The great Silverdome crowd roared. The din was almost deafening. The home kicker tapped his kicking toe nervously behind him. The average built athletic senior felt unworthy to be the one to start the show. He had not made a touchdown all season – a few tackles, which he was unmercifully kidded about, some extra points, and a couple of field goals.
Still.
    He shook his head to rid his mind of negative thoughts: ‘be cool- act like you’ve done this a hundred times before. Don’t miss it. Just hit it. Head down…’
   He raised his left arm and silently counted each of his coverage squad mates that flanked him, ‘. . . nine, ten,’ he pointed to himself and mouthed, ‘eleven.’
   The shrill tone of the back judge’s whistle cut the noise and echoed eerily about the cavernous building. The kicker gave the scene a final panoramic scan and committed it to memory, reckoning that he’d need the mental snapshot some day to explain it to his kids. He closed his eyes and breathed deep like he always did. He approached the teed-up ball gracefully in a lazy ‘j’ and, after what seemed like an eternity, met the ball with an outstretched foot. Barely a second later, the dull explosion of foot meeting pressurized leather rocked the ‘Dome.’
Another State Championship game was on.
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   Everyone seemed to want Barry Paxton. That idea was reinforced every day when he opened mail addressed to Mr. Barry Paxton, a name he shared with his father. The Army wanted him to ‘be all he could be.’ The Marines wanted him to be one of their ‘few good men.’ The Navy, well, it didn’t matter what they wanted. Barry would never be a swabby. He didn’t know why, maybe it was the hat. He cringed at the thought of anyone seeing him sport that floppy, white thing on his head. The local community college, and just about every other college within the reach of the U.S. Postal Service, wanted his parent’s tuition money. A good student with dreams to eventually attend medical school, Barry Paxton was indeed, a young man in demand.
   When he walked back to the house from the mailbox, Barry wiped the sweat from his brow – a consequence of having just pushed a small mower over the lawn in front of the Paxton’s modest cape cod. The well-built 17 year-old considered the bundle of mail he just harvested. He sighed. What will it be today? Vinyl siding? No, that would be for dad. An offer for free swimming lessons to join the Coast Guard? Another plan guaranteeing weight loss? Barry chuckled at the idea of weight loss. That he didn’t need. At 6’1”-200 pounds he wasn’t the biggest frog in the pond, let alone the biggest lineman in the league or the team.
Barry scooped up the hose from the freshly manicured yard. The familiar sweet smell of freshly cut grass conjured up images of football. He could