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It was never hard for me to get pumped up for games. By the end they were all I had, all that was holding me together. I didn’t see it, but everyone else did.

I was the loud one, the crazy one, the psychotically hyper, the class clown. Constantly, relentlessly, always.

“Come on guys we’re gonna beat the fuck outta those Marshville Faggots!” I screamed over the crowd and the band, slapping my teammates roughly on the back and shoulder pads as they passed me going down the hill, through the corner gate, and onto the field. I nearly knocked a freshman’s helmet off his head during my regular pump-up pre-game antics as we jogged down from the locker room to play under the lights.

I would always feel like I was about to burst with anticipation. Ever since Freshman year Coach Clancy Jr. had made me a captain so I wouldn’t be stalking up and down the sidelines during the lull before the storm, making the other players nervous as they watched me, sensing the pent up aggression and energy radiating off me like I was about to snap if I didn’t get rid of it quick. That was how I always felt, like I was about to explode with everything I’d had to hold inside of me all week just trying to get to that point, to that time, so I could be there right then to play the game of my life and knock anyone who got in my way on their ass.

If I could’ve bagged my adrenaline by the liter and sold it I probably would’ve become a rich man by age thirteen. I had loads of it, I probably bled it. I was a school diagnosed ADHD case and proud of it, and I let everyone know every minute of every day. You can’t just keep up an act like that, you have to be one of those special people who never runs out of energy. That was what I told myself anyway, what I was still telling myself when I turned to enhancers, caffeine pills, amphetamines. It was just a little lift, until I got through some tough times, so I could stay normal. So no one would know that I was losing control everything, losing myself in the role I was expected to play perfectly by the entire town of Russell Arizona.

I lit it up that night, I really did. I’m not just blowing my own horn, I played some damn good football against Marshville. Until the fourth quarter, when it came down to the line, and I was the man who was supposed to pull that line.

In spite of all the star players on Lincoln’s varsity football squad, every guy on the team knew that when it came to those moments when you want the ball in the hands of the man who’s going to score the points you need, make the miracle win happen, they always give the ball to me. Every time. I’d never failed them.

But not that time.

I made the catch on the jailbreak screen, weaved my way between two linemen twice my size, feinted left, dashed right, limp legged it during the initial contact, rotated my hips, spun away from the pressure, and broke free onto wide open real estate.

I began to slow at around the fifteen, stagger from dizziness at around the seven, and finally collapsed on the two yard line. My heart stopped in my chest and I dropped dead on the spot. There wasn’t a man from either team within twenty yards of me.

All I could think before I completely blacked out was that someone had better call timeout before the clock ran down, or else I’d never have enough time to punch my way through the goal line and win the game for us. Looking back I guess it’s kind of strange that my life didn’t flash before my eyes in that moment. Then again, maybe I should be grateful for that. At least I got to die peacefully, even if I never got to live that way.