Thank you all for your support so far. This blog has been more successful than I ever anticipated at this point! Tonight I'm sharing a short story memoir that I finished writing for one of my classes. I'd love to hear what you think of it.
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The
Bone-Jarring Tackle
“Tell Mom that I’m in the field
playing a game of football,” I say to my sister as I hurry down the stairs.
“Okay,” she says without looking up
from her book.
I round the corner while putting on
my Cris Carter jersey. He is my favorite player ever, number eighty for the
Minnesota Vikings. When I wear this jersey I feel like I can catch any pass
that is thrown my way. While my thoughts are wandering I run into my younger
brother, Michael, and he falls to the ground.
“Watch out,” I tell him as I hurry past.
I don’t want to be the last one to the field, or else my first game with these
guys might be my last one, too.
“I’m coming, too,” he says as he
gets up from the floor. He brushes some lint from his bright orange John Elway
jersey.
“No, you’re not,” I say as I stop in
my tracks. There is no way my little brother is tagging along for this game. He
is five years younger than me and will get massacred by the high school guys. Besides,
they wouldn’t like him tagging along.
“If you don’t take me, I’ll call
Mom,” he says.
“She wouldn’t let you play, either,”
I say.
“I don’t have to tell her it is to
play football,” he says. “She’ll make you take me.”
“You are such a brat sometimes,” I
say. “I wish you had never been adopted.”
I know that will get him upset. My
sister and I have teased him about this for years, even though we know it isn’t
true, because he is the only one in the family with blond hair. It has the
desired results. His face gets bright red and tears well in his eyes. His voice
gets shrill and he screams at me, even though I’m right in front of him. “I’m
not adopted. I’m telling Mom when she gets home.”
He stomps all the way upstairs to
his room and slams the door several times. Little flakes from the ceiling
popcorn fall to the ground as he stomps across his room. My sister sits in the chair,
unfazed.
“You’d better go before Mom gets home,”
Jessica says without looking up from her book. She is reading Harry Potter and the Sorcerer’s Stone,
which must be interesting because she hasn’t put it down since she got home.
“Yeah, I’ll be home before dinner,”
I say as I walk into the kitchen. I grab a couple of Oreos and head out the
door. The brisk autumn air welcomes me as I cross our massive green deck. Leaves
of red and orange decorate the branches of the tree in our backyard, stretching
above the garage. Bees hover from flower to flower, gathering stores of pollen
before the winter comes. The grass in the neighboring yards is fading to a dull
brown, but our yard is still a vibrant green.
I cut through the back yard and
enter the field. It stretches east for a mile, covered in grass and flowers and
the occasional weed. In the center is a tall fence that the neighborhood kids
play baseball around. Many times I’ve walked past them, wishing I could be a
part of their game even though I am terrible at baseball. A three-foot wide
creek cuts through the center of the field, running east to west. On the south
side of the creek is a paved trail that runs parallel to its bending path. At
the east end is a covered shelter with a few picnic tables. This is my
destination.
A rabbit is startled from the grass
as I jog past. The songs of various birds fill the air as they stop in our
trees along their flight south for the winter. In several different places groups
of children chase each other in games of tag, their laughter echoing in the
air. A mother jogs along the path pushing a red and black stroller. On the
other side of the path an elderly couple walks side by side, the fingers of
their hands interlocked.
Most of the guys are already around
the picnic area. A football is tossed around among them, spiraling perfectly as
it cuts through the air. Conversation and laughter flows freely from the group.
They welcome me as I arrive, tossing me the ball. I am not expecting the ball,
so it slips through my hands and tumbles away. I mentally curse at myself for
being so clumsy. I pick up the football and throw it to the next guy. It falls
short and hops into his hands. I can tell my stock is falling already.
The focus has already moved off of
me and onto the last two to arrive. One is tall, the other short like me. They
both appear to be athletic, which means they’ll be among the first picked. The
taller one is wearing long sleeves and jeans even though it is in the low
sixties. The shorter one is wearing a blue soccer jersey and shorts. They are
welcomed with a chorus of greetings, and the game can now begin.
The captains of the team must have
been predetermined because two of the guys step forward and declare themselves
as being the captains. No one voices dissent. The two athletic guys,
unsurprisingly, are the first two selected for the teams. Four down, eight to
go. The next four chosen are the ones who were proficiently throwing the ball
around before I came along and dropped it.
I glance at the guys standing next
to me to see my competition. I’m by no means physically fit, but I am in better
shape than at least two of them and the third has on glasses. I like my odds at
being picked next. Surprise overwhelms me when the kid with the glasses is
chosen next. And then one of the out-of-shape guys is picked. This always
happens.
I’m always picked last. It has been
that way since the early years of elementary school. I was short and shy. I was
clumsy at times. I played the least important positions in team sports, like
outfield and center. I am suddenly reminded why I only like watching sports. No
one gives me a chance because of first impressions, so I never get a chance to
get better.
These guys don’t know that I usually
have the hands of Cris Carter and can catch the ball. They don’t know that I
can be a shut-down safety like Robert Griffith. I already can tell they’ll have
me run routes and not throw me the ball. They’ll have me be the one to shadow
the quarterback and force him to throw the ball early. They will never know any
differently, and I’ll never be invited to play another game.
I accept my inevitable fate. I am
the last person left, going to the team with the shorter, fit guy. He tells me
his name is J.J., and the other guys ask him why the tall guy is wearing long
sleeves on a nice day. He tells us his name is Jon and he moved here from South
Carolina. I guess they aren’t used to this kind of weather.
The other team punts the ball to us
to start the game and J.J. hops in front of me to grab the ball. He takes off
like a bullet, darting in and out of defenders as he crosses the field. He
seems to be too fast to be stopped, but Jon comes up and tackles him. We get
the ball at midfield. In the huddle I am told to go long. I am always going
long. That means nothing.
The ball is hiked and I run past
everyone. No one pays attention to me. Instead they direct two of the guys to
guard J.J., leaving me wide open in the end zone. The ball is thrown to J.J.
and the other team intercepts it, running the ball back for a touchdown. That
team celebrates the score while we huddle back at the other end of the field.
When I mention that I was wide open, the guy throwing the ball said he never
saw me. He promises to look next time.
We get the ball back and our guy
goes down quickly. We have a long field ahead of us. We huddle and I’m told to
line up behind the quarterback and he’ll hand me the ball to run it. Here is my
chance. I’m ready to run like Robert Smith, dodging and spinning past
defenders. He hikes the ball and turns to hand it off to me. I reach to grab
it, but he pulls the ball back in and bootlegs the opposite direction. I’m left
running out for a pass, confused by this change of events. He passes the ball
and we get a touchdown because someone was left undefended. I don’t care. I
wanted the ball.
Flashbacks of flag football come to
mind. I played on a team for two years. I didn’t get to play quarterback or
running back or wide receiver. I didn’t get to be a good position. I was chosen
to play the center. My duties consisted of hiking the ball and running a short
route for a pass that rarely came. I ran so many button hooks that I could
still run that route perfectly.
In two years I never scored a
touchdown for that team. I was rarely thrown to, and was usually caught soon
after since I ran a short route in the middle of the field. But one game I had
my chance. I got the ball and spun past the first defender with a move that
would make any player envious. I turned to the end zone and charged forward. I
was unstoppable for a play. I reached the end zone and was ready to celebrate
my first touchdown.
And then I heard the refs whistle.
There was a penalty on the play. Our quarterback did an illegal block. The
touchdown didn’t count. My chance at doing something great for the team
vanished as quickly as it had arrived.
We kick the ball back to the other
team and get a chance to play some defense. If I can’t be Cris Carter or Robert
Smith for my team, the least I can do is play defense like Robert Griffith.
I’ll be the best safety they’ve ever seen, and word of my defensive talent will
spread and the high school team will want me to play. They’ll see that I can
play.
They hike the ball and I drop back,
watching the quarterback. I see one of the guys break free from the defender
and so I start running that way to cover him. I leap for the ball as it flies
by, but I’m too short to reach it. He catches the ball and makes it into the
end zone. I sigh and accept the fact that my size is not doing any favors for
the team. If I were six inches taller, that pass would have been mine. But I’m
not.
The game runs on and I get a chance
to catch a few passes every now and then, and even manage to deflect a pass or
two. The game is nearing its end, since dinner will be served for most of them
in a matter of minutes. We have time for one last drive. I’m running a cross
pattern down the field. The ball is hiked. I take off and cut to the right. The
ball is in the air. I leap for it and pull in the pass. Wham! I’m hit mid-jump
by Jon. I flip in the air and land on my back. The air is knocked from my
lungs. My vision gets blurry. The ball is still in my hands.
I lay in the grass, too stunned to
think for a moment. Then reality sets in and I realize that I caught the ball.
Against all odds, I made a great play. The aching in my chest is a constant
reminder of the hard tackle. It hurts with each breath I take. I can hear
commotion from the other guys and I know this is my chance to make an
impression. Their attention is fixed on me and how I react will probably impact
how they perceive me in the future.
People start to crowd around me. I
brush aside the inconvenient pain and get to my feet, laughing. The thrill of
catching the pass fuels my adrenaline. I can tell this isn’t what they were
expecting. Anyone else would be lying on the ground still, in too much pain to
get up. Or at the very least gasping for air. I am doing neither of those
things.
“That was fun,” I proclaim as I toss
the ball to our quarterback. “Let’s do it again.” A few people voice their
concern but I brush that aside. The catch and my reaction have done something.
It has won some respect. They won’t avoid giving me the ball any longer. I have
been accepted as an equal, at least for one day.
We get back to playing, but the game
doesn’t last much longer. The sun is getting low in the sky and the sound of
crickets starts to echo through the field. I get a few more passes thrown my
way and the other team makes sure I am covered. I manage to leap and deflect a
pass, too. I never score a touchdown in the game, but it doesn’t matter
anymore. I’ve proven myself worthy of belonging on the team.
After the game ends I head over to
J.J.’s house, along with Jon and J.J. We sit outside on his front porch talking
about football. We laugh about the catch and the tackle. It was a moment we
wouldn’t forget anytime soon. Jon tells me he never expected anyone to pop back
up like that laughing. At that moment he knew I was a cool guy. J.J. nods in
agreement.
“Do you play video games?” Jon asks
me.
“Of course,” I say. “I grew up
playing Mario and Zelda when I was little.”
“My favorite game is Dragon Warrior
IV,” he says. “Have you ever played that game?”
“I love that game!” I say in response.
The three of us continue to talk for
a while as the sun gets lower in the sky. We find that we have a lot of the
same interests. Jon mentions that he doesn’t have many friends since he moved
here in January from South Carolina. He has become good friends with J.J.
because they are neighbors, but beyond that it is a challenge. He says it is
hard to leave behind friends he knew for his entire life and move across the
country. I understand the feeling because I moved back to Altoona two years
ago. I had lived here for most of elementary school but missed out on Junior
High, where many friendships are initially formed. We’re both trying to find a
way to fit in and be accepted.
I head home as the streetlights are
coming on for the night. Dinner is cold, but I don’t mind because I had fun. My
brother told my mom that I wouldn’t let him come, but she told him that he
couldn’t go play football with us because he’d get hurt. He didn’t like that,
but I secretly enjoyed hearing that. It turned out to be a great day, and I had
gained two new friends.
Almost thirteen years later I am
still friends with Jon. We’ve hung out a lot, played many video games together,
watched lots of football, built a poker table, and many other things. We spent
almost two years as roommates. Sometimes it is hard making new friends. Other
times it is as easy as playing a game of football with someone you don’t know.
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