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I reached for the soccer cleat for my right foot.

Finally, fucking finally, I was in the zone enough not to even flinch when someone knocked into the large trash can in the corner making a loud enough sound to scare the fuck out of everyone.

It didn’t concern me. None of my business. My business was to visualize the kick and follow through. Wait patiently for my turn.

And then nail it.

We gathered around the coach for his locker room pep talk. Something about starting off strong and taking it all the way. “This is our year, boys. Give them hell out there,” or some shit.

It riled up the usual guys and probably intimidated some of the rookies. I didn’t care.

Through the tunnel and out onto the field. Sun blazing, the air barely moving. My eyes went straight to the flagpole over the press box to confirm the wind hadn’t changed.

A sea of blue filled the stands, variations of the famous flame logo waving on hats, shirts, and banners. The sheer number of jerseys with the number seven on them never failed to surprise me.

My number.

The crowd roared, fired up for the season opener. I let the sound wash over me as I split from the rest of the guys to do a light jog along the sideline.

This was a language I spoke well. For as much as I planned to be done with it at the end of the season, to focus on getting the right grades for law school, I fucking loved playing football, especially on a hot September day on home turf.

The familiarity of it. The excitement of the challenge. The rhythm and focus of the game. The chance to go somewhere else in my head for a few hours. Success was relying on my ability to compartmentalize. To maintain tunnel vision.

I moved through my warm-ups until only a few minutes remained before kickoff. Then I slipped my headphones on and blasted “Can’t Be Touched” by Roy Jones, Jr.

Everything was right on schedule. Right on track.

The game started, touchdown within the first five minutes. Extra point, nailed. Easy.

Shoulder claps, cheers, headphones back on. This time, it was Jimmy Eat World, “The Middle.”

Eyes forward. Don’t look at the VIP boxes. Focus on the game.

It had taken me three home games my freshman year to learn how to blur faces in the stands while also focusing eagle-eyed on the ball and my set point. Since then, I’d done a pretty good job of keeping my real life separate from my time on the field.

East Mercier hit back with their own touchdown seven plays later. Tied.

Interception after punt return ended in East Mercier field goal. Fuck. First quarter ended with nothing else. Still three points behind.

I stayed in the zone. Stayed warm and loose, ready for anything.

Second quarter moved at a glacial pace. Still nothing. Still on ice. Waiting.

See it. Set it. Send it.

Seven seconds left before halftime, and I was up again. A forty-three-yard field goal attempt to tie it up. Fucking trap distance. Long enough to need real leg but short enough to seem easy.

Everyone knew that going into halftime behind was a momentum killer. It was up to me to tie it up.

My eyes flicked to the flag, moving listlessly now, but still moving. Wind from the left.

Ball on the left hash. I jogged out, hips loose and legs warm. Gave a nod to Marcus, who was already crouched and ready. I picked the spot and marked it. Dug in my heel, twisting the cleat into the turf.

There. Breathe.

Three steps back. Two left.

Don’t think about the distance. Trust the leg.