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There are those mysterious strangers who seem to creep into your heart in the quiet, dead moments of the night. They’re the people that sometimes place their hands on your heart and refuse to remove it till the lesson you need is learned, regardless of if they are still there. So, when a silent boy slipped into my life I had no idea he would impact me in the most awe-inspiring, life-changing way.
The linemen stood in a precise line straight across the dying grass, staring down their opponents. Different body shapes were evident to the crowd, but none were particularly unusual or bulky in an uncomfortable way. Towards the middle of the group of players was number 63, a boy with sheer drive and dedication blazing behind his caramel colored eyes. Through the visor of his helmet, the opposing team could see messing with this kid would get you laid out. Hard. The whistle was blown and the boys started crashing into one another as if it was first nature. You could see number 63 ripping through people and mowing through the other team’s line, blocking and tackling everyone that tried to pass him. I’d imagine that after a few seconds of this your body would be fatigued and ache, but it seemed as if he was made of stone.
“Let’s go boys, rip they’re ****ing throats out!” was what Spencer yelled in encouragement to his team as the adrenaline kicked in and his focus blocked out all outside distractions. They were in this to win, and they wouldn’t go down without the best fight of their lives.
It’s well known that you can’t walk out onto a football field all high and mighty expecting to win a game without a heavy amount of practice. This isn’t the easy going, mental type of practice either. This falls under the category of the kind that makes you contemplate suicide or throwing oneself out in front of a bus. By the end of it, the players bodies are so beaten up and thrashed around they can’t help but feel like their legs are made of jello and arms like limp wet...
The linemen stood in a precise line straight across the dying grass, staring down their opponents. Different body shapes were evident to the crowd, but none were particularly unusual or bulky in an uncomfortable way. Towards the middle of the group of players was number 63, a boy with sheer drive and dedication blazing behind his caramel colored eyes. Through the visor of his helmet, the opposing team could see messing with this kid would get you laid out. Hard. The whistle was blown and the boys started crashing into one another as if it was first nature. You could see number 63 ripping through people and mowing through the other team’s line, blocking and tackling everyone that tried to pass him. I’d imagine that after a few seconds of this your body would be fatigued and ache, but it seemed as if he was made of stone.
“Let’s go boys, rip they’re ****ing throats out!” was what Spencer yelled in encouragement to his team as the adrenaline kicked in and his focus blocked out all outside distractions. They were in this to win, and they wouldn’t go down without the best fight of their lives.
It’s well known that you can’t walk out onto a football field all high and mighty expecting to win a game without a heavy amount of practice. This isn’t the easy going, mental type of practice either. This falls under the category of the kind that makes you contemplate suicide or throwing oneself out in front of a bus. By the end of it, the players bodies are so beaten up and thrashed around they can’t help but feel like their legs are made of jello and arms like limp wet...
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