Football Narrative

Topics: Debut albums, Right-wing politics, Centre-right Pages: 5 (2425 words) Published: December 3, 2012
Mark Arbogast
Tues/ Thurs 10-11:50
English 1111
The Shoulder Injury
There had been only a couple days left till the very first football game of my senior year. The team we are playing was the Haywood County Spurs, and the game we had been preparing and practicing for since our sophomore year. The sun was blistering hot, shining down on my shoulder pads, baking me in my uniform like a freshly made apple pie on a summer day. This only made practice worse as I put all effort into it as I could. I was so sore and fatigued and happy that by the end of the week we wouldn’t be having any more sweat dripping practices. 100 yard dashes and High-jumps were not something people wanted to do every day, that’s for sure. And after those warm-up exercises we moved onto play calling. The team worked hard together during practices and repetitively did each and every play so that they came to us like a fond habit. We wanted to have these plays inscribed in our minds as we slept.   Then, creating a strange tranquil moment, Assistant Coach Harrison yells, "Final Play!"  This play, this very play was "Green 336" which is handoff to the running back, me, straight out of our Draw series. I ran to the right of the quarterback ball in my hands holding it like a sack of potatoes. We ran the play making sure we didn’t need to make any changes and observed. I let out a moan of relief because we were finally done with the worst part of practice. Then usually someone will complain or bitch about not knowing their route on a screen play and we will have to run it again. Coach Anderson put him upon himself and decided we needed to run through that last screen play before we spent the rest of practice perfecting our defense. The play was silently made in the huddle with all intentions of finally getting it correct. I paused myself and ran the play through my head a thousand times remembering what the snap count was supposed to be. I then would run through again and figure out exactly what I am supposed to be doing and how I am going to do it. The football shot back from the center right into the quarterback’s hands. I jolted to the right of our team's quarterback to position myself as his backside protection. Out of the side of my peripheral, I became aware of the defensive end burrowing en route for the quarterback. I took a large step right into him lowered my body and ferociously slammed through his shoulder pads which threw him perfectly off course into the pass protection. POP! My shoulder was lashed backwards, while the rest of my body carried on with my block. I yanked reversely so my shoulder kept going and my body stayed back. Gravity dropped my knees hard to the ground I had no way of preventing it. Left hanging was my arm no longer being supported by my shoulder. The only support I had left was the assistance of my other arm holding it very close to my side to avoid it from any additional damage. I was in some serious pain. My body was being taken over by adrenaline acting as its own personal anesthetic, for a moment it took my mind off of the intense pain I was about to feel. I didn't even trouble myself in getting up from the field as the team calmly rushed to the huddle. Nobody had realized I was still lying there but I did not care one bit. The only thing I had running on my mind was "My senior season is through, it is ruined and flushed down a drain, and I will never be able to achieve my ambitions and goals I had set for myself this year."  I slowly regained myself and worked my way to my feet. My arm hung flaccid on my side, walking towards the edge of the field. I seriously felt like some confused drunk or after you get off one of those rides that spin at a festival. I had to force myself off the field each step harder than the last. Somehow I had to concentrate my thoughts and relieve myself or I would panic too much.  Coach Anderson and Coach Harrison hurried over to me worriedly asked, "What’s going on? Is...
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