A Leather Shooting Star
Friday Night Lights
It was facile to glance at her, perched on the chilling bleachers, and never suppose anything different. She was just another girl at a Friday night football game with her comrades. Just another girl who would belt out an occasional cheer, but who came more to socialize. But the raw, unguarded passion that whirled within her was far from being ordinary or stereotypical. Her body was tilted forward, her hands were between her knees, and her eyes were entrenched on the field below.
She was here for football. She lived for the excitement. She lived for the blinding rays the stadium lights catapulted in her eyes. She lived for that brown leather spiral zipping through the star-filled sky. It was her shooting star. Her muscles would tense, and she’d anxiously wait. Her lips would form a number of unspoken prayers. The frosty autumn air would nip at her cheeks, a breeze would scurry through her hair, but only later would she question why her face was tingling because for now, her heart was pulsing with sparks of fire.
I could spy how riveted she was; how she clung to ever play. Her mind hungered for action. The thundering crack of helmet to helmet. The whoosh of crisp air as it flooded into a player’s pleading lungs. The powerful galumph of feet on the artificial turf. There was nothing more captivating to her than the explosion of movement on the field.
Bodies veered left and right as arms swung desperately in the direction of the speeding ball. Gloved fingers reached with hope that their years of practice had been enough for this crucial moment. Hearts strained to keep up with their aggressive masters, and legs bent in aspiration to extend – to fulfill the requirements necessary in pushing the ball to the end zone.
She found the constant ripple of muscle the most stunning. Forearms tightened and biceps bulged as arms flung in a last resort to shove off the guy who was attempting to haul everything to the frozen, solid ground. Calf muscles strained against their limits as feet propelled an almost 200 pounds of weight through a tangle of opponents, each endeavoring to launch someone’s purpose careening through the sidelines, or back some number of yards.
The girl would have a grin playing on the corners of her lips as she gazed. She’d see the sweat glistening like jewels in their hair, she’d spot Gatorade cascading into a parched, red-hot body, and she would smell. She would smell something that she dared to argue not a single other person did. Determination. Trust. Vigor. Success. And while it didn’t possess the scent of crisp cologne, how could it? Blood, sweat, and tears seldom ever did.
She was here for football. She lived for the excitement. She lived for the blinding rays the stadium lights catapulted in her eyes. She lived for that brown leather spiral zipping through the star-filled sky. It was her shooting star. Her muscles would tense, and she’d anxiously wait. Her lips would form a number of unspoken prayers. The frosty autumn air would nip at her cheeks, a breeze would scurry through her hair, but only later would she question why her face was tingling because for now, her heart was pulsing with sparks of fire.
I could spy how riveted she was; how she clung to ever play. Her mind hungered for action. The thundering crack of helmet to helmet. The whoosh of crisp air as it flooded into a player’s pleading lungs. The powerful galumph of feet on the artificial turf. There was nothing more captivating to her than the explosion of movement on the field.
Bodies veered left and right as arms swung desperately in the direction of the speeding ball. Gloved fingers reached with hope that their years of practice had been enough for this crucial moment. Hearts strained to keep up with their aggressive masters, and legs bent in aspiration to extend – to fulfill the requirements necessary in pushing the ball to the end zone.
She found the constant ripple of muscle the most stunning. Forearms tightened and biceps bulged as arms flung in a last resort to shove off the guy who was attempting to haul everything to the frozen, solid ground. Calf muscles strained against their limits as feet propelled an almost 200 pounds of weight through a tangle of opponents, each endeavoring to launch someone’s purpose careening through the sidelines, or back some number of yards.
The girl would have a grin playing on the corners of her lips as she gazed. She’d see the sweat glistening like jewels in their hair, she’d spot Gatorade cascading into a parched, red-hot body, and she would smell. She would smell something that she dared to argue not a single other person did. Determination. Trust. Vigor. Success. And while it didn’t possess the scent of crisp cologne, how could it? Blood, sweat, and tears seldom ever did.