It was the last minutes of the game. Waiting, I breathed in the heavy air filled with the sweaty odor of my fellow players. It seemed to be a reminder of my weighted purpose of defending by holding back that other determined team. Finally, the quarterback called the snap count, “…., three!” Wildcats and Tigers crashed heads. We pushed, grabbed and pinched. As I went past the first offensive player, I met a powerful fullback who tried to block me. At that moment, I saw the quarterback drop back, which clued me to an inevitable pass play. The fullback knocked me off track; I lost my balance for a brief moment. However, I was more determined than he; I made it past him and continued pursuing the quarterback.
He scrambled as I chased him. I grabbed his arm as it went forward and pulled it 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 new purpose. The brisk air seemed to splash me in the face, giving me a renewed freshness as I neared the goal line. I felt the hands grabbing at me, trying to pull me down. They caught me; I tasted the dirt as it turned to mud in my mouth. Then, I heard them. The fans’ cheers began to cleanse the defeat from my eyes; I heard the words, “Goal! Game!” We had won the game.