly other than a few angry “Coach says under no circumstances is that kid allowed...” and dismissed my assistants.
“How are you?” he said, but he didn’t care. So I didn’t answer. Then he pulled out a little capsule, broke it open under my nose.
“ Yeowww !” I hollered, and snapped my head back. It burned my nostrils, my eyes, and my throat. “That smells like ammonia. Times ten.”
The nurse smiled, whipped out his little penlight, and
I called out Plan B. I swear I heard giggling from my own offensive line as I grunted out meaningless decoy numbers and directions before taking the snap.
“Hut, hut, hut.” I’d thought I would never get a chance to say those magical words into some guy’s big butt. But here I was. It was a storybook ending.
“Hut, hut, hut.”
My hands were sweating so hard, I spent the entire six seconds of my dropback trying to squeeze a grip on the ball, passing it to myself from hand to hand, to knee, to hand. I wasn’t even looking up at what was coming my way until finally, just balancing the ball on the fingertips of my throwing hand, I looked up. I shouldn’t have.
How true it is that the greatest things in life seem to whiz by a person—like Alfredo sauce in a fantastic northern Italian restaurant—and the most wicked things always take forever to unfold, dragging and dragging and dragging by in almost suspended motion until all the agony has been wrung out of them and into you.
Whether my linemen merely stepped out of the way, or whether the defense was just so hungry to get me that they were unstoppable, I’ll never know. All I know is that I raised my eyes just in time to look directly into the face mask of the animal who got there first, and see over his shoulder as the ball flitted off to a better place without me. The guy was just then landing from leaping at me. The grille of his mask pressed into mine, so I could watch the shifting of his insanely gritted teeth while he carried me down. When we landed, we bounced. He bounced right over me, ripping my helmet along with him. This made way for the second guy, who landed high, his protective cup smashing me in the chin. It was just as hard as a helmet, only somehow more degrading. A third guy drove his helmet into my side. The fourth ambled up casually and just fell on me. I made a sound like a whoopee cushion out of both ends as all the life gasses fled me.
The stretcher I was carried away on was wider and softer than the cot I slept on. The sky was powder blue and blissfully, peacefully cloudless. The stretcher carriers were good, very good—in sync, gently swinging me as they all stepped together, left-right-left-right. I thought, “I might like to ride in a hot-air balloon someday, just like this. Blue.”
I was a success. One play, and I was out.
“Making a mockery of my fine football program,” Coach was muttering as I wafted by. “ Mocking it. Mocking football ?” he questioned, in total disbelief.
“Hut,” I said. “This doesn’t count, does it? Hut. Hut. If I can’t make it on my own? Hut, hut, hut. This doesn’t cost me any vouchers, hut, does it?”
When they got me back to the nurse’s station, I perked up. I felt like I was home. “Hi, guys,” I said to all the people I didn’t know. I felt great, but I was still lying down.
There was no available cot for me because apparently day two is the biggest day for sick bay. That’s when all the other athletic bottom feeders wake up and realize what I was sharp enough to pick up on day one. Which is: “Holy shit, Batman, get me out of here.”
So they dumped me off the stretcher and propped me in a chair. I no longer felt great. I slumped forward until one of the stretcher bearers put a big paw on my chest and straightened me up. Undaunted, I slumped again. He straightened me again. The nurse came over, joined in a discussion I could not hear clearly other than a few angry “Coach says under no circumstances is that kid allowed...” and dismissed my assistants.
“How are you?” he said, but he didn’t care. So I didn’t answer. Then he pulled out a little capsule, broke it open under my nose.
“ Yeowww !” I hollered, and snapped my head back. It burned my nostrils, my eyes, and my throat. “That smells like ammonia. Times ten.”
The nurse smiled, whipped out his little penlight, and
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