outside, we could hear the first strains of our school song.
“Let’s go.” Coach put his hand out. We all crowded around him, touched hands, and yelled
“Miners!”
before we exploded out the door, into the lights.
The ref handed the football and tee to me.
I love the kickoff. It’s my little moment of glory. Tonight even the breeze seemed to be waiting as I dug in my cleats.
The line charged with me as I ran. I booted and kept going. Full steam. Coach said he liked the way I attacked everything I did. Kicked off but still ran for—and sometimes made—the tackle.
The evening sky turned from a dark pale blue (a color hard to explain if you haven’t seen it) to bruise purple. It didn’t take us long to get the ball back.
The coaches called for the streak-and-curl play. The running back ran straight up the flat into the end zone, curled back, and snagged Leland’s pass, dipping back into the end zone for the touchdown. The bandcranked out a fight song. Coach motioned me to go out.
I blasted the ball, practically before the Little Moon Pirates even moved. The ball went end over end, right through the uprights.
Whee!
There was a shrill noise, like the cry of a strange bird. Strange, yet familiar. It was Young’s flute. She was blasting a C note in celebration.
When we were on defense, the coaches kept calling the blitz because Rom could run right through and nail the quarterback. On third down Rom sacked him. The poor slob was taken off the field on a stretcher.
Kearny patted Rom’s butt and handed him a skull decal for his helmet, where he already had two. Rom slapped it on right away and beat his chest.
“Get back in there,” said Coach. “Nickel zone.”
Coach sent me in as strong safety. I was so pumped, I could feel a pulse beating in my neck as I ran onto the field.
“Down, set…” The Pirates handed off and bodies collided.
The running back was heading right into my zone.
He had the ball.
He came up on me like a freight train, arms pumping like pistons. I leaped after him. His knees knocked me in the jaw, but I held on with everything I had. His curses were like music.
We held them.
“Nice job, Kim.” Coach patted my back. “Beautiful tackle.”
“You’re a tough little bastard,” added Kearny. I glowed, my face steaming in the frosty air.
At the end of the third quarter we were ahead, 14-6. On fourth down at the Pirates’ twenty, the coaches decided to go for a field goal.
Mikko caught the snap.
I was just following through the kick when I saw the green of a Pirate’s uniform rushing at me. How’d he get through?
I heard a crunching noise, and then I hit the ground.
I was going to tell that Pirate knob to get off me, but then I realized I had no voice. And that I couldn’t breathe.
I’m not sure how Coach knew I was in distress, but he ran onto the field.
“Can you get your helmet off, Jann?” He touched my arm gently, like you might a baby. He took out my mouth guard.
I wanted to breathe. But something hurt really badly, really sharply, like someone was zapping me in the side with an electric cattle prod.
“Medical!” He yelled for Larson. “Can you breathe?”
The magic question. I shook my head. Sledgehammerswere starting to pound my temples.
“Okay, Chan.” Larson’s voice. “Try to sit up a little if you can.”
I straightened. There was a burning, sticking feeling in my side. I doubled back over.
“It might be a rib,” Doc Larson said to Coach. “Chan, try to sit up as much as you can. Breathe in slowly.”
My breath started coming back in short little spasms. It was like being in the ocean when waves keep knocking at you. I needed more air. I gulped. Jerked. Wheezed. I sounded like a cow with emphysema.
Whatever was wrong with my ribs, I was glad to be able to breathe again. I’d just gotten the wind knocked out of me, that’s all it was. When Coach asked me to stand up, I did. Cheers flowed down from the stands, and I saw from the
“Let’s go.” Coach put his hand out. We all crowded around him, touched hands, and yelled
“Miners!”
before we exploded out the door, into the lights.
The ref handed the football and tee to me.
I love the kickoff. It’s my little moment of glory. Tonight even the breeze seemed to be waiting as I dug in my cleats.
The line charged with me as I ran. I booted and kept going. Full steam. Coach said he liked the way I attacked everything I did. Kicked off but still ran for—and sometimes made—the tackle.
The evening sky turned from a dark pale blue (a color hard to explain if you haven’t seen it) to bruise purple. It didn’t take us long to get the ball back.
The coaches called for the streak-and-curl play. The running back ran straight up the flat into the end zone, curled back, and snagged Leland’s pass, dipping back into the end zone for the touchdown. The bandcranked out a fight song. Coach motioned me to go out.
I blasted the ball, practically before the Little Moon Pirates even moved. The ball went end over end, right through the uprights.
Whee!
There was a shrill noise, like the cry of a strange bird. Strange, yet familiar. It was Young’s flute. She was blasting a C note in celebration.
When we were on defense, the coaches kept calling the blitz because Rom could run right through and nail the quarterback. On third down Rom sacked him. The poor slob was taken off the field on a stretcher.
Kearny patted Rom’s butt and handed him a skull decal for his helmet, where he already had two. Rom slapped it on right away and beat his chest.
“Get back in there,” said Coach. “Nickel zone.”
Coach sent me in as strong safety. I was so pumped, I could feel a pulse beating in my neck as I ran onto the field.
“Down, set…” The Pirates handed off and bodies collided.
The running back was heading right into my zone.
He had the ball.
He came up on me like a freight train, arms pumping like pistons. I leaped after him. His knees knocked me in the jaw, but I held on with everything I had. His curses were like music.
We held them.
“Nice job, Kim.” Coach patted my back. “Beautiful tackle.”
“You’re a tough little bastard,” added Kearny. I glowed, my face steaming in the frosty air.
At the end of the third quarter we were ahead, 14-6. On fourth down at the Pirates’ twenty, the coaches decided to go for a field goal.
Mikko caught the snap.
I was just following through the kick when I saw the green of a Pirate’s uniform rushing at me. How’d he get through?
I heard a crunching noise, and then I hit the ground.
I was going to tell that Pirate knob to get off me, but then I realized I had no voice. And that I couldn’t breathe.
I’m not sure how Coach knew I was in distress, but he ran onto the field.
“Can you get your helmet off, Jann?” He touched my arm gently, like you might a baby. He took out my mouth guard.
I wanted to breathe. But something hurt really badly, really sharply, like someone was zapping me in the side with an electric cattle prod.
“Medical!” He yelled for Larson. “Can you breathe?”
The magic question. I shook my head. Sledgehammerswere starting to pound my temples.
“Okay, Chan.” Larson’s voice. “Try to sit up a little if you can.”
I straightened. There was a burning, sticking feeling in my side. I doubled back over.
“It might be a rib,” Doc Larson said to Coach. “Chan, try to sit up as much as you can. Breathe in slowly.”
My breath started coming back in short little spasms. It was like being in the ocean when waves keep knocking at you. I needed more air. I gulped. Jerked. Wheezed. I sounded like a cow with emphysema.
Whatever was wrong with my ribs, I was glad to be able to breathe again. I’d just gotten the wind knocked out of me, that’s all it was. When Coach asked me to stand up, I did. Cheers flowed down from the stands, and I saw from the
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