High School football is a past time unlike any other. Sure, you can go on to play the sport in college, and even go pro; but nothing compares to the purity, atmosphere, or intensity of high school football. It's one of the greatest American sports stories; the kind where the close victories and losses are forever engraved in cinematography. For seniors like me, we wouldn't have another season of Friday nights to prepare for. It was quite simple; the winning team got one more game on High School football's main stage - state. The losing team went home, and cleaned out their lockers. As I stepped out into the open, the cool air and foggy mist replaced the stale and hot air of the crowded locker room. There was something about the field that I couldn't place my finger on. It always seemed like the stadium grew in size when I saw thousands of fans ready for what would be the show of a life time.
Despite what many may think, no feeling compares to the tense, adrenaline pumping feeling I got during the pre-game warm ups we would do. The lineman were in the end zone, practicing their steps. The backs and receivers competed against one another in passing drills, only getting faster, and more aggressive as the pre game clock wound down, and kickoff drew closer. The defensive line responded to the whistles with a defining grunt, letting the team at the other end of the field know that while they were here, they weren't welcome.
In the minutes leading up to the end of the national anthem, a transformation takes place. A mutual feeling of respect, tenacity, and power takes over. The silence of the national anthem pays respects to those who fought for our country, but to a football team and their coaches, is the calm before the storm. For two minutes, everything fell silent. My thoughts were festooned with the plays, strategies and tactics of the game. The only noise that befell my ears was the muffled sound of a soft feminine voice as she hit the highest note of the anthem; and as it ended, the loud bang of red white and blue fireworks signaled the end of six days of preparation, and the beginning of a fierce battle that would determine who gets to wear their jersey next Friday, and who never gets the privilege again.
Kickoff. To many, it is simply how the game has to start. For the teams, it's the most important play of the game. For 10 seconds, a short, but intense battle takes over the field. Unlike traditional down plays which may occupy ten to fifteen yards at a time, the Kickoff is a battle between 22 players that can take up the entire length of the field. The key to winning here is not so much brute strength, as it is strategy, precision, and speed. One false move could open up a gap for the returning team to run through, and in terms of confidence, can knock the wind right out of the sails of the kicking team if they are unable to prevent a return. We were kicking.
All season, we had not allowed a single return, and as the ball sailed into the air, everyone followed it right into the hands of the returning team. For the next ten seconds, we observed anxiously as our players closed in on the runner. The violent sound of clapping pads and banging helmets, coupled with the crippling grunts began to make its way over to our sideline as the ball came back down the field. The runner was making good progress, and as we saw a gap begin to open, the away crowd began to rise in uproar, cheering him on as he darted back inside. Just before he got a quarter of the way back down the field, however, a blind side hit sent him back toward our sideline, and onto a bench, the immense tackle spilling a rack of Gatorade bottles along the way. The game had started, first blood had been drawn, and in the next fourty-five minutes, we would find out who would draw more of it.
At halftime, things didn't look promising. We were down six and we had lost two of our best offensive players to leg and back injuries. The team seemed gassed, our jerseys were covered in mud, blood, and fabric-torn battle scars, and the strategies we were using constantly found themselves in a state of "check-mate" as the game wore on. Many things seemed uncertain as we headed back out onto the field, but after a stern talk with the head coach, there was one thing that was certain - we would give it everything. Every player on the field was demanded to leave every ounce of strength, power, and courage out between the lines. This wasn't a football game anymore; it was the fight of our lives.
In the third quarter, we had made huge progress. Our defense had managed to hold off their offense, and our offense had managed to tack on two more scores, which put us up by six as we headed into the final quarter.
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