Chapter 3

The air was thick with anticipation as our small-town Pop Warner team, the Cougars, prepared to take on the Litchfield Lions. They were no ordinary opponents; they were the defending league champions from the previous season, and their reputation for being relentless on the field was well-deserved. Our coach, a grizzled veteran of countless Friday night lights, paced the sidelines with a steely determination in his eyes. His team, a mix of boys ranging from ages eight to twelve, stood shoulder to shoulder, their chests thrust out and their fists clenched in determination. The Cougars knew that this game would be their toughest yet, but they were ready to give it their all.

The whistle blew, and the game was on. And away we went. As we jogged down the field, I couldn’t help but marvel at the sheer size of the crowd that had gathered to watch us play. The stadium seemed to stretch on forever, packed to the brim with eager faces, their voices a deafening roar that threatened to drown out even the loudest of our cheers. It was a crisp autumn afternoon, the sky a vibrant blue that contrasted sharply with the emerald green of the field. The sun beamed down upon us, its warmth a welcome relief from the chill that settled into our bones as we stood on the sideline, waiting for our turn to shine.

As we ran through our training, our coach’s voice echoed in Jack’s ears. “Now, remember,” he said, his voice steady and commanding, “we’ve practiced this a hundred times. You know what to do. Just focus on the ball and make your moves.” I nodded, feeling a surge of confidence wash over me. We were ready. We were going to win this game.

The whistle blew again, signaling the start of our first offensive play. I took the ball in my hands, feeling the familiar weight of it, the familiar texture of the leather. My eyes scanned the field, searching for an opening, for a weakness in the defense. And then, suddenly, it was there. A gap, a tiny space between two defenders. I took a deep breath, balled my hands into fists, and dashed toward it. My heart pounded in my chest, my lungs burned, but I didn’t let up. I couldn’t let up. Not now. Not when we were this close.

As I neared the goal, my teammates moved into position, forming a wall of bodies in front of me. I could hear their shouted encouragements, feel their determination radiating off them in waves. I could almost taste the victory. But then, just as I was about to make the game-winning score, disaster struck. A Deep tackle lunged for the ball, and we collided, sending us both flying to the ground. Pain exploded through my shoulder, and I felt a sharp tearing sensation as I landed hard on the turf.

“William” I heard our coach shout. As he ran onto the field “Are you okay?”

I struggled to sit up, wincing against the agony that shot through my arm. “I ... I think so,” I managed to gasp out. “But I can’t move it.”

There was a collective groan from the crowd, followed by a chorus of boos as the referee signaled for a time-out. My teammates rushed to my side, their expressions a mix of concern and frustration. We knew that without me, our chances of winning would be slim.

“I’m sorry, William,” said our captain, his voice tight with emotion. “I didn’t see him coming.”

I forced a weak smile. “It’s not your fault, Jack. It’s the game. We’ve just got to keep going. We can still win this.”

Our trainer, a stout woman with hands as big as mittens, hurried over to examine my shoulder. She prodded and poked, wincing at my every groan. “I think you might have a separated shoulder, kiddo. You’re going to have to sit this one out.”

The news hit me like a punch in the gut. I’d never been the team’s star Deep Tackle, but I’d always been there, always given it my all. Now, with just a few minutes left in the game, my team was down a man, and the score was tied.