I sat on the plush, shamrock-colored grass. My jersey was untucked and mud-caked. My pants were just as dirty, and the baby-blue now had a brown hue to it from the dirt of the torn field. Defeated and exhausted, I questioned what I did or what I didn’t do for this to happen.

Earlier that day, I boarded the bus wearing baby-blue pants. My paper-white jersey was pulled over my shoulder pads, and my scuffed helmet lay tucked inside of my jersey. Lacing up my cleats and putting on headphones to focus, I planned on a celebration later that night.           

The bus made the short journey across the river, and my team and I arrived ready to take on our rival, Tinora. We strapped our shoulder pads and helmets on in the rough-stoned parking lot together, and we trekked to the field for warmups. Across from us, forest green jerseys roamed the field, hooting and hollering. Fans wearing black filled the opposing stands, and fans wearing white filled our stands. A fight was ahead.

            Soon enough, it was time for the game to start. My stomach churned, and my hands were soaked with sweat. The captains were sent out and won the coin toss, electing to receive the ball. That drive went exactly as it was supposed to. In three plays, we scored. As I scurried to the end zone, I knew that we were going to win. I chest-bumped a team mate onto the ground and hi-fived another. Surprisingly, we missed the extra point the next play. ‘We’ll score again,’ I thought.

            The game continued for a few quick drives. Our offense faltered in each of those drives because we all thought what I had thought: we had this in the bag. Then, they scored, but the difference, however, was that they converted the extra point to take the lead. When I looked to the score board, I realized that we were losing. With our offense sputtering, my panic set in.

            The clock kept winding down. The second quarter passed without any scoring. The third quarter came. Pressing to score again, our opponents had a chance to put the game out of reach. When it was third down, our defense stopped them. They went to attempt a field goal, and the crowd was engaged. Our fans screamed, ”Miss it!” The ball was snapped; the kick was placed, but the ball shanked left. Their kicker missed! Going crazy, the student section took baby powder and threw it into the air, creating a cloud of chalky white. Momentum, it seemed, swung our way, and our team had regained our energy!

            Once again, the game remained lifeless. Deadlocked at seven to six, the game’s score had remained the same for the game’s majority. It was a one point game. With the clocking winding down, we knew that we needed to score. Coach Baker exclaimed, “It is our last shot! We need to score!” We drove the ball to the thirty-yard line hastily. Then, we hit a sticking point, and it was fourth down with less than two minutes left in the game. In the huddle, I demanded, “Give this last play everything you have.” Pacing up to the line nervously, I surveyed who to block. I found my target and reached into my stance.

“SET. HUT. HUT,” called our quarterback. As soon as I heard the second “Hut,” I reached my foot forward, shot my hands into my opponent’s sloppy jersey, and drove my feet. I could hear the ball released with a loud grunt. Every person locked their eyes on the ball. For one team, it would seal a victory. For the other, it would ensure a defeat. Spiraling in the air, the ball looked on target for a catch and a lead-taking touchdown. Our wide receiver reached his hands out to make the grab. The defender lunged through the air to attempt a deflection, but he missed. The ball grazed the fingertips of our wide receiver and fell to the ground mere inches ahead of him.  Groans arose to the right of me, and cheers were to the left of me. It was over.

            Tinora gained possession of the ball and kneed it to run out the clock. As the time ran off the green and obsidian big board, my spirit deflated like a balloon losing air. I mumbled, “It’s over.” Tears ran down my face and mixed with the sweat. We had lost for the second straight year.

            The next few minutes, occupied by handshakes and a depressing team huddle, were a somber football funeral. After the huddle concluded, I clunked down in that end zone. Steam rolled off of my body. Red poured down the side of my arm from a fileted piece of skin. Not waiting for us to leave, a sea of forest green and black rush the field to celebrate. The River Bell, the contest’s prized possession, rang so loudly I could have heard it back home. That bell was like the Lombardi Trophy for me. I hated every single person over there. I hated them for ringing that bell. I hated them because we weren’t them. Telling myself this was wrong, I thought that I should be celebrating, and they should be feeling like me. I worked for a year to be the one celebrating and ringing the bell that meant so much to me, putting in countless hours of sweat equity lifting and practicing. I tasked my brain with knowing everything about that team. But for whatever reason, all of this wasn’t enough.

            I realized that sometimes giving my all won’t be enough. I am meant to fail sometimes, and I just have to get up and keep going. As I sat head hung, Coach Zartman said, “C’mon. Get up. That was one hell of a game.” After he helped me up, I walked to the bus with my head held high because there was another game to play the next week.