As with any undertaking that requires a great deal of passion, personal time and energy, there are a great deal of people that actively or passively helped breath life into this book. This book was completed in spite of some, but with the understanding and love of many others.
To my amazing daughter Lauren, who was with me on this from chapter one: I couldn’t have done this without you.
To James Gordon Mitchell, my editor, who gifted me with his experience, and counsel: You are missed.
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
More Books from T. Nisbet
About the Author
Chapter 1
The football floated lazily down through the driving rain, over the defender’s outstretched fingers, and into Damone Johnson’s safe embrace. I saw this from my back of course, with a two hundred and thirty pound defensive end pressing me several inches into the muddy turf. Through the side of my helmet where the cold mud wasn’t sloshing through the ear hole, I could hear the roar of the crowd as they erupted into celebration.
Giving me a final shove further into the muck, number ninety-three rolled off of me cursing. Toby Daniels, my center and best friend, lifted me out of the mud by my shoulders pads with his huge ham fists.
“Nice throw, Jake!” he shouted in my face over the pandemonium. Breath slowly came back into my crushed lungs as he held me there in the middle of the field.
I shook my head trying to clear it and was rewarded by a small river of freezing ooze that gurgled out of my helmet, down the back of my neck and under my shoulder pads.
“Thanks Tob.”
Michael Sheer, whose job it had been to block the monster that slammed me into the mire at the forty-yard line, ran over and silently helped Toby support me, not that Toby needed any help. Together they assisted me off the field, while Damone did his touchdown dance, and most of the team sprinted over to join him in the end zone.
Through my hazy vision, I absently noticed that our bleachers were emptying and randomly wondered if my parents would join the rest of the crowd pouring onto the field. The game was over and we had accomplished the impossible, but that did nothing to stop my whole body from hurting as they carried me to the sidelines and our team doctor.
Beating the previously undefeated, playoff-bound Spartans of St. Michaels High School by four points on a game winning touchdown pass wasn’t the highlight of my evening, though I didn’t know it at the time.
I vaguely remember the crowd of people that surrounded me as I sat on the bench. Our team doctor broke something putrid under my nose, hands patted my shoulders, and people watched me, wondering if I was okay. They all seemed to be part of a dream I was having. My senses fluttered in and out while I tried to shake the fogginess from my head.
After what seemed like years, Doctor Tambien helped to get me to my feet, braced on the other side by Toby. Together, we slowly made our way through the throng rejoicing on the field to the locker room.