It was a Friday night in mid August 1991. I was a noseguard and middle linebacker on defense, depending on the play. I also played right guard on the offensive line. This is the story of a night that could of well ended any hope of being an athlete, on any level, from this point on. I will be telling the story from the defensive side of the ball, due to that is where I was playing when I had five vertebrae, slightly, separated.
The clear ski appeared like god had popped peepholes in it so he and the angels could watch the game. The lights were shining down upon the field, as if all the lights on Broadway were centered on our two teams at this very moment. The field was in perfect shape. Grass so green it was an island in the sea of black that surrounded it.
The uniforms on our backs had come out of the locker room so clean and neat, we looked like parade ground soldiers. Now they showed the effects of the war had been waging for the past half of football. Every the players made appeared to move at break neck speed, kind of how it would be to watch a recording of the superbowl on fast forward.
The crowd, which was almost deafening at the start of the evening, was now as silent as a church mouse, even though all were screaming at the top of their lungs. The sound of pads and helmets smashing into one another could have given someone the impression of a thunderstorm. Ending, in one big bang, as a defender popped the ball carrier when the play was over. Only the sound of a canyon echo would give justice to sound of the plays the...