Fourth down,
one yard left to score.
We defensemen have to do our jobs.

Our opponents break from their huddle.

Sweat trickles down my forehead.
I slip my mouth guard in.
Everyone’s exhaustion shows.
My rapid breathing produces
Little clouds in the brisk fall air
                                     
I stand in my two point stance,
Waiting for the ball to move
as I shift from my left to my right foot,
I read the play through the halfback’s eyes.

As soon as I see
the slightest movement of the ball,
I tear through the wall of offensive linemen,
into the backfield

The quarter-back scrambles away,
as I dart toward him
I spot a lineman
out of the corner of my facemask 

He dives at my feet.
but I jump over him,
avoiding a crisis.
 
As I gain speed for the tackle,
the QB gets further away.
I find the energy to catch up to him.
I grapple his midsection.

He has nowhere to run.

I find the groove,
along the backside of his shoulder pads,
lift him up and throw him down.

He screams in pain
The refs run to him.
Their medics rush onto the field,
as they examine his limbs.
And ask what hurt.
He points to his right forearm
His arm had been broken
from the fall.

I feel bad deep inside,
Even though I know
There is nothing I can do now.

I think of myself of a monster,
rather than the savior of the game.
I may have saved the game for myself,
but I ruined a season for him.