The Kicker

I love football, and can't count the number of games I've seen come down to a last-second field goal attempt. And when that last kick doesn't go the way I want, my dad always reminds me "don't blame the kicker" (which I don't). This story is inspired by that refrain.

The roar of the crowd is deafening; the stadium lights are blinding. The scoreboard shows us down by 2 points, and only seconds left to play. It’s now or never; it’s my time to shine.

I’m staring down a 42-yard field goal – no chip shot, that’s for sure, but not out of reach either. Coach pulls me aside as the rest of the field goal unit runs to the field.

“Just breathe, focus, and do your thing. You’ve got this.”

“Yes sir,” I respond, and run out to join my teammates. Putting my helmet on, I line up with my spotter. Then its three steps back, and one to the left.

I check the flags on the goalposts; the wind is coming slightly from the left. The grass is damp, but the ground is clear. I start to think about the other things; timing the snap count, foot placement, cutting into the breeze without slicing the kick. But other thoughts start to creep in...

If I make this, we win the game. We win the championship. There will be cheers, and celebrations – but none for me. I’ll get a pat on my back from my teammates, but the fans won’t know. They’ll praise our quarterback, our wide receivers, the running backs. They’ll thank our defense for holding strong when we needed them the most. But there will be no lasting thanks for me. When I leave that locker room, my kick means nothing.

And I’m ok with that. I don’t seek the spotlight, and I don’t need the glory – that’s why I’m the kicker. I have my role to play, and I don’t ask for more.

But if I miss this, everybody will know me. And they will all damn me for losing the game. The team will still support me with pats on the back, but the fans will not. The loss will be seen as my fault – they won’t blame the interception in the third quarter, they won’t blame the running back for not breaking the last tackle. They’ll blame me for missing this one kick.

It’s not fair, but it’s football. That’s just how the game is. All I can do is kick the ball, and send it through the uprights. I’m in a personal no-win situation, but I can win this game for my team. I can win it for our fans.

The referee signals for the clock to start. The crowd is silent, a thousand breaths held in suspense. I run through the snap-count in my mind, and my holder flashes his hands. The ball is snapped, he places it on the ground, and I’m running forward. I plant my left foot, swing my right, and feel my foot connect with its target.

The ball is away, and one way or another, the game is over.

Word Count: 471