The final field goal

It is now fourth down and I am getting lined up for a field goal to win the Super Bowl. One tick remains on the clock and the only thing keeping me going is the adrenaline rushing through my vast veins. Everything rests on my single shoulders. The kicker is someone who doesn’t get any fame or any recondition for what they bring to the table; this is my shot to show the world who I am and see my name flood all the news papers in the country. I line up as my bones tremble in fear thinking about what would happen if I miss. No, I am going to make it. The smell of the wet grass and mood covers me along with a tint of wet dog tossed in. You can hear a pin drop in the stadium, with everyone’s eyes focused on my scrawny little kicker body. Tasting the alcohol run down my throat would be the ultimate goal that I have desired and worked for my whole carrier. When the snap hits the holders hand is goes right to the ground; perfect. I carefully creep forward as my shadow lurks over the piece of pig skin that makes the game keep going. To the ball my foot heads and as I hit the sweat spot of the ball it soars through the air like a jet through the atmosphere. As the ball hits the mesh between the now beaming goalpost my dream has been captured. Sobbing as though my mother died I collapse to the ground in joy as my teammates storm the field. Perfection has occurred as planned from the snap, to the ball through the uprights. The electric atmosphere makes my legs tremble with enthusiasm and I am now on top of the world. I can see tomorrow’s New York Times. “Never doubt the real field fairy.” I can feel the wet field under my boney body, which is now the body of a superstar. I can taste victory in the air. I have now won the game I have dreamed of since I was little.