Every Chance I Get

On a chilling Friday night as autumn is coming to an end the Casa Grande football field is packed with people, the game is tied with the last seconds of the fourth quarter counting down, with the Gauchos driving down the field. There is time for one last play, but before the ball is snapped time stops and I look around and notice the field and the atmosphere.

The fresh grass was mown just the day before the game and the smell impregnates the air; the grass marked with white numbers every five yards: these numbers depicting the imminent scoring of a team. The two lines on either side of the field must be crossed to score, not just to score but to win: the threshold of victory. The grass which looked so nice at 5:30 before the game had started has now been torn by the constant digging of cleats; soaked by the constant showers; trampled by the constant running. Ten yards behind either goal line lay the prominent field goal posts, standing motionless waiting for the kick. While motionless they seem to evade the ball soaring through the air; the red flags swaying in the wind look like eyes glaring, taunting you. Surrounding the field, towering over their rural settings, stand the lights as they shine down upon the field and the players on it so the spectators can watch every chance they get.

With looks of intensity and disregard of safety players scatter the field; covered in bruises, mud, and blood they look as soldiers: the field, a battlefield. After hours of a struggle between the opposing sides the players’ stench is strong with the malodor of sweat and now they not only battle the enemy but their own fatigue. After the hours of this struggle the players have lost any remorse they began with; at this point the faces around the field are stone cold with the shear feeling of intensity. Crude remarks bounce back and forth trying to get the other team’s confidence to falter; the language is vulgar and colloquial. Every player on the field has the same taste, a taste familiar to some and foreign to others, the taste of victory. The confidence seems unshakable as they fight for their one shot, their one opportunity to seize everything they ever wanted every chance they get.

While the players put their bodies on the line on the battlefield, standing off to the sides stand the coaches; the coaches are the generals of this gruesome battle. Standing on the sidelines they try to outsmart the opponent by coming up with complex strategies transmitted in by even more complex signs to his lieutenant, the quarterback. As the players the coaches have the same look of intensity on their face. Spectators angrily yell comments on the littlest mistake made by the coaches, expecting nothing less of perfection. These yells come down in shrieks piercing the ears of any listening; the spectators know not how difficult it is to strategize, yet they feel the need to criticize. Scanning the field are the referees watching for the smallest infraction to call; their knowledge of the game, the battle, seems never-ending; their eyes seem not to miss a beat; the whistle seems untimely as its thunderous shrill stops everyone and brings all attention upon themselves every chance they get.

The feeling of the game is awe-inspiring; everyone has entered a dream-like state. The smell of that freshly cut grass, the sound of the whistles and the players taunting, the sight of the glaring field-goal posts, the taste of the upcoming victory, the feeling of intensity, are all more perceptible and more livid. As I come back into reality and as time continues the ball is snapped and the final play begins. I run my route and the ball is up in the air for what seems like a lifetime; I closed my eyes for a bit longer than a standard blink and as I opened them the ball landed into my hands while I crossed the threshold of victory. The game was over, we had won, and my teammates and I held the sweet taste of victory. After a short speech from the coaches and the congratulations from the parents everyone leaves, the field is once again empty. The grass is torn up and the smell of the grass has vanished along with the stench of the players; the referees have left with their whistles and the parents save the rest of their remarks for the next week; the field goal posts no longer hold a taunting glare, they now remain motionless; the taste of victory has come and gone, now it is time to prepare for next week; however the feeling of intensity remains on the field and will remain on the field for weeks to come. I will try and seize this intensity every chance I get.

-Patrick