The Kick (draft)

With his eyes closed, Jake took a deep breath. He will end the game with his foot. As he opened his eyes he counted off the steps – three back, three to the left. He leaned forward, grabbed his facemask to adjust his helmet and let his arms fall. His eyes focused on the spot where the ball will be placed just seconds before his right foot swings over it.

He’d done this act 35 times last year, and 39 times the year before in his rookie season. All of them successful. But he’s not certain this time. His normally focused mind isn’t.

Just before he entered the stadium, he listened to a message from his wife – the woman he’s known since high school and dated all through college. She always left a message before every game to wish him good luck. It’s given him confidence, security. But that’s vanished.

“Jake,” she started, “good luck today. I know you’ll do great. But there’s … something I need to tell you. I … I won’t be at the game today.”

He knew something was off when she started with “Jake,” but just ignored it.

After a short pause, she continued: “I can’t believe I’m doing this on voice mail, but … but I won’t be home when you get home. I’m leaving. There’s no one else. It’s, it’s just I … can’t do this anymore. It’s something I just can’t explain. I, I gotta go.”

“Can’t do this anymore?” Jake said to himself as he listened to the message in his car. “What does she mean by ‘anymore?’ ”

He repeatedly tried to call her back, but her voice mail answered each time. He pleaded on the phone, hoping she’d listen to the messages and call back.

His teammates suspected something was wrong. They’d asked, “Jake. You cool?” or “Jake, what’s up, you don’t look so good,” or some variation of that. He shrugged them off saying, “Ya, just nerves I guess.”

Jake was never nervous. He was always smiling and joking before, and often times during, the games.

But he needed to focus this time. He couldn’t let any of his life’s drama matter now. His team needed him in this moment, even if his wife didn’t. He focused his eyes on his holder’s hands, imagined making the kick – just like every other kick. Snap, step and swing the foot. It was usually just that easy for Jake. Usually.

The referee blew his whistle and whipped his right arm around in a vertical circle to signal for the clock to start. Five seconds remained. Four. The snap. Three. The step. Two. The swing. One.

EDITOR'S NOTE: This is a draft copy of "The Kick"