First down, baby.
My name echoes through the stadium as the announcer credits the play.
Smith and I knock fists as we return to the line of scrimmage, winded, and take our positions.
Reid calls the play, and I mentally shift into blocking mode.
One of the things I love about playing tight end is the versatility of the role. I get to block and receive, depending on the play. It’s a hybrid position that requires strength, speed, and damn good footwork, all of which Coach has helped me improve over the last few years.
I draw a steadying breath and brace for the snap.
Across from me, the Idaho defender narrows his eyes. Like me, he’s got sweat pouring down his cheeks and his uniform is covered in dirt and grass. He looks tired, but determined as he stares me down, and I know that if I miss this block, the play is fucked.
So don’t miss the block.
Easier said than done.
The pressure to deliver is intense and my chest tightens as I consider the ramifications of failure. This isn’t a conference game, but it doesn’t matter. We need the win and I’m not about to let my boys down.
The instant the ball is snapped, I drop-step and crossover, cutting around the defensive end and sealing him inside as I plant my hands on his chest and drive him back, creating an outside lane for my running back.
Reid makes the handoff and Davis, a sophomore who’s making his first start today, skirts around me and tears up the field like his ass is on fire. He picks up about five yards before he’s tackled. Not a first down, but a gain is a gain.
I wipe blood from my forearm as I line up for the next play. Not sure how it happened, but I cut myself blocking that Idaho fucker. It’s part of the game—not personal—but that doesn’t stop me from returning his glare as we face off again.
He grunts something that sounds like “Pussy,” but I’m not about to let this asshole get in my head. Not when the game is on the line and we’re so close to winning.
Reid calls the play, and the ball is snapped. I dart past the defender, leaving him in my dust, and cut toward the outside. I’m open and the safety, remembering the first play of the drive, moves in to provide coverage.
Joke’s on him.
I’m just the backup plan.
Coop is wide open in the end zone.
Reid pulls back his arm and throws the ball downfield, hitting Coop right in the hands. It’s a thing of fucking beauty—a perfect spiral—and I throw my arms wide and roar as the scoreboard lights up.
First win of the regular season.
One down, eleven to go.
The stadium erupts, nearly drowning out the band and the Wildcat roar, as one hundred and three thousand voices meld together in raucous celebration.
I’m flying high as my teammates and I gather on the field for our own little victory dance, all of us sweat-soaked and exhausted.
“Good game!” Reid yells, handing out fist bumps and high-fives like TicTacs.
“One and oh, baby!” Smith thrusts his helmet in the air. “This is just the beginning.”
Fucking right it is.
We need to go undefeated to guarantee our chance at competing for the national title, because unlike in the NFL, the top four teams in college ball are determined by a selection committee. Then those top four teams compete in a semifinal bowl to determine which two will go on to compete for the national title.
It’s totally fucked and it makes for a long, brutal season, especially when you compete in a conference like the Big Ten that’s always underrated.
One game at a time.
It’s the only way to tackle the season—pun intended.
