you know that itâs within the realm of possibility if only you have the courage to go after it . . . well, I donât care who you are or what that thing you want is, the simple fact is this: Itâs fucking hot.
Problem this time was that I didnât go after it. It didnât seem right to distract Dylan. Because as Dylan ran that fingertip over my palm, and I thought about scorched convenience stores and dancing triplets and infinite nuzzling, Malik Deely took his first varsity snap.
Iâm not exactly a sportscaster, so Iâm not sure the best way to describe what happened next, but here goes.
Malik had the ball, raised up like he was ready to pass, and he moved left and right, looking downfield to see if there was anyone open. Two of the defenders from Bloomington pushed past the guys who were supposed to be blocking them and they closed in on Malik.
âJarowski!â Dylan yelled, as did almost everyone else in the crowd, because the lumbering lunk named Jared Jarowski had broken free. But it was too late. The defenders were pouncing on Malik and Malik was bringing the ball to his chest and curling into a fetal position.
A collective gasp. And then . . . a collective cheer. Somehow, Malik slid out from under the two defenders without being tackled and there was an open patch of grass in front of him.
âGo! Go! Go!â Dylan hollered, tapping my hand with each
go!
Malik went. He burst forth with the ball tucked under his arm. He reached the forty-yard line, then the thirty-five, then the thirty.
Defenders pursued. Malik spun out of danger and kept running. He stuck an arm out and knocked a guy over. He hurdled another guy. He was at the twenty-five, then the twenty.
Iâll admit it. Football wasnât entirely boring. I could see theclock was in the single digits. I was as wrapped up in it as anyone else. A few of the guys on our team made some amazing blocks, throwing their bodies in front of Bloomington players who were nipping at Malikâs heels.
âPlease no flags, please no flags, please no flags,â Dylan chanted as Malik hit the fifteen and then the ten.
It was almost too good to be true. A touchdown would win it for us. We didnât even need to make the extra point. Get the ball into the end zone, spike the thing, dance a dance, and call it a day. But when Malik reached the five-yard line, it happened.
He dropped the ball.
The crowd howled. The ball bounced once. Almost everyone within a five-yard radius dove for it. Malik didnât need to dive though, because on the ballâs second bounce, he caught it. A shuffle, two leaps, a dive, and he was in.
Touchdown!
Nuts
is not the word for what the crowd went.
Psychotic
is more like it. The stands shook as Quaker fans threw themselves on each other, over each other, and into the field. The band tried to break into the fight song, but the pandemonium sent their trumpets and tubas flying and the only sound they made was the clang of brass on bleachers.
I was hugging Dylan. I hardly realized it. Our hands were now clutching at each otherâs sides and we were hugging and hopping up and down and I was laughing myself to bits and it was magnificent in so many ways. The noise. The vibrations. The feeling of his chest pressing against mine.
Down on the field, teammates were surrounding Malik andhowling in his face like a bunch of Vikings, as players from Bloomington lay scattered on the grass, collapsed with exhaustion or doubled over and head-butting the ground in frustration.
In the stands at the opposite sideline, where the collection of Bloomington fans were either sulking or politely clapping in appreciation of our perseverance, I spotted two familiar faces. Special Agents Carla Rosetti and Demetri Meadows, dressed like they were on the job, stood side by side, intently watching something. But it wasnât Malik.
Rosetti raised her arm and pointed while Meadows raised his phone and
Problem this time was that I didnât go after it. It didnât seem right to distract Dylan. Because as Dylan ran that fingertip over my palm, and I thought about scorched convenience stores and dancing triplets and infinite nuzzling, Malik Deely took his first varsity snap.
Iâm not exactly a sportscaster, so Iâm not sure the best way to describe what happened next, but here goes.
Malik had the ball, raised up like he was ready to pass, and he moved left and right, looking downfield to see if there was anyone open. Two of the defenders from Bloomington pushed past the guys who were supposed to be blocking them and they closed in on Malik.
âJarowski!â Dylan yelled, as did almost everyone else in the crowd, because the lumbering lunk named Jared Jarowski had broken free. But it was too late. The defenders were pouncing on Malik and Malik was bringing the ball to his chest and curling into a fetal position.
A collective gasp. And then . . . a collective cheer. Somehow, Malik slid out from under the two defenders without being tackled and there was an open patch of grass in front of him.
âGo! Go! Go!â Dylan hollered, tapping my hand with each
go!
Malik went. He burst forth with the ball tucked under his arm. He reached the forty-yard line, then the thirty-five, then the thirty.
Defenders pursued. Malik spun out of danger and kept running. He stuck an arm out and knocked a guy over. He hurdled another guy. He was at the twenty-five, then the twenty.
Iâll admit it. Football wasnât entirely boring. I could see theclock was in the single digits. I was as wrapped up in it as anyone else. A few of the guys on our team made some amazing blocks, throwing their bodies in front of Bloomington players who were nipping at Malikâs heels.
âPlease no flags, please no flags, please no flags,â Dylan chanted as Malik hit the fifteen and then the ten.
It was almost too good to be true. A touchdown would win it for us. We didnât even need to make the extra point. Get the ball into the end zone, spike the thing, dance a dance, and call it a day. But when Malik reached the five-yard line, it happened.
He dropped the ball.
The crowd howled. The ball bounced once. Almost everyone within a five-yard radius dove for it. Malik didnât need to dive though, because on the ballâs second bounce, he caught it. A shuffle, two leaps, a dive, and he was in.
Touchdown!
Nuts
is not the word for what the crowd went.
Psychotic
is more like it. The stands shook as Quaker fans threw themselves on each other, over each other, and into the field. The band tried to break into the fight song, but the pandemonium sent their trumpets and tubas flying and the only sound they made was the clang of brass on bleachers.
I was hugging Dylan. I hardly realized it. Our hands were now clutching at each otherâs sides and we were hugging and hopping up and down and I was laughing myself to bits and it was magnificent in so many ways. The noise. The vibrations. The feeling of his chest pressing against mine.
Down on the field, teammates were surrounding Malik andhowling in his face like a bunch of Vikings, as players from Bloomington lay scattered on the grass, collapsed with exhaustion or doubled over and head-butting the ground in frustration.
In the stands at the opposite sideline, where the collection of Bloomington fans were either sulking or politely clapping in appreciation of our perseverance, I spotted two familiar faces. Special Agents Carla Rosetti and Demetri Meadows, dressed like they were on the job, stood side by side, intently watching something. But it wasnât Malik.
Rosetti raised her arm and pointed while Meadows raised his phone and
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