Week 5:The Big Oops

Most autumns in Maine are cold. The sort of cold that gets into your bones and sits there, or makes every little bruise and bump you get feel like you've just lit the offended area on fire with a mini blow torch. Thankfully that kind of day was yesterday and today was a little more merciful, if still cold.

"Hey Duh-Duh, you gonna put that helmet on?"

With a creak of leather and plastic I glance over my should pad to look at Justin's grinning face through the batter grill of his football helmet.

"don't get your panties in a knot 'Ustina." My good natured retort is accompanied by the steam of my breath a quick cuff upside of Justin's orange in cased cranium. 'Ustina' was a nickname given to my friend in Spanish class as a joke, not by me but by some of our team mates, and just seemed to have stuck. Not that it bothered Justin in the slightest, he kind of took it and wore the name as a prankster's badge. We'd grown up together in Orrington, actually when we were little we weren't very fond of each other but now were fairly inseparable. And, with a few notable exceptions, he was the only guy I really hung out with on the team.

With a shrug of my shoulders I plopped my own battered helmet on, the Brewer witches logo on the side was marred by streaks of blue, white, green, and red. A visible testament to just how many times I had literally bumped heads with the opposing team. With practiced ease I snapped the chinstrap in place and consigned myself to the protective smell of leather, sweat, and plastic.

"Better?"

"Nah I can still see your face-Ow!" Justin grinned again then spun back into line after I punched his shoulder pad. We were all pretty similar in appearance, at least to people who didn't know us. I suppose that's part of sports; uniformity, being part of a unit. All of us sported black uniforms bulked out with the traditional padding of the sport, orange helms and orange numbers on our jurzies; there were slight variations though. For instance the back of Justin's helmet sported several stickers: Two skulls and a football. Just ahead of him David Miaderk's was covered in examples of both, rewards for exceptional tackles or good work while carrying the ball. I hadn't gotten any yet but I tried not to let that bother me too much.

Ahead of the line I spotted coach Orteago slapping Mike Carnnas on the shoulder, his southern-swarthy features and Louisiana accent at odds with the black winter jacket and knitted hat he sported. I couldn't quite make out what he was saying but it must've been good, his features were locked in an intense expression and was chewing his gum like his life depended on it.

Beyond Oreteago and the quasi-straight line of orange and black were the bleachers of Doyle field. The deceptively thin aluminum framework was packed to capacity with classmates, friends, family, and other assorted spectators; many of which sported school colors while still remaining bundled against the cold. Most of them squinted down at us or the other team against the halogen glare of the stadium lights.

"Head in the game, Emerson." Todd's voice came from behind me over the rising murmur of the crowd and I nodded my agreement.

The game was about the start.