Imaginary Games

A cheerleader's coach barks at her squad. Her Adam's apple plunges and heaves the cigarette smoke from her airways as her furies are enunciated with carcinogenic blue wisps. "You suck!" comes a voice from the stands. Transported through the ether, the demoralizing prose intoxicates those grass-stained gladiators grinding their youth into the turf. They hang their heads and scan the withered and beaten sod that their jagged rubber soles have unrepentantly gouged. And in pursuit of what?

The home crowd shuffles from the bleachers. The burden of their single-file sorrow bends the turnstiles, and a subsonic groan lingers over the field. On the score-board (dedicated two years ago in memory of a 5th year senior guard killed in a hazing "incident") the yellow LED lights show an insurmountable deficit. With 15 seconds on the clock, the home town trails 21- 13, the visitors crouch over the ball with 1 yard to go on a third down.

And then... the fumble. The quarterback lets the snap slip, spilling the essence of the game between his splayed legs. A collective gasp sucks the atmosphere out of the vicinity, leaving the players to choke on oxygen deficient air as they scramble for the precious bauble. Wagers are suddenly clutched tight in mid-transfer as eyes bulge... the whistle sounds, as does the buzzer. The visitors have recovered the fumble and the game is officially over.

And so we all, myself included, breathe again. And we will... until next year.