A moment of agony progressed into a lifetime of memory. Another humid day hovered over us like a condensed wool blanket. Taking a breath turned into manual labor as we repped out our victory plays in the cooking sun. I remember stepping into the drill with confidence but walked \out with confusion and pain. The throbbing aches in my fingers set off the alarm that something was wrong. I couldn’t have done anything worse than jammed my finger, or so I thought. The stalemate between the pain and I continued, but my turn was next. With a heart full of work and a hand full of pain, I assumed the position again. Clashing my way forward through the field of jerseys I take on another opponent. Except for this time, I did not return. The aches turned to red flags and my brain dragged my body off the field without warning. I knew that this may be my last play but I didn’t want to recognize it. Let me explain how this all started

After yet another draining day of school, I head out to what we call the mud hole. A plot of land that separates the kids from the men. A place so visible to the outside world but yet so secluded when you're on it. The smell of old sweat reeks from the rusting steel that holds the pads. Old dirt clings to your legs as you fly around the old aged field. A patch of grass finds the sunlight in the middle of the field, praying that it makes it through another practice. Potholes from the working of a cleat sneak up on the running backs like a sniper in the trees.

My Coach was always the type to make sure you knew he was in charge. He had no feeling of remorse when the sprints got hard and were unaffected by any opinion you had of him. I liked the guy but never felt like I could talk to him. If you said something too vague, you were sent off to grab him a leaf, from the furthest tree of course. If you tried to speak your mind, the old fire department hat would raise and the glimpse of his glazed brown eyes said the words his mouth didn’t have to. He walked with a sense of power that was made visible to everyone who looked up to him. But every now and then, when a kid would go down a sensible man from deep down within the locked vault of his soul would emerge to make sure the situation was handled. 

I carry the weight of the scar that divides my hand. Who knew that the bolts that screwed done my facemask to my helmet would one day end up in my bone. The scar has waned but the visible trench that separates my right hand is still available. The weight isn’t as heavy as it may have been at one point but it pushes me every day. Through the wicked heat of summer to the blistering cold of winter. It reminds me to never take advantage of a rep and that my gift could be taken from me at any point. A scar talks a thousand words that only I hear and reminds me to never give up.