Watching Desmond Play Football

As I walked up to the four-foot-high metal fence that separates the blacktop of Albany Middle School from the Astroturf covered football field, I realized that I would have to hop the fence. When I reached it, I could see my friend Desmond working at a hitting drill along with the rest of his teammates on the football field on an extremely hot day. I could hear the impact of plastic shoulder pads of the players sounding like two cars in a head-on collision, the “boom” made by the impact of two players‘ helmets. After I hopped the fence I sat down on the cold metal bleachers, which made goose bumps pop up on the uncovered skin of my arms, and I continued to watch Desmond practice. The coach, who wore a blue polo shirt, shrieked “Down. Ready. Set. Hike” like a drill sergeant in the army. When he screamed “Hike,” twenty-two players, eleven on each side, ran directly into each other. The coach threw the brown leather football to an open receiver. I watched Desmond run his route each time the drill was repeated. He looked like he was running his fastest. When the team took a break, the panting and long pauses in Desmond’s speech confirmed his tiredness. I could see the sweat glistening on his close-shaved scalp and face in the afternoon sun. Although he weighs only 125 pounds, small for a football player, he looked larger while wearing all the pads and protective gear. He carried himself like a warrior dressed for battle. He didn’t get the ball thrown his way, despite his repeated hard work to try and get open. After one of the rounds of the drill, he communicated with one of his teammates by saying, “Come over here.” The teammate responded by clapping his hands twice, which was probably some kind of signal, like a soldier would signal...

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...was formed, Desmond led the team in the post-practice yell. In his tired, but tough voice, he yelled, “Albany on three. One. Two. Three.” Then as soon as Desmond said “three,” the other players screamed some sort of sound that sounded like a mad bull: “Arr.” And then they yelled their chant, “Albany Cougars let’s go! Cougars! Cougars! Arrr!” The echo of the chant and the sweet scent of perspiration was still hanging in the air.

After the yell, Desmond walked over to me. His metal cleats slapping the pavement on the cement, making a sound like an aluminum baseball bat hitting a baseball. He asked “How’d I do?” I replied truthfully, “You did great.” He then ran across the Astroturf field with its faux painted yellow and white lines that smelled like plastic, to catch up with his teammates, who were walking sluggishly after a tiring practice back to the locker room.