[Certain]

"Come on, Simmons, hold your fucking block!"

Coach's whistle pierces. Sweat streams down Jason's cheeks.
Head down, ass up until the snap and straightened knees.
He's made his peace with the taped fingers and lingering pains,
but betrays his weak past with deep gasps and physical strains.
He's still jiggling weight from his days as a fat kid
with no place in the game.
He's never facing that way again.
Determined to find meaning through something more
than cheesecake and potato skins.
But hunger pangs hit him like a linebacker,
so he grinds faster, setting the blocks, steady and locked.
As he steps into spot, ducking down, he starts seeing time backwards.

"Hold your damn block, Simmons!"

They're running behind him again on the right side.
Strong side. Jason's side. Carving holes with tight strides,
he buckles another defender to open a gap for the back,
who dashes through fast. Touchdown. But at practice it lacks
the glory of six and a rest. Coach sticks out his chest,
"Simmons, you weren't on the A-Gap! You were listening, yes?"
"But we scored?!" And Jason recalls meeting Coach in physical ed.
A chubby dork showing surprise strength with weights in limited sets.
The roster spot. The letterman jacket.
From oft-forgot to friends with the masses.

"What the hell are you doing, Simmons? Hold down your block!"

Jason's pressing. Feels his heart beating with the same force
of that defensive tackle. Shedding shackles, he maintains course
and keeps the pocket protected. All the while, he's not stopping for breath yet,
determined to make good on his honest regrets and nodding his head, "Yes,"
as Coach barks another order while Jason's coughing up phlegm.
The puke can's on the sideline, but he's not leaving the field.
Hobbled and wrecked, his back in his stance, feeble but healed
as another snap count fades out. And then he fades out.
And Jason falls to the turf face down.