Big game. Chicago is at home. It is snowing. The home club is bigger than the visitors and faster. The hard hitting. The crashing at the sidelines for a tackle. Short yardage. Make a run around end. Driven backwards or fall forward. The line to gain. Coaches frantic how to move the ball. Full back lead the ball carrier. Defender fill the gap and stop forward movement. As the clock countdown. No footing in the sludge and snow as the temperature drop. The passes are overthrown. Or to the wrong uniform.  

Again with the snow flurries. Dirty uniforms. He’d caught everything thrown in his direction but cannot break away from the tackle. The shouting of the crowd. The bands. The rival back and forth between the two towns. So is chatter in the media. Always snowing and cold. Between the lines and the best minds cannot crack the goal. The season culminate in Chicago. Throw the records out but the bottom line.

It get darker long as this go on. The heralded arm of their slingers. He run up and out and stretch out for the ball to end it as he dreamed it. They call it “the game.” My Jersey in a trophy case. Among the greatest that did it. It was me just past my fingertips. Slow motion, once again. Shake hands frozen at the end. Wrapped in bandages. The better one this game. G©