I can’t catch my breath.
I know I should, and I’m trying half-heartedly. But somewhere between brain and lungs the signals are crossing. And I should probably panic but I can’t find the energy to care.
I can feel the field below me. Solid, slightly muddy, beaten up from three hours of cleats tearing and bodies slamming, up and down, back and forth. Clods ripped out and flung willy nilly. Kind of like me.
Two of my fingers are broken and taped because a defensive end came down on them so hard my scream echoed through the stadium and brought the crowd to silence for a long moment. There isn’t a muscle that isn’t aching and my right side is one big bruise. My knees feel loosened and I’m almost positive I’m not thinking clearly from the combined weight of several massive blows to the head.
It feels like the longest drive of my life, the hardest game, the most difficult season. All of which could be easily and demonstrably proven false, but at this point my feels are so loud they overpower everything. And whether or not this moment wins the award for Worst Ever, it’s still not over.
The game has been brutally extended, I can’t remember the last time I drew a full breath, and the referees are clearly paid off — we were on the final drive, at last! The one-yard-line! I thought we were home free, but the defense put up the strongest and most terrifying goal line stance I’ve ever seen. What seemed like a short and final cake walk has turned into a nightmare slugfest back and forth in this muddy trench we’ve dug together.
I hear the crowd cheering us on, yelling at me to get back up, that we’re almost there — but the volume is somehow dimmed. They’ve been on their feet this entire half, yelling as hard as they can, but it’s not enough.
It’s not enough.
I can’t do it again, I decide. I’m not getting back up.
I thought we’d won, that’s the worst part. We were all cheering so loud it took a minute to hear the ref had called back our touchdown. On the next down I thought we’d made it again, but another flag appeared on the play. But despite all of that, despite my exhaustion and the fact that my vision was starting to wobble, I gave that last play everything I had left, powering forward with every inch of my gritted will, and got slammed so hard it felt like the very breath of life was knocked out of me.
I remember why we’re doing this, I’m not that far gone. I know what needs to happen for my brain and will to reboot. And I’m doing it. My brain scrolls through memories. Games we’ve won. Hopeless situations we’ve been in before that turned around at the last possible moment. My brain flips through them like a picture book. I even remember why we want to win this game in particular. I know the victory will be sweet and so, so worth it.
But it’s not working. It’s not enough to get me to my feet because right at this moment, I don’t care if I never stand again.
I know I should care. I should miss my breath. I should be trying to haul it back in. But I find I don’t have the energy. I’d rather just lie here, prone. Let it all go. They can play without me. Maybe if I lay here long enough I’ll pass out and it won’t even be counted as my failure, it’ll be an injury time out.
But the voice in my head that’s been whispering won’t leave me alone.
Get up. One down. Get to your feet.
And I tell it to go away. I whisper, then I yell. Go away. Leave me alone. I don’t have one more down in me. I don’t have one more inch in me. And what’s more, as it turns out, I don’t believe you.
From deep down comes a roar, a yell so hard spittle flies — it’s never just one more down! It’s a game that never ends. A defense that never tires. A game plan that is almost always opaque and counterintuitive, with victory dances that are few and far between. And there’s that crowd of witnesses that only grows, holding up their cliche signs and cheering.
Stand up.
I don’t want to play anymore. Do you understand? I’m tired of the game. I’m tired of the drive. I’m tired of the battle. I don’t want to play. It’s your ball, you can take it. It’s your game, you can find someone else to hike the ball. Someone else to take the hits.
I know I pestered you when I was on the sidelines, like a little know-it-all. Put me in, Coach. I can do it! I’m big enough. Let me play. I’m ready!
I remember what it was like that first time you brought me to the peewee league, holding my hand as I bounced along excited, hugging me when I freaked out in fear when I saw the other players. You were there the first time someone tackled me by accident, forgetting in their excitement we weren’t supposed to. The first time I lost. The first time I won.
And finally you let me play tackle. You knew what it was going to be like and that I was totally and completely clueless, and still you sent me into the game. I don’t know how I feel about that. You let me play when I had no idea what I was asking — but you knew! You knew very well what it meant to be demolished by a much bigger opponent.
My memories of that first time I was so badly injured are a little vague. I remember you held my hand in the ambulance, and you held me close while I screamed, and you laid on top of me while I writhed until I passed out and woke up with a massive cast that took six months to outgrow.
Well, take note right here — I was wrong. I admit it. I can’t play anymore, I don’t want to. I’m not strong enough. It’s too hard. Because it doesn’t matter how much better condition I’m in, I’m still a touch football peewee lining up against the NFL’s dirtiest players.
I can’t do it. I can’t. I’m telling you I can’t keep playing. Why aren’t you pulling me? I know I’m not integral to your game plan, you have a thousand players on the sidelines who are way better than me. What are you doing?
I can’t catch my breath.
I feel abandoned. The crowd yells it’s just one more inch, but they don’t understand it may as well be a mile, a Grand Canyon, a trip from Earth to Mars.
I can’t cross it. I can’t crawl it. I can’t even lift my eyes to look at it.
Take a breathe. And get up.
I don’t want to play anymore, but there is authority in this voice I recognize from down somewhere deep below breath and consciousness and free will decision making. It's a voice I have learned must be obeyed, a voice that can be trusted in the dark, and finally the signals in my brain uncross, the fog clears, and I heave in a deep breath that burns all the way down.
I roll onto my stomach, then pull myself up onto my knees. My head feels like it weighs a thousand pounds and it takes a full minute before I can convince my neck to lift it so I can see where I should be aiming.
When I see the end zone my vision immediately separates from reality and the finish line appears to roar miles ahead of me. I heave myself to my feet, legs trembling so hard I’m afraid I’m going to go down again immediately, but somehow I manage to stumble forward to the line of scrimmage.
I bend down and nearly topple, but manage to steady myself with one hand and grab the ball with the other. I can feel my entire self cringing at what’s to come and I almost lose my nerve, but he said one down, so that’s what we’ll do. My feelings scatter to the side, thinking about what happens if this down doesn’t finish it. I can’t do another one. I’m game over if this doesn’t finish the game. But I wrestle my thoughts back to the moment at hand, my whole self focusing on gripping the ball and steadying my knees.
Hike.
I wrote this a few months ago, sometime during the final weeks we were trapped in Turkey. And you know what it makes me think of? The God who daily bears our burdens — except sometimes the situation is so bad that it’s not so much daily as it is play by play, or even breath by breath.
The God unchanging from before human time began. The God of solid rock, a firm foundation to stand on in a field full of evil vapors and whispy shadows whose entire essence is focused on murdering us. The God whose game plan is so much more complicated than our pea brains can understand, but always and ever so much greater and more joyful.
And this morning I say thanks be to God, who daily, hourly, breath by breath continues to bear our burdens and call us onward.
I forgot to add...'Godliness with contentment is great gain'....
'grandma' Jeanne...quoted from the Apostle Paul who suffered much for His LORD.
I like the thought that this player begged to be put into the game....How often I've said that....and yet...He knows best...Being faithful when alone and not 'in the game' is where He wants me because He knows best....'grandma' Jeanne