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Silently, the audience waited, rapt with the anticipation of a season teetering in the balance. For one moment, 70,000 pairs of eyes stared, borderline maniacally, on a spot in the ground. The 39-yard line. Giants leading 16-13. The weather conditions screamed like a leviathan, suggesting the sheer implausibility of what was about to take place. 57 yards? The wind. The rain. The mud. All seeming to offer a stern “Thou shalt not pass.” Still, there David Akers stood, a thunderball of intensity and defiance. As he hunched over the holder, his icy breath distributed itself upon the environs of a stoic Lincoln Financial Field. Sav Rocca looked up for one final look, an assurance that the diminutive place kicker was ready. But Akers' eyes said it all: “This is my time.”
Rocca turned to the line and waited for his time in the spotlight. His inexperience seemingly tangible, he rubbed his hands searching for that extra bit of grit with which to catch and place down the ball. Two words played over an over and over in his mind, like a soundtrack of ignominy: “Laces out! Laces out! Laces out!” The play clock ticked down, each second dropping in echo like an anvil in an airplane hanger. 5…4…3…one last look to the center.
BOOM! With the speed of a machine gun shot, Rocca looked to long snapper John Dorenbos. Dorenbos’ arms flailed violently and suddenly the key to the Eagles’ season was on its way to Rocca in the form of an oblong sphere made of pigskin. As it fired its way through the atmosphere, the bulbous coach’s heart dropped feverishly into the middle of his sizable mid-section. The oft-ridiculed starting quarterback’s eyes widened, along with the prospect of his inevitable redemption. The fans rose instantly to their feet, hoping for a sign, anything to suggest that this long, trying road of a season had not been played in vain.
The ball arrived speedily upon its intended target. As his inner synapses yelled, “Catch it,” Rocca found the ball in his miraculously steady hands. With the will of a seasoned veteran, he placed the point of the ball on the blood-, sweat- and tear-stained pseudo-grass of the field. The spin he placed on the ball, which covered perhaps three inches in real time, seemed as a top as he sought the placement that would produce the ideal trajectory. As the ball spun a mere centimeter past its intended endpoint, he felt a small rise in his esophagus.
The field goal kicker, hell, the keeper of a team’s destiny, sprinted toward the ball with purpose, ignoring the deafening cacaphony of the lines' herculean struggle. He calculated each step like a mathematician, seeking to plant his foot in the right place at the right time for the right force to bring about the right result. He stamped his foot into the ground, creating a fulcrum of immeasurable power and efficiency. His left, lower appendage did not simply kick the ball; it was the ball. As the object rocketed off his foot, it seemed as if dispersed out of a cannon. On his 33rd birthday, it seemed as if every moment in the Pro Bowl place kicker’s life was meant to build up to this one. He allowed himself a moment of indulgence. Flying through his mind, seemingly in one split second, was a ball through the uprights, the hugs and congratulations of his more massive teammates, perhaps a ride on the shoulders of his appreciative offensive line. And alas, the love of his fans, a group so elusive and hard to please, and yet so willing to take you in to their hearts should you allow them to be seen as…WINNERS.
However, a sound subtle as the splitting of a blade of grass, woke him from his conscious slumber. It was a change in the wind. The ball, perhaps blown off course by a simultaneous fan exhale, had begun to veer off-course. It headed toward the right upright on a kamikaze course with fate. As the ball flew through the foggy, winter sky, it was clear that every inch would count. Without detection, Rocca thought to himself: “That centimeter.” The laces, pointed slightly to the right, had created a hooking effect that could very well be the end of an entire season. For a moment, there was not a breath in the stadium. The home team shared a moment of distress with the visitors as it was clear that the play could go either way. Every fan in the crowd, even those trumped up by ceaseless losing and voluminous beer consumption, reached out for their fellow man, as if a moment of love and brotherhood could will the ball back on through the vertical yellow bars. The kicker? He knew. All those kicks. All those points skyward. They simply could not go unrewarded at this moment. The moment of most helplessness. There was simply no doubt. This kick was...GOOD. He released himself to the spirits and relied on a higher power to restore this moment of grace.
As a plunk resounded though the vacuum-like stadium, the kicker fell to his knees. The ball bounced helplessly in the end zone, having ricocheted unsuccessfully back into the field of play. The home team’s season was over. Both the fans and the kicker were sent on their way, reminded more than ever of the frailty of faith…
Or at least that's what I heard. I didn’t actually watch the game or anything. What do you think, I’m stupid or something? I found something better to do, in this case taking my dog to get pictures with Santa. He almost got into a scrap with this chocolate Lab. It totally ruled!!! Anyway, with the rest of this season, I suggest you do likewise: Find something better to do with your life. There are people who miss you. Unless you are a sado-masochist. In that case, watch the Eagles get torched by the Cowboys next week. It's your call. Either way, keep this in mind. The Eagles? They're done.
Image credit to flickr user bcmom.
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