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THAT FALL WAS MY first time playing football.

My growth spurt got me on the field. Before that, my mom wouldn’t let me play because she thought I was going to get killed. But over the spring and summer I grew nine inches—from 5’1” to 5’10”, and Mom finally caved. “Fine, Michael,” she said. “If you want to break your neck, be my guest.” 

Because this was my first time playing, you’d think I spent most games standing on the sidelines, right? That’s what I thought I’d be doing.

But I was wrong.

I was one of two starting wide receivers, and I played the majority of the game.

It took me a while to figure out how this was possible. Was it because my dad was an assistant coach on the varsity team? Or because I tried so hard in practice? Or because I had natural-born talent at catching footballs?

No, no, and no.

I was a starting wide receiver for one reason and one reason only: no one else wanted to do it. I was on the JV team, but I might as well have been on the junior high squad. Maybe then our team would have stood a chance. Even if our quarterback, Patrick Kent, had a good enough arm to throw it to the receivers—he didn’t—our undersized offensive line couldn’t block long enough for him to get the throw off.

I may have been a starting wide receiver, but I hadn’t had a single pass thrown my way all year. 

It was the last game of the season, and—as usual—our team was losing. Big. For some reason, Coach Lind called a timeout late in the fourth quarter and shuffled his way from the sideline to our huddle. We were all bent over, breathing hard, wondering what was up.

When you’re down 42-6 with only a minute and forty-eight seconds to go, what’s the point of calling a timeout?

“Jesus,” Elliot Balstad said. “Can’t we just get this game over with?”

“Don’t worry,” Andrew Ness said. “Coach has a 60-point play up his sleeve. I feel sorry for the other team. They probably think they’re going to win.”

Players laughed wheezily as Coach arrived.  

At first, he didn’t say anything. He just looked at us, his eyes going from one helmet to another.

When they got to me they stopped.

“This play is for Duncan,” he said.

It was so surprising, I blurted, “To me, Coach?”

“To you, Duncan. That okay with you?”

I almost asked why me? but stopped myself just in time. “Sure,” I told him. “I mean, yeah, absolutely.”

Coach explained the play and then told us to bring our hands to the middle of the huddle. We all said, “Ready, break!” before going to our positions on the field. As I trotted out to the right, I was pretty sure one of my teammates pounded my shoulder pad, but I couldn’t be certain. I was so nervous, my whole body had gone numb.

I didn’t know why Coach called this play, except that maybe he thought I was the last player the other team would expect to get the ball. Either that, or he figured we were losing 42-6, with only one-minute, forty-eight seconds to go, so why not try something crazy?

The play we were running was a double-wide-out reverse, which wasn’t something we’d ever tried before. Coach actually had to draw it up on his hand so we understood what he wanted us to do.

And now here I was, standing way off to the right, telling my body to take it easy and not start running until the ball was snapped. My arms twitched and my hands felt cold and slippery.

I took one glance at the stands and saw that they were starting to fill up for the varsity game. Okay, fill up is an exaggeration. The varsity squad was almost as bad as we were, and it wasn’t as if any fans had to worry about getting turned away at the ticket booth. I saw Eric up at the top of the bleachers, where he and I had been sitting every fall Friday since we were kids. For a split-second, I wondered if Mom or Dad were there watching, even though I knew better. Mom was still at work, and Dad was in the locker room with all the varsity players. He wouldn’t come out until they did, the players running in front of the coaches, stomping through the end zone and tearing through a big sheet of blue-and-gold-colored paper held by the cheerleaders.

I wondered if Kirsten was there, or if I wanted her to be.

I wasn’t sure I wanted anyone to see this.

It was maybe six-thirty and it wasn’t too dark yet, but the lights were coming on anyway, warming up for the big game. They felt as if they were all directed at me—every megawatt bulb adding to a spotlight shining on me and me alone.    

The ball was snapped, and I tried not to look left too soon and give the play away.

When I did look, I saw that the play was already a bust.

All the defensive players had trampled our linemen and were charging after the quarterback, who just had time to pitch the ball to the wide receiver coming from the other side, John Atkinson, who caught the ball and started running toward me.

John was running for his life. He had what appeared to be their whole team chasing him, and he was bringing them to me.

And since I didn’t know what else to do, and I was already moving in that direction, and fear had me on some sort of automatic pilot, I ran to the ball.

To John.

To the guys trying to get the ball and kill whoever had it.

Right before they pulverized John, he tossed me the ball. I snatched it out of the air and took off running in the other direction.

I ran backward toward my own end zone, then horizontally toward the sideline, then, finally, up field, passing the line of scrimmage and heading in the direction of the other end zone, the other team’s end zone, the correct end zone, though it was still a good fifty yards away.

There was no one ahead of me. Most of the other team was no doubt behind me, chasing me like they had been chasing John. 

By now I’d been running for what seemed like forever—from one side of the field to the other, from one end to the other—and my chest was low on oxygen. I still had thirty yards to go, and it felt as though I’d been holding my breath for minutes. My lungs felt exactly like they did when Eric and I used to go to the local pool as kids and see who could swim underwater the longest.

As I ran with the football, I told myself to keep going, to keep it up, to pump my arms and push harder and make it, make it, make it. The end zone got bigger and bigger—only ten yards to go.

Make it. Make it and you can come up for air.

That’s when a player appeared in my periphery. He was only a few feet away, and he dove head-first for my legs. His helmet slammed into my knee.

And then I felt and saw nothing, nothing but pain.

And I heard a giant Pop.