my way. Talk about a means for unloading your anger.
Because I was hyperexcited about today’s big game, my mother gave me an extra Risperdal to calm me down. That makes six and a half pills, but they haven’t taken away an ounce of my energy.
My mom, my dad, and Jessie are sitting in the stands at the fifty-yard line, cheering for me. I can always hear Jessie’s voice because it’s high-pitched and loud. I can’t tell you what a huge day this is for our family, and for me, of course.
As the opposing quarterback calls his signals, I get into my three-point stance, my right hand balancing me on the ground.
I can feel this tremendous tension building in my legs. Suddenly, before the play starts, I make three rapid hops that take me into the neutral zone, considered a crime in high school football.
A horrified gasp rises from the crowd, but there are no penalty flags. Before the game, the referees were informed of my involuntary movements, and the league has made an exception for me.
The quarterback’s count goes on longer than usual — he seems nervous, running through his audibles twice.
This gives my left arm time to spasm, and it shoots out into the sacred no-man’s-land that separates the two teams. This movement has been startling the center opposite me all day. No matter how many times I’ve done it, he can’t get used to the idea. He’s pissed off when no flags are thrown.
I recover quickly from my arm thrust and plant my legs solidly on the ground. My body is like a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse.
When I hear the quarterback call
hike,
I ignite and explode off the line into the center before the guy can even get upright. My sudden impact knocks him backward, and as he fights for balance, he grabs my leg with one hand. But I’m already halfway past him and tear loose from his grip.
The quarterback sees me coming and tries to dodge out of the way, but he’s too late. I plant my helmet into his belly and lift him right off the ground. Both of us go crashing down, with everyone else piling on.
The refs’ whistles blow just as a gun goes off, marking the end of the game. The home-team crowd, my crowd, is hysterical with joy. They’ve just witnessed a huge upset, in more ways than one — this was a game of me against my life, and this time, I won.
I feel my teammates’ hands pulling me out of the pile of bodies and pounding me on the back. The crowd is standing and cheering wildly.
At first I can’t hear what they are saying. Then I realize they are chanting my name.
“Cory! Cory! Cory!”
I’m embarrassed. I’m not used to being a hero. There’s no other place in my life that this happens. Except in the old days, in Little League.
I head to the sidelines, hopping a few more times before I get there, and my coaches are actually hugging me. When I get a chance, I search the stands for my family. Dad’s arm is wrapped around my mom, and he’s beaming with pride and happiness. This is almost too much for me to stand, all this happiness and joy.
A short while later, the stadium is emptying out. As I walk to our car with my family, I can see how proud they all are of me. Jessie has been a star athlete in basketball, soccer, and lacrosse, but no one expected me to be back in sports after baseball ended. And they know that a day like this is about a lot more than football.
Now it’s just the four of us. My teammates are leaving with one another in groups of two and three, joking and bragging and reliving the best game of the year so far.
Now and then as they pass by, a few of them congratulate me, but they don’t stay around or invite me to come along.
Inside our car, I sit in silence with a curious mixture of emotions: a sense of pride but also an empty, achy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s hard for me to understand how I can go from being a hero to being alone again, in just a couple of minutes.
“You’re one of the best players they’ve ever had here. You’re amazing,
Because I was hyperexcited about today’s big game, my mother gave me an extra Risperdal to calm me down. That makes six and a half pills, but they haven’t taken away an ounce of my energy.
My mom, my dad, and Jessie are sitting in the stands at the fifty-yard line, cheering for me. I can always hear Jessie’s voice because it’s high-pitched and loud. I can’t tell you what a huge day this is for our family, and for me, of course.
As the opposing quarterback calls his signals, I get into my three-point stance, my right hand balancing me on the ground.
I can feel this tremendous tension building in my legs. Suddenly, before the play starts, I make three rapid hops that take me into the neutral zone, considered a crime in high school football.
A horrified gasp rises from the crowd, but there are no penalty flags. Before the game, the referees were informed of my involuntary movements, and the league has made an exception for me.
The quarterback’s count goes on longer than usual — he seems nervous, running through his audibles twice.
This gives my left arm time to spasm, and it shoots out into the sacred no-man’s-land that separates the two teams. This movement has been startling the center opposite me all day. No matter how many times I’ve done it, he can’t get used to the idea. He’s pissed off when no flags are thrown.
I recover quickly from my arm thrust and plant my legs solidly on the ground. My body is like a stick of dynamite with a lit fuse.
When I hear the quarterback call
hike,
I ignite and explode off the line into the center before the guy can even get upright. My sudden impact knocks him backward, and as he fights for balance, he grabs my leg with one hand. But I’m already halfway past him and tear loose from his grip.
The quarterback sees me coming and tries to dodge out of the way, but he’s too late. I plant my helmet into his belly and lift him right off the ground. Both of us go crashing down, with everyone else piling on.
The refs’ whistles blow just as a gun goes off, marking the end of the game. The home-team crowd, my crowd, is hysterical with joy. They’ve just witnessed a huge upset, in more ways than one — this was a game of me against my life, and this time, I won.
I feel my teammates’ hands pulling me out of the pile of bodies and pounding me on the back. The crowd is standing and cheering wildly.
At first I can’t hear what they are saying. Then I realize they are chanting my name.
“Cory! Cory! Cory!”
I’m embarrassed. I’m not used to being a hero. There’s no other place in my life that this happens. Except in the old days, in Little League.
I head to the sidelines, hopping a few more times before I get there, and my coaches are actually hugging me. When I get a chance, I search the stands for my family. Dad’s arm is wrapped around my mom, and he’s beaming with pride and happiness. This is almost too much for me to stand, all this happiness and joy.
A short while later, the stadium is emptying out. As I walk to our car with my family, I can see how proud they all are of me. Jessie has been a star athlete in basketball, soccer, and lacrosse, but no one expected me to be back in sports after baseball ended. And they know that a day like this is about a lot more than football.
Now it’s just the four of us. My teammates are leaving with one another in groups of two and three, joking and bragging and reliving the best game of the year so far.
Now and then as they pass by, a few of them congratulate me, but they don’t stay around or invite me to come along.
Inside our car, I sit in silence with a curious mixture of emotions: a sense of pride but also an empty, achy feeling in the pit of my stomach. It’s hard for me to understand how I can go from being a hero to being alone again, in just a couple of minutes.
“You’re one of the best players they’ve ever had here. You’re amazing,
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