By Barron Greenwalt,

1992

It was the last minutes if the game. Waiting, I breathed the heavy air filled with the sweaty odor of my fellow players. It seemed to be a reminder of the weighted burden of my purpose, hold the other teams back, finally, the quarterback called the snap count, “…., three!” My offensive opponent and I crashed heads. We pushed, grabbed and pinched. As I went past him, I met a powerful fullback who tried to block me; I saw the quarterback drop back which clued me to the pass play. The fullback knocked me off track; I lost my balance for a brief moment. However, I made it past the fullback and continued pursuing the quarterback.

He scrambled as I chased him. I grabbed his arm as it went forward and pilled I back. The ball fumbled to the ground. It bounced; I scooped it up and tucked it away. I ran as hard as I could with a new purpose. The brisk air seemed to splash me in the face as I neared the goal line. Then I felt hands grabbing at me, trying to pull me down, They caught me; I tasted the dirt turn to mud in my mouth. Then, I heard them. The fans’ cheers began to cleanse the defeat from my eyes; I say that we had made it to our gal. We had won the game.