Beautiful. Chaotic. Surreal.

A memoir of moments born from experiences told with an interesting perspective. The attached file is for context and association purposes. It is not me. It is Justin Tucker of the Baltimore Ravens.

1

The afternoons were always muggy, patches of dry grass and dirt comprised the terrain for our systematic training, clearly the result of “what was there” without much regard for taking the league seriously. The balls, even at their most advanced stages, were nothing more than inflated plastic or rubber. Because it was just the “local league,” there was hardly a thought as to whether any of us had real skill. Even if we did, most would not have given a second thought to whether that could develop that to an even bigger stage. Chris P, Chris M, Matt, Jorge, Omar, Alejandro, Ivan, Todd, Brian, Josh and I were among all the hobbits running around, making friends, staying active and out-of-trouble. We formed early friendships which turned into faded memories. We also learned that over-used, sometimes bullshit philosophy: “hard work.” We merely played our parts in making another season happen with all the smiles, frowns, jumps of joy and shameful walks like the munchkins before us.

          Professional and elite coaches from world-class and renowned Clubs never trained us to perfect our skills. We were not that important. Not at our level anyway. We only learned the basic skills and fundamentals by the dads whom volunteered to show us what they knew or how they, thought, knew it.

          Changing of speed and direction, dribbling, positions and passing, shooting and kicking ‘long balls’ were among the criteria on the syllabus in Fundamentals 101 of which we all became students. Matt, Jorge, Omar, Chris P, Josh and I all passed the basics and showed no difficulty in understanding what our two Coaches were getting us to do…how to be and act as a team. We became friends versus just teammates showing up and running. Athletes at the lowest possible stages and ranks, each of us showed our individual strengths and weaknesses, each equally exposed quickly as youngsters.

          Our initial "exams" revealed the lads who possessed more endurance, speed, and creativity while playing. The Coaches seemed to like them instantly. Others stood their ground, showing the sheer determination never to let anyone push them around. Their brute mentalities and physical natures would come in handy as the days and weeks rolled together. And then some of us showed general abilities, not fully standing out here or there, just fulfilling the Coaches’ needs in fielding a team. It became obvious, after a few years and countless practice nights, I was not among either of those groups.

          I was never at the front of any multiple lap drill-lines. I was not blessed with the most creativity when the ball was at my feet. In fact, I was almost always the guy who lagged at the end of most drills, unable to cope with the stamina. Not exactly born to the greatest running genes, it took me a while to adapt to the conditioning level required for our maroon and white colors, which was usually a few laps around the field and various running patterns here and there. (Don’t get me wrong, I managed. I just never managed the greatest when the game asked for continuous fast-and-slow bursts of energy. That wasn’t me; my legs and lungs were not built for that.)

          However, so many practices and kicks highlighted the fact that my right foot had some “kick” to it--no pun intended. Left leg and foot couldn’t contribute more than balance and the rarely-needed tap to save the ball and avoid an oncoming opponent. Soon enough, I found myself at right defense. (In fairness, Dad was Coach; he balanced the team based on need and talent.) Not too long thereafter, it became my own. My name wasn’t meant for weekend local headlines and records; it also meant I would likely not have the greatest of futures wearing the cheap-o cleats on Saturdays…or any day in today’s world. (Not all games are played anymore on “traditional” days�"it’s when television arranges them for broadcasting purposes and monetary gain, sadly.)

          No sir. I was the kid who filled a spot and was quite good at it.

          And that’s where the rest of my drive for sport and competition unofficially conceived.

          With the team together for a few seasons, we were the SAYSA Scorpions after all, we had grown accustomed to who-played-where and what each of us could do. It was never like, “Jorge, you’re quick, tall, and can score. Play forward. Oh, and Matt, you seem to be a natural in goal. Where’re your gloves? You’re our ‘Keeper.'” Not exactly; kids were the last people you tell to their faces who was good and not, therefore playing them in certain spots. (By the way, both of those were true of the guys mentioned.) So when Coach pointed out who played where in that particular, “final” game of our ages, it was no surprise I stayed at defense. For the Coaches understood that we were playing for validation--a little, but meaningful, trophy. It meant something. It meant business was business and the games had meaning.

          I wore the thick sport-glasses wrapping around the head. Had to. (My 12-year-old self was not medically ready for contacts.) The little me also did not show the greatest foot-eye coordination or ability to complete various drills with ease and, perhaps most important, lacked the creativity to play without fear. I was a liability, somehow. Not as valuable to the team in attacking and scoring, I could contribute only so much. Even more than that, playing in the defense was the front-row view to “seeing” the action unfold before my very eyes. By definition, defenders never really controlled the ball other than clearing it away from our goal. Not only that, I was scared of physically challenging someone for the ball and having to hold my ground. That fear drove me to hinder from the initial attack, ball or lose my “cool” when confronted with a game-playing situation. Fear gripped me�"to the point where, if I did outmaneuver my adversary, I had no idea what to do ‘next’ because I was so used to not guiding the action or “pulling the strings.” Attacking was simply something not naturally built into my blood. 

          Nevertheless, remaining in the back was the fuel for my comfort�"seeing the action versus doing it. I could watch the game, from that perspective, all I wanted. My overall involvement was…minimal...at times.

It drove me to want to do more.

Long before our Spring Cup game, and during it (it was a moment, eh) whenever another teams’ player got past our guys only to approach us defenders, it gave birth to a hidden aggression; if he wasn’t, it would fuel a desire much graver. He, or they, became a threat. And when that young kid, or all of them, crossed the barrier from player to threat, a friendly game hobbits played and, mostly, walked away from, became something else.

Every time those players, whomever that little guy was , did what they “knew” how to do, it sparked the need to get rid of his presence by eliminating it. Normally, a kick of the ball would suffice and typically did. However, something inside me wasn’t satisfied with that.

          For I knew I had the natural kicking swing to merely eliminate the ball. Brain to muscle, eye to the ball placement, foot to ball, smack to flight--it all connected to ensure that happened. Sometimes that was enough. However, that "something else", though, was the real driving force within me. It just never had the chance to showcase itself. That is, until that threat became mine. It sparked what we call “competition”: two opponents challenging one another for superiority and the need to defeat them because they are a threat.

          Apart from technique and instinct to clear the game-potential danger, those other players sparked the competitor in me to burst out in aggressive-like play. It was then I realized it would, sometimes, take more than knocking the ball away to get rid of them. And that kind of primal rage was something I had to learn to control. Thankfully, I would. In a way.

         

2

          The more those threats presented themselves, the more that competitor in me erupted from inside my defensive-playing, non-athletic self. And it wasn’t just in games; it also came from practices when drills were run and the ball was stolen for various training exercises. Every time the other players avoided me or the other defenders and got that much closer to scoring on us, the ultimate insult, it only sparked the sheer need to do more. Weekly practices presented moments time and again when my more aggressive teammates, Ivan, Chris, Chris, Omar or Jorge, took the ball away. My anger came out at the thought of being defeated. That aggressor was the “silent one” dwelling within a shy boy who appeared as this unconditionally loving child to his family. Ironic--that alter ego dwelling within that boy was the same one that appeared the most loving and good child to a family that never suspected him of being an controlled animal when put under controlled pressure.

  Maybe it was the thought of a sweet kid never given more due consideration, at times, for the talent waiting to burst. Maybe it was the reality of never being seen as the most athletic that made that little, shy boy with a loving heart become such an aggressive little goblin. Or maybe it was just a competitor's edge that needed to surface and chose its moments precisely that brought about the transformation. We may never know. But something lit a fire under that soft exterior, when it found its spark plug. And when it did, all that little boy could recall how to do was play aggressively smart and aggressively relentless to protect his family of brothers on the field from any "harm" that came their way. 

  After all, Matt Huus was in the net and that little boy didn't want Matt to have to worry about safeguarding his buddies from this young hobbit's public errors.

3

          And so soon, the Spring Cup game of 1998, or somewhere around there, rolled around. A beautiful spring day in the local park, a more sublime setting could not have been more perfectly arranged. It was among the highlights of our young sporting lives for my teammates and me. We just didn’t know it. None of us did. 

  Nothing about the actual game remains in me memory. It happened as quickly as the days come and go. It has faded. All that remains of its existence are framed photos and memorabilia, perhaps a stored-away piece of plastic with recognition its moment. We played the game and won. The score is twenty years in the archives. The game is definitely in the archives. However, my young friends, the Scorpions, took our rightfully-earned places in the long, long line of youth teams whom have come and gone. 

  (Even the league has "adapted" itself for the youngest generations of hobbits bouncing around the balls and feet, awaiting their moments of glory. For SAYSA faded into memory. It has since been replaced by Austin United Soccer Club, AUSC or more commonly referred to as AU. The same sorts of parents, though, still have the same sorts of hopes, but on a much more modern-day scale.)

4

   That all led to the wondrous world of teenage sports. Those youthful hobbits days were an introductory period into a world where talent needed to meet the interest and realistic action needed to validate that talent and interest. My action was just enough to where I chose to apply my defensive right-back position into that "something" I wanted more than mere defending. My right foot-and-eye coordination told me to embark on a new sort of journey. It told me to embark on the world of pads and helmets and attempt to mold into a world I knew nothing really about, other than simply watching on TV.

5

 

The days and seasons rolled by thereafter. We found ourselves undertaking new seasons, ones of growing-up and joining the systematic routine, our every day and weekly gatherings morphing into occasional hello's. Each of us carved out new paths as we saw fit: some the athletic route, others the moving world of music & cinema, and others off the radar until they acted.

 

          It wasn’t until that mysterious, public world called “high school” did mine come to fruition.

    Austin High was the staging point where my new season rolled into routine. Secretly, though, this season was “The Fellowship” journey of my quest, which began unraveling towards the latter stages of those happy years.

          At that point, I’d not kicked a ball as regularly as the younger days. That didn’t worry me. Somehow that ability to merely kick the ball would never really leave, once it was learned. Like Chris, Matt, Jorge and the others, I’d spent enough years learning how to use technique and form to hit the ball and instinctively could pull it off. I knew that. 

          However, the journey itself took a surprising and, now useless, turn when joining the Marching Band and the strange endeavors of high school band. Everyday ventures into the world of thin and big teenagers playing odd-sounding music, learning those marching formations and spending days among some of my best friends growing up all played their parts in helping me along that sometimes confusing road of teenage adolescence. And although those were happy enough of days, part of me never felt totally OK even participating in that "branch" of the high school world. The desire was not there. My instincts were telling me that. Not my old man. Not my siblings and surely not the Director. My heart yearned for something else, as if it never really saw the need for involvement in that walking and playing combination.

          Turns out, it did want something else. The weekends spent watching the Longhorns on TV sealed the deal for me. And it wasn’t just watching them, either. It went from watching them to study mode with the distinctive burnt-orange-and-white. Unlike the whole team aspect, I wasn’t merely watching men clobber each other. No. 

6

          His name was Dusty Mangum (pronounced Mag-num). He was the Kicker. And I was, I suppose, just venturing out of the HS Band days, to which I’ll easily admit I didn’t feel bad (the Director wasn’t pleased; oh well, high school is about kids finding their own journeys, eh?). 

          So, in the early days of summer 2002, I did what had never even crossed my mind until then: joined high school athletics after graduating from all those days with the Scorpions. And I didn't really have a second-thought about it. I just went and did it.

It left the parents in a brief state of shock, hearing their band-playing, thin and shy son suddenly tell them he wanted to do high school sports. (Frankly, it surprised a lot of people whom learned of it. It just didn’t really surprise me. It was only a day or two into summer marching camp that I chose my new path, so it was quite sudden.)

However, watching Dusty kick the extra points & field goals had its definitive influence when I told myself, I can do that. I wanted to do that. I also recalled seeing the football players on the field and wanted to join them, having watched Dusty and all; marching didn’t seem "it" for me. I found the courage to escape. And escape I did.

Next step: training and practicing. 

So, like the hobbit I was at one time, I went outside like any kid inspired to want to play a sport like their heroes. After all, I’d seen how the action and technique was done on TV enough times to have a general idea of what to do and how to do it…as far as the kicking of the ball. Luckily, our front yard was thick and large enough to practice the stepping and swinging steps, over and over again. Our next door neighbor also had a front yard complete with largely-shaped trees and a thicket-looking bush. They became my impromptu field goal posts and “aiming” points for height, distance and accuracy. And, of course, I was quite mindful of her yard and trees--making sure to aim over or around them and not destroy them.

Like in years past, a collegiate scout nor trainer did not come and show me what to do. I was never sent to a Kicking camp to learn and practice, even master, the fundamentals over and over again, putting my talents on film and uploading them to now-YouTube in hopes of getting scouted and offered to give those talents for a university team. I just did what I’d seen and went with it. After all, all I had to work with was a right leg with that swinging momentum, which came in handy.

          The fundamentals were a hint tricky to adjust to, as they required more than just kicking a ball from so many previous attempts at kicking the soccer ball. And though no one ever trained me how to properly kick footballs or field-goal kick, I instinctively learned how to do so from so many attempts at it in the front yard and our street�"happened to be a straight 50 yards. It became my unofficial training ground. Yes, an evenly-paved cement road, a patch of front yard grass and some trees were my training ground.

          So did the small weight bench we had. Granted I stood about five-eight, maybe one-hundred-and-fifty pounds, I was nowhere near being the Kicker I envisioned myself becoming. It was time to take this idea of mine and grow into it. Almost every day and night, it wasn’t merely about lifting the weights, adding to an already-small frame. It was about catching up after taking a long “vacation” from anything really athletic. And the catch-up time was by-the-day.

          What I was really doing, though, was turning an idea or goal into something real without thinking twice about it. (My brother even praised me for it in a Congratulations card-message, stating I “had the balls” to do what I wanted.)

7

          I can remember the first few days of Junior Varsity and Varsity two-a-days ranking among the hardest I’ve ever lived through. The waking up early didn’t bother me so much, in spite of the fact that I LOVED to sleep. Wearing the pads was a routine adjustment after a few days. Apart from the early jogging and conditioning of the Scorpions, though, this was a whole new level of workouts and conditioning of which I had absolutely no idea what the hell I was getting myself into. Granted, all I really wanted to do was kick and be done with it. Of course, to do that meant train and be part of the team, which meant going through the drills and getting clobbered, as I’d seen on TV.

And the Varsity guys took a lot of fun out of smacking the daylights out of Mr. 150-pound rookie. I was their tackling dummy, and quite naturally so.

From then on, I had a newfound level of respect and knowledge for all those players as I had an idea what they did because I had experienced the game from their perspective. Their physical skills on the field everyone watched in awe was not easy stuff to pull off. However, I was getting closer, day-by-day, to becoming a Varsity member and Kicker. I knew it and could feel it.

Like most of the Scorpions days, the exact details of the games I remembered almost nothing about, except a lot of Saturday mornings, running, and the verbal treats at halftime and post-game meant as morale boosters and motivation to inspire us to want to rise to the occasion and achieve the goal in-mind. Those JV days were much the same. Only the panoramic pictures remain of those days, and a paper vouching my participation…another semi-bullshit philosophy sentiment, albeit with noble intentions in mind.

Then, senior year rolled around. Not by talent but automatic inclusion, the Varsity locker room was where my goal landed me, at least for the short time ahead. With the Varsity players, most of whom were teammates playing together for a few years now of the 18-year-old “senior” ranks, I was among the outsiders showing up to play, happy to say I wanted to be a Kicker--reality would say I still had a ways to go. The starting Kicker and his back-up, the Varsity starting goalkeeper, were daily reminders of where my place actually was. Though it bothered me, I’d been used to playing from the watching perspective, knowing the other players were better and that I had my place in the team. And thus it was.

Grant Aldridge, whom local media and scouts predicted would play or even start for a Division I-A or AA school somewhere, was that starter and had attended a Longhorns Kicking camp or similar ones out there, and thus was considered an All-District Kicker in each aspect�"Field Goals, Punts and Kick-Offs. He really wasthat good. He had the form, strength and drive.

Turner Samone, a natural soccer player and goalkeeper, was the back-up. He’d also been playing football for the Junior Varsity and Varsity, but only for about two years. He could hold his own in each discipline of the position as well. He just wasn’t the typical jock most players were made out to be. And he was cooler because of it.

Then there was me. The unknown quantity showing up, pretending he was going to be the Kicker, let alonestarting Kicker, for the Varsity squad, completely unaware of what he was getting himself into. It wasn’t just a reality check; it was a whole new world. All I knew how to do was what I’d done up to that point�"lift some weights, go through some exercise motions, hit a few footballs they way I "trained" myself--and hope for the best. Hope didn’t replace talent nor years of training.

8

          Next thing I really knew, the mornings, afternoons, practices and stinky, odor-filled locker rooms became the usual summer settings. The smell of grass became a familiar whiff to absorb most mornings, along with clean or semi-soiled shirt-n-shorts underneath the pads and smooth-feeling football attire. The jar of plastic crunching against itself multiplied by a few dozen added to the morning soundtrack. And all those years of kicking a ball played a small part in finding new form and technique with the leather, oval shape and plastic stand. It became obvious to anyone bothering to pay attention to a small twig like myself that I had never truly kicked a football. I learned on-the-spot, thanks to watching Turner do his thing as my fellow JV kicker those first few days. He showed me the extreme basics when it came to approaching steps, placing the ball over the foot, swinging momentum and, most important, general confidence when entering a world unknown.

My clumsy, completely unaware persona highlighted its general lack of common-sense when bothering to ask Coach Ballard what time it was that first morning of practice after about an hour of hitting. He said, “Come on, Patrick, what’re you doing?! I’m busy here. Ask me later man,” he blasted to me as he was running other minnows through their paces. Until that point, I’d never done so much consistent hitting and workouts of that nature. Like I said, you’d never find me at the front of the running line with my teammates. Only, these practices were far more than running lines.

Those new, unfamiliar feelings wiped away and all regular comforts I felt as that little kid wearing those thick glasses and cheap cleats.

For I’d entered the world of high school football, in the state of Texas, where the helmet and cleats were standard and made everyone look forward to school time and the fall season starting up. My choice led me to a new life, one where I didn’t have to worry about my adversary running in my general directions, potentially becoming a threat with a ball at his feet. I unconsciously traded those weekend happy dilemmas for the much more seriously-taken gridiron glory. Those practices gave way to the gap that was a few years between the Scorpions now in the recent past and the introduction of Austin High Maroon Football.

My adversaries were not exactly guys with balls at their feet. They just wanted to smack the crap out of me because that’s what they were “suppose” to do. And being a Kicker, it didn’t help much being as scrawny as I was. It only encouraged the others to break me more, show me how to pay my dues and earn my spot among the unknowns.

9

And that’s how it went that first season of trial-and-error. Gradually, I got the rhythm and technique down more and more with each kick, never losing sight of why I joined up in the first place. Still watching Dusty on the weekends and hitting that small bench at-home outside the HS weight room, the drills, hits and shouting from Coaches and other players alike became usual sounds which, somehow, seemed completely irrelevant to me. Intimidation or not, it all seemed like shadows of inspiration for young guys to push themselves to excel. All those mornings and evenings sweating our asses off and having ‘fun’ playing a game always came across as the odd way to motivate and inspire young guys to “work hard.”

Then came Varsity year, where everything remained the same except I felt more excitement about getting that much closer, inch-by-inch, towards doing what Dusty did and fulfilling a visionary idea, literally.

Instead of practicing on the side-fields, I’d been promoted to playing alongside the Varsity guys and moved into the Varsity locker room--unbeknownst to this former little guy every senior guy not already on the Varsity squad was placed on it to allow them an opportunity at full-fledged high school athletic glory...or so the presumption went. It was surreal but, at the same time, made no huge difference in my mind. The craze given to high school sports, particularly of the Varsity squad(s), was something very normal all across Texas.

10

Everything remained the same in terms of the physical exposure, the intensity of the drills and the overall psyche of the football program. The amount of workouts and consistency of level of play, though, made the Varsity level that much more rigorous, for obvious and competitive reasons. This was the level that, in some places and with some teams, meant State Championships were obtainable and collegiate scholarship opportunities were up for grab's depending on player and a whole lot of luck. Otherwise, the sheer feeling of Varsity play also brought with it certain popularity within the student body. And, let's be honest here, the kind of popularity brought about from Varsity-level athletes felt, at times, second to none. It was like being on the road to having the greatest amount of friends on Facebook right around the time Facebook was just getting started.

Anyway.

It was a little more than two months later we were playing the Cougars from Caldwell at their stadium--which was actually a few miles drive from my then-home. 

It was a fairly easy game, to say nothing of our opponents. They just weren't known for being particularly competitive or hard to handle. Their school didn't really generate the most community-wide excitement on a macro-level scale nor was known for being an athletically competitive place for kids to want to attend.

11

By halftime, we were up 35 to 7. Or something like that. 

In the locker room, Coach Howell informed me either myself or Grant would take the team's next PAT. 

I was shocked.

That meant, after all the drills and effort put in, I was going to go in and get my chance to realistically fulfill an idealistic dream I had and put every ounce of known energy into becoming real. 

I walked up to Daniel, one of our team's captain (for that game, I believe).

"Yo Dan," I said. "What's up man?" he replied, already half-drenched in sweat. 

"Let me ask you something."

"Okay."

"What's it feel like? You know, being out there on that field, actually doing all this stuff?" He looked at me and could tell this was, indeed, a whole new world I've never actually lived through and was seeking to grasp the reality of going from second back-up and reputed tackling dummy to actually playing under Friday Night Lights. 

"Well, man," he replied with a smile. He was pleased to offer some captain's advice to the young buck. "You honestly just head out on that field and are given your play to do. You know what your role is and, with all that adrenaline going through your body and energy you hear from the crowd, you are in that moment and you sort of put yourself into a whole other level of a rush. You know?"

"Really, dude, you just go out there and play. You're not thinking about what's going to happen, other than the play to run, and you don't think about what's happening while you're doing it. You just know you have to execute your position they way you've trained and practiced and let whatever happens in that moment happen."

I gave him a thankful stare. "Thanks. I'll be going on for the first PAT when we get out there."

"Enjoy it man," he replied, with an appreciative smile.

Moments later, the whole crew walked back out there. About five minutes later, our team was running into the end zone courtesy of Zinder Holton, the team's star running back. I glanced to Coach Howell, who was grasping his headphones, awaiting to hear who the Coordinator's wanted to send out. 34 to 7 on the scoreboard.

"Patrick!!" 

I took my stand and ran out that October night. Zach, the back-up quarterback and special teams holder, was waiting for myself or Grant, as was practiced. 

"Patrick?!" he exclaimed, surprised and pleased to see I made it out there. 

"What's up, man?!" I exclaimed back. "Let's do this."

I set down my block and proceeded as usual. My instincts were taking over at that point. 

"Signal to me when you're ready."

I set myself in position. Glanced up and saw my target. It looked a little funny without the practice posts on the field. But, it was the same target I'd hit a hundred times before. My legs were controlled. My blood was running, but I took a breath and steadied my nerves. 

I looked at Zach and motioned my head. "Yes."

He shot his look to Matt at Center. "Ready," flicking his arm to position.

The ball flew back, in a good spiral. I recalled Zach putting it down perfectly. I threw myself perfectly at it, half-adjusting to the speed of the play and half-ensuring I actually hit the dang ball correctly so as to not mess up my first, official kick. 

I heard bodies pounding and what not. But I was focused only on that ball.

Before I knew what the hell was happening, I hit it and, in a blind-like prayer of intention, felt it go up and straight. The ball itself felt a hint stiff. It was, after all, a leather-stitched high school ball built for official competition. Nevertheless, once I hit it, I half-glanced up, completely unaware I, in all likelihood, used incredibly incorrect form, and saw the ball sail through.

"Yeah, ha ha!!" I shouted out. 

"There you go, baby!" Zach stood up and embraced me. He knew me enough to understand what that moment meant to me.

I acted as if I hit the game-winning kick to some collegiate game and a Championship trophy or similar bowl game-like accolade was awarded at the end.

To the rest of the players and guys, it must have been another routine play and kick.

To me, the scrawny kid who paid his dues way later than expected and could have given up, stood on the field and, for once, didn't worry about some threatening player kicking the ball into his area. The "threats" were blocked enough to allow the former little hobbit to have his moment.

I ran back to the sideline, knowing an opportunity to make a dream real was given to me and the little, defensive, shy hobbit turned into a scoring athlete.

12

That night, I went 1 for 1. Grant took over from there. The Coaches figured 35 to 7 was enough for that game. The team, however, scored two more times. 49 - 7 flashed on the scoreboard with :00 left. 

I was crowned Player of the Week for that game. 

13

Before the next month rolled around, our team narrowly missed the Playoff's by a game or two. The other teams/schools in our District were just a little too much that year for our guys to compete with. 

That meant that, on same random cold night in late November, with the season winding down and all games coming to a close, our final night was playing against Southshore. They, like Caldwell before them, were also not highly competitive nor ranked well. Most the local media guys predicted us to easily "blow them away" with little problems.

That night, after a comfortable 28 - 0 lead somewhere in the first half, the Coaches once again informed me I would handle the next few extra point attempts until they game felt all but won. Maybe they felt I earned those opportunities. Maybe they felt I was due more playing time. Maybe they, deep down, felt a little sorry for me or a little bad at playing with such little game time to show for it, but it was a gesture of good will and noble intentions. After all, they knew it was only one night left in my playing "career." 

And, it was a Thursday night. Not exactly the Friday lights spectacle every senior wants to finish their season out on. But I didn't care. 

To me, it was just another game, albeit a final and emotional one. 

And thus it was, I went out there after two more scores from Mark and Fred, respectively. With the previous game experience under my belt (that one time, mind you), plenty of practice kicks through the season and a few special team repetitions during scrimmages and such, going out there those two times felt realistically cool but special. 

I was getting more chances to be real about my dreams. 

Once again, same motions. Position. "Yes." "Ready." Arm. Place. Kick. Sail through the uprights. Good. The home crowd, and a surprise visit from a relative of mine, made the evening more memorable than just being the final game of the season. 

3 for 3 when the clock hit 0:00. 56 - 14 us. 

And with that, the guys that felt like threats way back when were no longer threats but part of the routine, part of the plan. 

The guys I shared my moments with stayed and appreciated each other so much, through emotional yet respectful "dude hugs", that the lights eventually turned off and we were informed by stadium security and administrative police we had to leave to grounds. It was dark and the bleachers were near empty, after all. Only the players and buses and Coaches, really, were left. 

14

Memories were made and left on that field that night. Dreams became a living inspiration for anyone wishing to make a dream become real through, in this circumstance, physical effort and perseverance. 

More important, though, I became my own version of Dusty Mangum. No I didn't wear burnt-orange but a beautiful mixture of maroon and white.

And it was a beautiful mixture conjured by a fantastic and driving idea that a little hobbit acted upon and claimed for his own, as his own journey, to where no one could take that away from him. It was mine for all time. It became my beautiful, chaotic, surreal reality. It became, in every way possible, a collection of real moments I created, lived and can relive for as long as I choose.

Author's Note

What do you think of the narration and description? How can this be improved?