The following is yet another installment in a series of articles based on the real-life sports exploits of our gallant protagonist, the Weekend Warrior.
There was something somber in the skies. There was something somber in the eyes of the Man. On this Sunday, as the song says, some people went to church, while others stayed home. For the Weekend Warrior, this was his church, his sanctuary; this field was his hallowed ground.
There the Warrior stood, soft form outlined against a gunmetal gray November sky. It was cold. Good and cold, just the way he liked it. Football weather, he called it. He wore a black stocking cap with a large black poof at its summit. Gray sweatpants rolled at the knee gave way to white tube socks and the most expensive pair of black high-topped cleats he could find. Over his white thermal undershirt he wore an old netted practice jersey, a remnant of a high school career that had never quite materialized. Electrical-taped onto the back of the practice jersey was his number. Stretched out before him was the field of battle- a band-field that was iron-hard and honed to the bone, pocked with old cleat-marks. Other men stretched, readying themselves for action. The Warrior looked like he was any one of these other, ordinary men. On this day he would not play like them.
The Warrior proved he had the stuff that makes winning football players at an early age, when he won the coveted Certificate of Participation in only a year of peewee play, and he knew in his heart that the only thing that kept him from a star-studded high school career was a position coach who, with the obstinacy of those who fail to recognize excellence, never played him. He hungered for his shot. This Sunday, his dream would come true.
Gonna make some big plays today, boy, the Warrior declared to no one in particular. Somebody stretch with me! Nobody did.
The teams were picked, and with the last pick in the impromptu draft, the Warrior heard his name called. He had to stand by himself until he was selected, but the Warrior only refined the humiliation into a motivating tool. Its me against the world, baby, he said, again to no one in particular. I like those odds. The draft would be forgotten once he had shown his steeds on the football field. Hadnt Bart Starr been taken in the 17th round?
The Warrior had bought the new black high-topped cleats as a signal to the multitudes of his Unitas-like ability in the pocket, his absurd coolness under acute pressure; his willingness to take the big shot and deliver the football with accuracy and touch. But his new teammates were blind to his promise. He was shuffled off to a receivers spot and told to run only short patterns.
For most of the first hour and a half of play, the Warrior run rampant through the opposing zone, waving his hands for a football that never flew his way. For the Warriors teammates, his comrades in battle, had little faith in his abilities. The Warrior grew more strident, because like all of the great ones, he was always open. When a teammate got deep and scored, he failed to join in the bonhomie. You had me on the out! he barked after the play. I was wide open! As he pumped his knees, carving up defenders who ignored him because they knew he wasnt getting the ball, the Warrior identified with Lance Alworth in his ease with the art of pass-receiving, and knew the difference between him and Bambi lay only in the numbers.
And when his team needed a crucial first down late in the first half, the Warrior found himself summoned to the forefront.
Hey, you. Black stocking cap. Just line up in the middle, run a buttonhook, and stand there. Ill throw it to you.
For the Warrior, they were words that rang like a clarion call to battle. Line up in the middle. Some men made their living off the fly patterns. The Warrior made his between the hash marks, and he prided himself for having the God-given skills to turn a short pass into a marathon for Six. Combined with the sheer manhood it took to make the tough completion and take the big shot, the breakaway ability made the Warrior a Hydra-headed double threat: Tom Waddle and John Taylor, in the form of one man.
The Warrior dashed to the line and wiped his hands on his sweatpants. He tried to conceal his eagerness to show his talents to the world. But a linebacker in a black skully took note of his nervous gestures and alertly dropped into coverage as the quarterback barked out the snap count.
Hut one, hut two hike! The players lurched into motion. The Warrior had cannily checked off the distance to the first down marker. The team needed two yards. The Warrior decided to make it three, and counted his steps: One, two, three, for five in!
You had me on the out, bra'
The Warrior spun and cupped his hands. Another linebacker counted five-one thousand and made his way to the quarterback. Sensing the pressure from his blind side, the passer alertly stepped up in the pocket, locked his eyes on the Warrior, and let fly.
The football was wobbly and inexpertly thrown but on-target. But the Warrior felt a hot presence over his shoulder, and for a fatal split-second, his concentration was lost. Instead of catching it with his hands, the Warrior caught it with his shoulder. The ball wedged awkwardly in the crook of his arm, and when he attempted to bring it into his body, it squirted out. A desperate, one-handed save attempt only batted the ball further away, and his teams first-down dreams died. Two seconds later, the linebacker came with the hit, and the Warrior followed the ball to the hard November ground. He landed with an audible grunt.
Pussy, the linebacker stated.
His teammates glared at him sullenly as he trudged back to the now-defensive huddle. Nice fucking catch, Darrell Jackson, one of them said. The Warrior steeled himself. Darrell Jackson! Were these men perfect? Even the great ones dropped a ball every now and then. The Warrior knew that the measure of a man is not how he falls, but how he gets up. And he knew he had plenty of big plays left in his body that day. The great ones, after all, arent always great. Theyre only great when they have to be.
But the Warrior wasnt great when he had to be. He carried the ball on a line plunge, tiptoed into the hole, and was buried at the line of scrimmage. Ball carriers easily shrugged off his arm-tackles. Teammates and opponents alike ridiculed his soft play and his utter lack of contribution. And when the sky faded to black on this cold November Sunday, it was another man who carried off the honors. The Warrior took many blows that day blows to his body, and blows to his soul. And he gave out few, if any. But he had the heart of a champion.
Free Sex Posted: 11/3/2006by: Free Sex>all Free Sex Free Sex Posted: 11/3/2006by: Free Sex>all Free Sex Free Sex Posted: 11/2/2006by: Free Sex>all Free Sex Free Sex Posted: 11/2/2006by: Free Sex>all Free Sex A Daily Source of Joy Posted: 7/26/2005by: MC Stainton I laugh out loud at every tubby, uncoordinated (yet very serious about his "game") asshole attempting to play basketball at the gym because of these articles. God bless the WW Posted: 7/15/2005by: bphats The only thing worse than his weekly preformance is that eventually he'll run out of sports to suck at. Untill then the Warrior / Jesse - stride on!
Also, as a lifelong Seahawks hater the Daryl Jackson comment really hit home - thanks. Wiffle Ball Posted: 7/14/2005by: Jim Paluf The Weekend Warrior could never handle to heat at Track Side Park.... or can he? Our hero needs at least an ego boost here and there. Stop It! Posted: 7/14/2005by: Patrick Walter Stop making fun of me.... please leave me alone!!!! More! Posted: 7/14/2005by: bryan I used to wrestle in HS. I coached for a few years afterward. A few months ago I visited the ol' HS with wrestling shoes in hand. Apparently, these kids train like, everyday or somethin. So after a half ass warm-up, I got handled by a senior who weighed about twenty pounds less than me. I forgot that whole "gotta be in shape" thing. I was sore for a month. I can deffinetly relate to the WW. God bless that loser. THE WW Posted: 7/14/2005by: james Dude, I feel better about myself now. It's guys like me who played baseball, football, and hockey in H.S. to now playing corporate softball, flag football, and beer league hockey that truely appreciate the props given to the double dubya. Good read fur sheez.
