My dad forced me to play football (american). I never could figure out if I enjoyed it, or enjoyed the elusive dream of his approval, or some weird mix.

I was pretty good. I was also emotionless, robotic even. After each play, no matter how significant, I'd mechanically trot back to my position. The only personality I had, and it didn't even show, was a cutoff Punisher t-shirt under my shoulder pads (this was before the logo became a symbol for assholes).

During my junior season, we found ourselves preparing for the "biggest game of our lives." Red Bull was recently popular and the coaches were handing them out to everyone. I go through my ritual of listening to power, thrash, and speed metal, then meditating on the joy of high speed collisions.

We knew the stadium was big, but until we stepped out of the locker room and onto the field, our ratty little public school team had no idea what that meant. My god, the people, the lights, it was fucking intoxicating and terrifying all at once.

I played middle linebacker. The first call of our first play on defense came in. I was to blitz. Their lineman blew the play and pulled as I was hurling full speed ahead. Before me, a wide-eyed quarterback in the nascent stages of preparing a handoff.

Splat. Nihil.

I hit the ground with him. I rose to my feet. I saw the lights, the crowd, heard the roar from the stands. The gods of the storm entered my blood and swept through my veins.

Quiet me. Robot me. I jumped. I waved my arms to the crowd and nodded my head, demanding more from them.

My teammates lost their goddamn minds. It became a feeding frenzy.

We won.

I got home and my dad told me he needed to see more out of me. He did better at my age.

The feeling left, but only for a while. I remember that excitement now.