The HIT!

The Hit

Every year, the coaches tell the seniors that they should play the final game—even their entire final season—like it was their last. This was it, our last football game. My team, the Newell Panthers, were visiting Wall Lake to take on the Comets.

It was a degree or two above freezing, but the cold didn’t matter. The field was laid out like a freshly made bed, ready for our collision. Every blade of grass was 2 inches long—a splendid length to cover the ground without bothering the movement of cleats across the field. I wanted to race from one goal line to the other—everything about me was ready for action.

Even though 16 of the 20 people in my class were boys, our team was tiny—perfect for me. Even I, a 140-pound weakling, could play both ways and on all special teams—every second of every play. Not serious about the game, I was truly playing. I don’t even remember who won; but I do remember THE HIT.

We were in the final quarter. Our quarterback, a kid from the neighboring farm, threw an interception. “That sucks.” I instantly turned from an offensive lineman into a defensive linebacker.

You need to visualize the hit, choose a point beyond the ball carrier, and drive to that point. I’d tried it before, but it never worked out. I’d slipped a bit, or someone blocked me, or the runner moved, like runners do.

I chose my focus. Oh my God! I had been this guy’s roommate at football camp a week before the football season. He had won the Mr. Hustle award. I only ever knew his first name and I didn’t remember even that now. Yeah, well, now he wasn’t my roommate. He wore a different colored jersey, and I was going to nail him.

Time slowed down, just like what happens in a car accident. Shoulder down, head across his chest, I braced for impact—at this point, something usually went wrong.

This time, the grass was just the right length.

WHAM!!

A flash of white in the middle of my head. I was unconscious for a second. Next thing, I’m lying face down on the ground. Grass is poking up through my facemask. Before I could think about the tackle, the pain, or the cheerleaders, I look up foggily, and there’s the ball. It’s crisp, tightly wound. Like it’s meant to be in your hand. A Game Ball. THE game ball. For OUR game. The fog cleared and I snapped up the ball and made for the end zone.  Refs were all pissed, throwing flags, blowing whistles.

“Delay of game!” 5 yards!

“Unsportsmanlike conduct” 15 yards!

“You’re out of the game!”

So what? I didn’t care. Our last game of the season, the last game of my life. I had made the tackle, an unassisted tackle, caused a fumble, recovered the ball, and ran into the end zone. I was invincible!