You know, I thought it might be interesting to tell you of where my attitude comes from, my attitude of I can do anything even if it isn't pretty ... although what you are going to read is dealing not with intellectual situations but being a short man dealing with the physical ... Texas 5A football (And please pardon my foul language but honestly, it's almost entirely necessary to use foul language to get the point across).
Napoleon created an empire and a complex. His empire may be gone, but his complex lives on.
In Texas, 5A football is brutal. Some of the biggest, strongest and most talented players in the country are from right here in the Dallas/Fort Worth area. I came from a BB division school in Michigan to Texas 5A. How big of a difference can there be? The offensive line for my Texas school averaged 6'5" 285 lbs. Nuff said.
So what's a 5'4" linebacker to do against that? F*ck with their heads. The rhino of a padded prepubescent becomes nothing more than a confused feral cat when they can no longer focus.
Friday night is a big night in Texas. All day over 2,000 students are thinking about the game and what party they will attend afterwards. You can see it in the eyes of your teammates, the vision of hitting someone so hard their eyes go crossed for a few seconds, snot bubbles pop above their lips or a shoe flies off their foot.
I'm thinking about the mind f*ck.
As I walk through the gates to the field, the entire crowd, glowing in red and blue, roars like a tidal wave shaking the ground, breaking the turf as the symbols in the band clash like lightening in my head. Just then, all gets quiet. I see the cheers, but I don't hear them. I feel the bass of drums, but they've become shock treatment causing my heart to skip a few beats and when it comes back, my veins begin pumping lead. For this game, I was chosen to be a captian. I have the honor of walking to the middle of the field for the coin toss. And here it begins.
"Gentleman, shake hands," is the all too common demand from the referee. I'm now staring at the at 3 boys in the bodies of giants.
"Hey little guy, can I have some lucky charms?"
Yes, there it is. Here we go.
"I'm going to bite your kneecaps bitch."
He doesn't quite know what to say and just smiles. Napoleon would be proud. I reach out with my right hand which no longer feels like a hand. My arms have turned into canons. We tap barrels, step back and point. We want to fire, but can't until after that coin flips. Heads: I shoot first; Tails: He shoots first. Either way, f*ck 'em.
The ball snaps and here he comes. A freak of nature sees my red jersey and charges like a bull. He sees blood, smells blood, wants my blood to spill in this battle. I charge the hole, plug it, stop the ball behind him and the whistle. But this isn't the end of the play. I'm on the ground and this is his opportunity. This size 14 cleat takes a calculated plant pinching the skin just under my armpit between it and the ground, drawing the first blood.
Now it's my turn. Since I do not have the brute force that my opponent has, I wait for my opportunity. I watch as he pulls to the right to lead block for his running back. The running back is the last thing on my mind, I need him to now feel fear and confusion. I take off after him, he turns to me and I stop dead in my tracks and his momentum sends him to the ground. This is when I jump on his back with my exposed knee digging into his spine. My hand slides in the underside of the right ear of his helmet. My thumb presses down under his right ear lobe jabbing the point where his skull and jaw meet. He can't scream and no one sees what I am doing but how bad does he hurt right now.
And now begins the rodeo.
He kicks his legs and drives his shoulders up lifting me a solid 4 feet into the air. I grab his love handle fat just enough so he then throws that elbow. It smacks me right in the face.
And so begins my Oscar nomination.
I throw back my head, arms straight up and hit the ground as that flag flies in his direction.
I'd like to thank the academy.
The rest of the game I take out his knees. I drive my elbows and knees into his spine. I cause him pain and all it does is piss him off.
There is absolutely no glory here. My name will not be mentioned in any articles and my abilities will go widely unnoticed. But this is when he looks at me and I see those baby blues. He's confused, he's in pain and he is embarrassed. No matter how many times he was able to plant me on my back he is only wondering how his invincible stature is getting pounded by me. And I win.
If he keeps confidence, then I'm screwed, but instead the night will end with him asking "Who the f*ck was that little sh*t?" He will never admit it, but he will respect me. He will never admit it, but he hated having to block me. All of his stories will be about his achievements: when he planted the giant defensive end, gave our tackle a small concussion, but in the back of his mind, he will always think of me. He'll forever wonder "how?" Being short is one of the main reasons I will never be recognized in the papers or in the game films so I took the next best thing. I took control of the only thing I could. His mind.
And now, I've placed a scar in the mind of the invincible.
Napoleon, you are welcome.
