The following is the true story of the only catch of my high school football career.

I had noticed, on the previous couple of plays, that the cornerback covering me was paying me essentially no mind. It was hard to blame him. I was a 14-year old stringbean with average speed, hardly the second coming of Jerry Rice. And besides, we were just ramming it into the line on every play, grinding out 2 to 3 yards at a time as the clock continued it’s inexorable descent down to triple zeros.

Dyke, our strapping Senior QB, was slowly ambling back to the huddle to call the next play, which was certain to be another “32”, the fullback merely following the guard before being swallowed by a mass of bodies.

I had different ideas. “Hey Dyke,” I screeched out in my scratchy teen voice.

“Yeah,” he sneered back nasally, with a tinge of disdain he tacked on when he spoke to people below him, such as freshmen.

“Dude, that cornerback isn’t even covering me. I mean, I’m wide open over there. We could easily score.”

Dyke looked at me blankly, unsure of how to handle my request. He had been given specific instructions from the sidelines and our coach, Mr. Bynum, was a military veteran who equated deviations from the game plan with high treason.

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