Before The Sunrise

failure

Team sport or not, I'm the best high school football player in the state of Maryland. So despite the horrible offensive line play, the drops, and the mistakes on defense, I've successfully brought us back to tie the game by the start of the fourth quarter.

It hasn't been easy. My entire body aches with the pain of 7 Matt Schultz sacks. Seeing people getting tackled on TV misrepresents the damage one tackle from a 250-pound man inflicts. Add that to the fact that I already have a bruise healing on my stomach from last week, and then multiply it times seven, and it really fucking hurts.

Occupational hazard. Maybe someday, I'll make big money for this.

Having thrown a sweet touchdown pass to Benny for the points to tie the game, I jog off the field to fist bumps from my teammates and approving nods from Coach Bradford.

I turn to look at my father in the stands, analyzing his posture. Arms crossed, head tilted to the side, spine slightly bent.

My stomach lurches, and I have to swallow hard. I'm already sweating from exercise, but suddenly it's pouring down my back in a way it wasn't before, and goosebumps pull at my arms. I close my eyes, sucking in a deep breath like I've been taught to, trying to not have a fucking panic attack in the middle of the game.

Highlandtown's offensive line shoves our defensive tackles aside like tall blades of grass, seemingly effortlessly, eating up five, six yards a carry. DeAndre plays defensive back well, but it barely matters because they don't even have to throw. It's the height of embarrassment when everybody knows they're going to run, but we can't stop it anyway.

Now is not the time to feel fucking sick, or to be on the edge of panic. The way my heart is pounding in my face makes it hard to focus, and I can't not focus.

I can handle this. I don't need to panic, I'm the best player in the state. I should know not to look at Dad during games. I don't need to be scared of him right now, I need to worry about that later. I'm not panicking, I'm fine.

Highlandtown scores a touchdown, and I have three minutes to score another one to tie the game again.

Calm the fuck down.

I expect that going out onto the field will quell the anxiety, but it doesn't. My whole body just gets more tense, and my hands are shaking, and I can't calm down.

"James?" DeAndre stares at me with concern. Fuck. Everybody is staring and waiting for me to tell them the play call. "Are you okay? Do you need a timeout?"

"I'm fine," I say, shaking my head and acting like I am not this close to passing out right here at the 25-yard line. "We can't waste the timeout. Play number 17."

We get set at the line of scrimmage, and no matter how many deep breaths I'm taking, my whole body will not stop shaking. I clench my leg muscles, trying to channel blood flow to my brain, but then the tension just spreads to my shoulders and God, I can't do this right now, I can't, but I give the snap count and complete a pass to a receiver on the sideline anyway, and we get a first down.

Making the play doesn't help. Fuck. Why am I like this right now?

My dad's angry pose flashes in my eyes, and on the next play, the familiar 250-pound weight slams into my back again. My head doesn't touch the ground, but stars shimmer in my vision, and when Matt Schultz, as always, offers me a hand up, he has to catch my bicep to keep me from falling right back over.

"You a'ight, Hanson?" he asks, the casual, Baltimorese accent failing to hide the legitimate worry in his voice.

He and I might be rivals on the field, but he might be the only one who feels anything like the same pressure I'm feeling right now.