The Referee

He stood in the middle of the field, his black striped shirt sticking out like a sore thumb against the green canvas of the field. Breathe, he told himself. Breathe. He looked at the spectator stands, the millions of lights illuminating the night, the huge electron television far above the field, but ignored the purple and gold clad players in small piles around him. Breathe. He placed his right foot ahead of his left and his left foot ahead of his right until he reached the small viewing station. He pushed his head between the blinders, big heavy rubber curtains to keep the chaos out. The tape started to roll. Breathe, he reminded himself.

He saw the ball arch through the air. Players were running frantically into and away from one another. The ball reached the top of it's path and began to descend. He saw himself running toward, his eyes always on the ball. It continued to fall, having over taken him in the blink of an eye. It was being encased in two large hands, brought down to earth at a slower pace than if it had been left alone. Then the shot was blocked by a newbie camera man. Breathe.

A new reel clicked in. Again, the ball arched over head, he saw himself chasing it, it fell into two strong and capable hands. The top of a helmet came into view. The first player received a hard knock in his right side. But where were his feet? That's all he needed to know. The hum of the stadium was growing steadily louder. Breathe. He needed to see another angle. He watched again and again. Each time, the ball arched into the sky. Each time it passed him by only to end up in the same pair of hands. Again the player was knocked in the side, causing his body to bend and crumple only the way an experienced player knows to do.

Breathe. Finally, he saw them. The feet and the line: their relationship to one another. He watched it three more ties to be absolutely certain. He pulled his head out of the black curtains. The hum had become thunderous. Legions of fans were expecting him to side with him. He placed one foot in front of the other until he reached the center of the field again. Breathe.

His mic clicked on. He stood tall, showing his confidence. "The ruling on the field stands. Touchdown Midwest." Cheers erupted. The noises pushed their way into every one of his pores until he could hold no more. He loved these little moments. He lived for them. The game began again and he felt his presence take up more space on the field. Finally, he took a breath and awaited the next big moment.

*** Daily Writing Practice ***