The Final Countdown
Our lives follow the structure of a novel. Every day brings new experiences and opportunities that we split into chapters that define our existence. However, these chapters will always come to an end, leaving us with only a memory of what has occurred. The chapter containing the story of my high school football career was closing, and in theclosing seconds as I stood on the field for the final time, I was left with last three words of this chapter of my life: “It’s all over.” It was a night I knew would come too soon. But now that it was upon me, I was shocked by how it had taken me by surprise.
The smell of the grass was not unlike the sweet scent that permeates the air on cool summer morning. This was the grass that I had dove on, bled on, and cried on. The realization that this was the last time my mud-caked cleats would ever sink into the soft soil of Spartan Stadium made my heart sink as if it were a penny in a wishing well. Had I thrown that penny, I would have wished that I were younger. I would have wished that I had just one more year to play the game that I had loved more than life itself. I breathed in the sweet smell of the lush green forest below my feet. There was nothing I could do to stop the scent from attacking my emotions. And the jersey… How could I find so much joy in the sour reek of sweat and dirt that embedded itself into the one piece of clothing that I would refuse to remove? This piece of green fabric, currently soaked and filthy, had been my pride and joy over the past three years. I would never wear it again, but the sharp gray outline of the number two would forever beseared into my chest, regardless of the jersey’s physical presence. But thesmell was what haunted me most. Never again would I be able to recreate the aroma of dirt, sweat, blood and tears into the mesh. It would be washed for the last time later that evening, and it would, from there forward, hang in my room as an impostor, forever smelling of spring flowers and cotton. The thought made me want to throw up. The smell most people would run fromwas one that I wanted to bottle in an effort to hold onto the game itself.
The pressure of the pads against my shoulders and legs was comparable to being tucked into bed when I was young. The pads, like the blankets that swaddled me in years prior, provided a sense of security, fearlessness, and comfort. As a senior in high school, I was far too old to be tucked into bed, and now I was also too old to continue the game I had played since I was young. The game itself was part of me.The green and white gloves that swallowed my hands had become my flesh. The calluses caused by the sharp sewn edges turned my skin to leather and gave it a shiny, rough finish as if I had been a ranch hand whole life. The stickiness of my palms would lead one to believe I had just sloppily assembled a s’more. Those gloves had caught so many footballs, had wrapped themselves around so many flailing bodies, and had drowned themselves in perspiration each Friday night for years. Where would they go now? Certainly, they would not be thrown in the garbage, nor would they be passed down to my little brother who had the privilege of having his entire football career in front of him. No, they were mine. And they would be stored away in a secret spot where I could go and easily slip them on just to feel the stiff cloth against my soon-to-be smooth hands. They would not be ripped away from me like the game itself.
The clock was winding down, and with it the experiences I had hoarded over the past eight years were transforming into memories. I visualized my first touchdown, my first interception, and my first pair of white Reebok cleats that I just knew made me run faster. These memories—memories that I now look back upon as the best times of my life—were ones I would never forget. These were memories that I would tell my kids about, and memories that I would cherish for the rest of my life. The red numbers on the scoreboard slithered like a snake throughout the rectangular cage that contained it. The closer the snake got to zero, the closer I was to feeling the hot venom, released by the double zeros that would soon appear, spread through my aching and bruised body. The echo of “The Final Countdown” pierced my eardrum; it was the last time I would ever hear the sweet harmony of saxophone and percussion as a Spartan. Droplets of moisture raced down my face, and trying to determine which were tears and which were beads of sweat was nearly impossible. However, trying to do so was a distraction from the intrusive thought that I no longer had the privilege of playing Hughesville football. I would not get another chance run out under the blinding lights or look into the sea of faces that represented the town for which I played. My time was up, and my eyes welled with the realization that this was it. I was now left with only memories, pictures, and newspaper clippings.
Every good story must come to an end, and the story of my high school football career was no exception. As I stood on the field at my last football game of my entire life, the icy air brought me to my senses. This was indeed the end for me, but it was so much more. I would now be the smiling alum sitting in the stands watching my underclassmen teammates succeed at the sport that had played such a large role in my life. I would now have the opportunity in future years to be the man who provided guidance and direction on the field instead of receiving it. I realized that it was okay that I was moving on because I knew that I had been blessed by this game. I slowly walked off the field as I unlaced my shoulder pads, my helmet dangling against my hip. I gave Spartan Stadium one final glance before I rounded the corner leading into the locker room, and I smiled.