Dug stood out like a flame in a firework factory in his football helmet, oversized shoulder pads and red and white school jersey number 29. Not a piece of meat on his bones compared to the other boys, and truth be told, if he flexed his bicep might turn down, but he had a crush on a girl and wouldn’t be stopped. She always wore strawberry lip gloss and her red cheerleading uniform on game days. She talked to him in class while working, and that made him feel like he had a shot. Her name was Whitney Fairfield and she had a type, or so he thought. Athletes. And she was what he figured a fine girl was, though both of them were 16.

“Line up! Line up!” shouted Coach Green wearing sunglasses and cap on to protect from the afternoon sun. The boys high tailed it from the bench to the white line in the field. “Alright, as many of you know, I coach varsity, and as you also know, our team has had some set backs recently. Due to a little incident with the bus crash injuries, we’ve been granted a chance to replenish our numbers three games into the season by the N.A.S.S.P.’s good graces. So let’s get out there and see what you got.”

He called for the boys to form an offense and defense. They put Dug as a running back on the offensive line, which he knew deep inside was the worst place for him, but why question the other boys? After all, he had a good view of the cheerleaders as the guys lined up. Dug took his place behind the quarterback.

The cheerleaders practiced a routine in the distance, and while he waited for the ball to be passed to the quarterback, he saw her. Dancing in her uniform in a gentle sway with the other girls as they shouted, “Let’s go bulldogs! Let’s go bulldogs!”

Caught up in the moment, he imagined taking her to the movies and going out to dinner at a nice restaurant, her in a form fitting blue dress, red hair braided down her back, her signature look. He let the vision go on and on in his head until suddenly he found himself back on the field, football in hand, the boys on his side trying to protect him as the quarterback yelled, “Run, Dug!”

He took off and tried to evade the midfield fray that was right in front of him, and not really understanding his situation. A senior who missed his chance in the initial try out got around his defender and ran at Dug with full force and his freight train build. He didn’t just slam Dug, he sent him flying, helmet sliding off his head as his arm bent the wrong way with a crack.

A cry was heard on the field that no other person there would soon forget. It was the sound of a soul crushed, of pain and torment on both the physical and spiritual level.

Dug took it all in stride after his wound had been treated. He waited three months until his arm worked again and tried his hand at basketball. He’d never know that the reason she talked to him in class was she was waiting for him to make the first move.