#45

I always loved football. For as long as I can remember

Every Sunday morning I heard the whistles.

My Dad and brother's eyes glued to the screen watching NFL.

“No interruptions. The game is on”, they would say.

So I watched. I learned to love it.

But it was nothing like watching my brother

Those late Friday nights.

Where the fattening aroma of popcorn and hot dogs arose

It was loud.

Between the horns, whistles, and sirens in between periods.

The slight feeling of anticipation of who will win.

Fans screamed at the top of their lungs,

even if they know they will have no voice the next day.

It was all worth it, on those late Friday nights.

But then, he went down.

Players went down left and right every game,

only to find out they twisted an ankle,

or got a black eye.

Not tonight. Not this Friday night.

I had a feeling deep in my stomach where

It dropped.

I walked to the fence, only to see #45.

My mom rushed me to the car

with a tight grasp on my left arm.

I saw the panic through her tearful blue eyes.

“He tore his ACL, get him there quickly”

I didn't know what this meant,

but the paramedics diagnosis made my Dad scared too.

They gently helped him to the car,

where he laid in agonizing pain with the back seat put down,

barely saying a word.

He didn't need to say anything, I saw his pain.

The tears ran down my face

I tried to keep quiet. Be strong for him, I told myself.

But as I looked out the window, that dark Friday night,

I thought about how Friday nights changed for me.

After he had surgery, I saw him watch from the sidelines.

Then after the game, when stadium became empty,

light's turned off,

There he stood, at the 50 yard line

crutches hand in hand.

This wasn't how Friday's were supposed to be.