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The man stood at the infield fence, hunched tight to himself against a night of sharp, frosty outlines. He had been one of them — once. Had known what it was like to feel the cold and the blood and the hurt — all compressed into minutes on a Friday night in October. He watched them, his mind rummaging through the memories, latching onto another Friday night years ago when the cheers faded, died away to silence. And he was left with nothing more than a scrapbook memory. He remembered another October. Another October before the hate. Before the resentment. Twenty-two touchdowns his junior year, 1, yards rushing yards.

This was his chance. The scouts would be there and he could ride their recommendations on to college. Maybe the pros. He had to use his body. That was his moment. And then it all dissolved in the ebony smile of Darrien Jackson. Transfer student from New Jersey. Jackson snatched it all from him without even knowing it. The boy, once a package of promise, had watched from the sidelines as his present — and future —froze.

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Never to move, giving way to a black flash of speed and muscle. He tried to match him, tried new patterns, added muscle, bulk, worked on his speed. But it was never enough. The man started to turn from the shadows of the memory but could not escape the one, final nagging reminder of the glory that never was. He had returned home after practice, wanted to see no one, wanted to talk to no one.

His father — always there pushing, prodding ,managing — pounced on him the minute he sat down at the table. Always been lazy you cocksucker! He knew he had disappointed his father and it worked at him, chewed on his psyche, leaving doubt and loathing to fill those black holes within. He opened the door, stopped cold. On the bed, a pink tutu and ballet slippers. His whole body tensed, each muscle drawn tight, the anger like corn popping in the veins of his neck.

The tempest of emotions worked on him, like a growing geyser, ready to spew at any moment. The boy turned, ran from the house, sought shelter in the darkness of his mind. This is our moment. He glanced at the game clock. Twelve seconds to redeem himself. To again become the god of October. Only seconds now. The man began to back away, to turn, to walk through the gate. He had seen this happen too often, been in the thick of it too many times.

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Twelve seconds left, eight yards to glory. He heard the timeout whistle as he opened his car, turned the engine. He reached inside his jacket for his cell phone. Eyes, mouths, faces opened wide and for a flicker of a moment, there was no sound. No sound except for the pieces bouncing off the scattered players. And then it happened. The wailing, the screaming, the cursing, the gasping as chaos erupted within the stadium. Players fell to their knees, pulling off their helmets, staring and seeing nothing.

The cheerleaders cowered on the sidelines, wrapping themselves in screams and tears. Their collective banshee wail echoed those in the stands as mothers, fathers, alumni all began running, crowding, trampling to free themselves of the horror. Add Your Comments:. Sign in to write a comment. Become a Premium Member.

Chevington Gardens in Newcastle upon Tyne NE5 3JY

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Readers also enjoyed. About Mary Nichols. Mary Nichols. Her father, like many people who learn English as a second language, would have no sloppiness, either spoken or written, and Mary puts her love of the language down to him. He was also a great reader and there were always books in the house Born in Singapore to a Dutch-South African father and an English mother, Mary Nichols came to England when she was three and considers herself totally English.