82 (The Corner)

He is quick; that much is clear. But the glow of his ever-increasing fame pulses every time he hits someone. He slides back and forth effortlessly in his backpeddle - like water that knows its way down a riverbed - then bolts forward an instant before the world flinches to plant his head in a pair of unfortunate numbers. Lights out. That's what his coaches have started calling him. And he smiles a broad ethnic smile every time they do.

He is good with the ball in his hands. The four red stars on his helmet are proof enough that he is the most valuable pair of legs behind the line of scrimmage. But 27 white tomahawks that surround those stars are the reason he lays sleepless at night. Reading a quarterback's eyes. Following a running back's hips. Listening to a receiver's footsteps. All for the pop. The kill. Even through the blinding light that crashes through his brain at 'the moment' - even through his own blood and snot - he can hear the bench erupt with every hit. He is a lithe and lightning hero. He is a bullet and a gun.


There will come a time when he doesn't play anymore. It is already almost upon him. No, he won't suffer a broken spine or a torn ACL or a brain-battering concussion. Time will simply reveal to him what he already suspects in the back of his helmet: he is not that good. And that is fine. But one far-away day he will teeter dangerously on the edge of 30. And he will realize that he has ever been backpeddling. Any jolts forward have been met by a violent crash. The bench will have gone silent. But he will continue to smash and punch and throw himself to the wall. A broken marriage. A single parenthood. A failed schooling. An empty job.

Boy, in that day, remember four red stars. Turn your feet around. Take the ball. And run.