I line up behind Lefao, my center. He’s a six foot, two inch, three hundred and ten pound hammer from American Samoa. He calls me ‘brotha’ and protects me like a baby. He also doesn’t flinch when I put my arms through his legs, my face in his massive, orange Spandexed ass.
“Red forty-two!” I shout down the line. I turn my head the other direction to repeat it. “Red forty-two! Hut! Hike!”
The boys knew we were going on the one count. They’re locked and loaded, springing into the fray just as the ball rises up in Lefao’s hands to drop into mine. I immediately fall back five steps as he launches forward to smash into the defensive line that’s coming for me. They explode in a mass of pads and helmets that crack loudly as they shout at one another, fighting each other like animals. The stadium has erupted into chaos with them, but I tune it out. I hone in on the beat of my heart. I listen for the ticking of my own internal clock as I breathe slow and even.
One…Their coverage is tight…Two… Their right tackle is loose…Three…My wide receiver can’t get clear…Four…I’m going to get hit.
I curl around the ball, ducking my head and falling to my right. I take the hit as gracefully as I can while still holding onto the ball. I feel my heartrate spike as he makes contact, a pain in my hand erupting out of nowhere and disappearing just as quickly as it came. It’s a reflex at this point, one my body learned from the National Championship game. Every time I take a hit I think I’ve broken that hand again. My mind immediately assumes the worst.
I’d give fucking anything to make it stop.
The whistle blows as my ass hits the ground, mowed over by a sweat soaked giant that’s crushing my chest.
“Better stay down, bitch,” the tackle growls at me. “You’re going to be on your back all day.”
“You’re confusing me with your mom,” I grunt out.
He leans his elbow on my chest. “What the fuck did you say?!”
Before I can answer him, he’s off me. He’s pulled away by his own guys to avoid a penalty, but I don’t for one second think he’s gone for good. He and I will circle back to this conversation later.
The laughing blue eyes of Colt Avery appear above me as he offers me his hand. I take it, letting the stout running back pull me up off the ground. “You alright, man?”
“Yeah, I’m good. He barely touched me.”
Avery laughs as we jog to the huddle. “Dude, he was so up in your shit he probably got you pregnant.”
“I hope not. I’m not ready to be a mother.”
“What the hell are you talking about, Domata?” Coach Fallon, the offensive coordinator, barks in my ear through the headpiece.
I’m still getting used to the fact that I’m mic’d. That the entire coaching staff can hear everything I say.
“Nothing, Coach,” I assure him. “What’s the call?”
“Two seconds.”
“Sorry about the hit,” Fiso apologizes, his round face solemn. “He got the drop on me.”
“Don’t sweat it. Just save me from another one, alright? I might have pissed him off while he had me down.”
“While he knocked you up,” Avery corrects.
Anthony scowls at him. “What the fuck?”
“I might have talked shit,” I admit.
“Making our jobs harder, brotha!” Lefao laughs, smacking my shoulder hard.
Really hard. So hard he knocks me back a step, out of the huddle. I sigh, regaining my footing.
I’m not a small guy. I’m taller than most of my offensive line, something that comes in handy when I’ve gotta see over their massive heads downfield to my receivers, but I’m leaner by half. They forget that sometimes, getting a little overzealous with their celebrations, and I’m not the only one in danger. In the first quarter Hibbert picked up Tyus Anthony, our five foot nine, hundred and eighty pound wide receiver, and I had a real moment of fear where I thought he’d crush the guy with his hug. Anthony is small by any standards, but when a guy is that fast, that slippery, you’re willing to forgive his size in favor of his speed.
But every time you see a tackle coming his way, you drop to your knees and pray to every great god in the sky for his protection. That’s just common sense.
The radio in my helmet comes to life, Coach’s voice pounding in my ear. I stare at the turf in the middle of our huddle as I listen to his orders.
“Okay!” I shout, getting the attention of the ten men surrounding me. “Tiger seven, dive left! Go on one! Ready?”
They clap in unison, each acknowledging that he understands his part in the play. We run to the line of scrimmage, lining up quickly. The clock is already running. We have thirteen seconds left.
I line up with my shoulder in Lefao’s ass again. I wait as he checks the line, looking for signs of a blitz, and I hope Fiso is paying attention. Finally Lefao settles, taking hold of the ball with only four seconds left on the play clock.