They stood huddled and panting. Steam rose from their heads in the cool fall air. Bruised ribs ached, smashed hands throbbed, black and blue welts rose on arms and legs. But they noticed none of that now. They'd forged a bond through a heady fog of adrenaline and a steely determination despite impossible odds.
The reptilian parts of their brains had taken over now. A primitive drive choreographed these strong manly bodies adorned with the baby-soft faces. The slow march of boys becoming men, accelerated in the face of adversity.
Their foes outnumbered them three to one. But the battle had raged not just on the ground but in their minds. Within their own ranks dissent had reigned its ugly head. Their leader had quit, others had considered following. They numbered now only eleven. But they hadn't given up. And now something had shifted, as the night grew late.
Something clicked.
The ball crept down the field until it sat on the two yard line. They lined up for the next play against yet another fresh line of players.
The band started up, but not their band. They didn't have one.
The cheerleaders danced, but not their cheerleaders. They didn't have any.
Nobody could believe the underdogs had made it this far but they had.
They stood still now, their bodies coiled springs. The crowd in the stands sat equally still with baited breath. The ball snapped into play and a mass of bodies ran and piled up on the field.
When the chaos had cleared the underdogs had the ball.
Touchdown.
YOU ARE READING
Lightning Strikes
Short StoryA collection of 500-word stories for @The_Weekend_Write-In
