Feeling Rainbow

Spotlights illuminated the dewey turf, and I watched the scoreboard change from 2nd to 3rd down. It was cold, really cold but I didn't care. The energy shooting through my body had me itching to start the play. I squatted down slightly, planted my cleats nice and deep in the turf, and shifted my body weight forwards. Everyone roaring "Defense!" in our stadium was muted as soon as I locked eyes with the wide receiver across from me, intimidation flashing through my eyes into his. I wanted to impale any hope he had of getting possession of the ball. I wanted to truck this kid—my teeth clenched, nose flared. I wanted to hit him so hard I'd feel shockwaves rushing from his chest into mine.

Soon as quarterback shouted out the play, I sprang out and bolted towards the wide receiver. I heard the thuds and grunts around me as my guy scurried away, desperately looking for a safe space to catch the ball, but it was too late. I was on him like ink on paper—as soon as he reached the 30, I ran right through him and felt the pulse of it nice and hefty on my shoulders. I watched him roll over slowly, groaning after impact and stood over him for a second before jogging back to my spot. I heard my number in the heartened cheers sounding from all sides. The crowd ate that up. I really did hope he was ok, but I wouldn't take back a hit that clean for the world, especially during our first game. After his teammate helped him up I squatted to repeat it all over again.

The quarterback called out the play once again, and I launched from my position towards the infield. I spotted the running-back jetting down the middle, staggering his steps to avoid our d-line, but I was gonna get him. I closed in on number 26 and lunged for his ankles. I stretched my arm as far as biologically possible, when a flash of white pummeled my side. I'm not even sure my brain registered the pain before it shut off like an unplugged television screen. I just laid there. I'm not sure how long I was out, but when I came around, my athletic trainer and my coach stood over my body with anxious looks.

"How many fingers?" coach asked me.

I squinted at his peace sign.

"Two," I replied.

I watched his eyebrows furrow in concern.

"Send him," he ordered the athletic trainer.

It was when they put me on the stretcher that the pain truly snaked through my body. The pulse of my headache would surge through my fingers when I touched my forehead. I saw towering red jerseys following me by my sides, but I couldn't make out their faces. Any sound amplified the already booming headache. It was a barrage of "Get better bro," "We're right here," and "Support you brother," before I closed my eyes, gave into the darkness, and let myself sink through the stretcher.

When I finally woke up, the bright light from the windows stung. I squirmed and flipped over to face the wall, but I saw my family.

"You done boy," mom told me with one hand on her hip.

I closed my eyes and flipped over again. I'd rather face the sun than hear that, but I know I broke our deal.

"You know the deal," she finished.

She read my mind. Dad didn't say anything the whole time, just stood behind mom and nodded. Bradley didn't say anything either. He couldn't say anything on my behalf because mom would smack him before he could finish saying "but". The hatred for playing ball funneled deep into mom's heart strings ever since what happened to Corey. The notion that I had no fighting chance to play this season was slow to seep into my mind. I blotted the realization's snaking drip from entering my brain as my family and I stayed silent for minutes.

I knew this was gonna break me eventually.    

As soon as I left the hospital, my breaths became shallow and quick. I wasn't filling my lungs with invigorating air like I used to. I was just breathing, existing, doing. The furnace roaring in my belly to attack the day was drenched. I didn't know what to do with myself anymore.