4th Down Boogie

Well folks, it all comes down to this. Fourth and goal from the eighteen-yard line, down by four with only three seconds on the clock, no time outs. The Tigers need a touchdown to win. Star quarterback Conner Daily has played brilliantly tonight, both through the air and on the ground. Let’s see what kind of magic the Heisman-favorite quarterback can come up with on this final play…

Tony leans in to hear the play call. He and the other players huddle around Conner, who is kneeling on the ground and looking up at them. Conner’s eyes are ablaze, and his hands stab the air with each syllable as he fights to be heard over the deafening roar of the crowd. He speaks with the confidence and intensity that has commanded the loyalty and devotion of Tony and his teammates all season.

“Trips right, double barrel, on two, on two! Ready, break!”

The huddle disperses as players scatter across the field to their starting positions. Tony lumbers up next to the other giant linemen, who are standing hip-to-hip in front of the football. The largest among them, Tony’s six-foot, five-inch frame looms over the shorter, rounder defensive lineman standing across from him. He can see the player is tired, his hands on his hips, chest heaving, sweat dribbling from his chinstrap. Tony is exhausted as well. The demands of moving his 320-pound body for almost three hours has sapped every bit of energy from his body. His arms are cut and bruised. His right ankle aches from a sprain earlier in the game. His temples throb from repeatedly banging heads with this man across from him. The suffering is familiar. For most of his young life, Tony has humbly played this role, suffering silently, anonymously, play after play, game after game.

The five colossal linemen look around at each other’s feet, ensuring proper positioning. Satisfied with his spot, Tony squats down until his thighs are parallel with the ground. He sticks out his right arm, splays his fingers, and lightly touches his hand to the turf. It’s a position he’s taken countless times. He’s careful not to shift too much weight onto his fingers, to only look straight ahead, and to keep his body pointed forward. All so as not to give any indication to the defensive player as to how he intends to move when the ball is snapped. Sweat stings his eyes and blurs his vision. He stays still, breathing deep, his barrel chest pushing against the constricting breastplate of his shoulder pads.

Conner walks up behind the center lineman. He swivels his head, surveying the position of the defensive players lined up across from him. Satisfied that he knows their plan of attack, he squats down and reaches his hands between the players legs in preparation for the snap.

“Down!” He screams, his voice straining against the pounding waves of crowd noise.

“Set!”

Tony visualizes his blocking assignment. At the snap, he’ll shoot is left foot back, then his right, throwing his powerful arms forward into the chest of the advancing player. It’s the most important block of the play, protecting Conner’s blind side just long enough for him to make the winning throw to a receiver in the endzone. The play, the game, the entire season, Conner’s legacy, it all rests on the shoulders of a young man whose name will remain unrecognized by the millions watching.

“Hut…”

Tony anticipates the snap. His brain shoots chemical signals down his spinal cord, branching out into numerous motor nerves running through his dense muscles, preparing his extremities for the contractions which will thrust his massive body into position in fractions of a second. Tony is silent, and still, ready to explode at the next sound of Conner’s voice.

Suddenly, Tony’s mind quiets. A calming sensation flows through his body, relaxing his tense muscles. The fans, the players, the anticipation, it all fades into the background. A clarity of thought grips Tony, tearing his mind from this game and thrusting it onto an awareness of himself, his role, his autonomy. Clear of the preoccupations of the game, Tony’s mind wraps around a truth, a way of being that he hadn’t acknowledged before, while mired in this brutal act of stewardship. In mere seconds, between Conner’s shrieking cadence, Tony has an epiphany, and a calling.

And so, Tony stands up.

The veil of anonymity shatters as his large torso sticks out amongst the squatting players.

Whistles pierce the commotion of the crowd. Referees from all directions sprint towards the players, waving their arms over their heads to signal a stoppage of play. The other players stand and look around, searching for the guilty party. Tony is absorbed back into the mass of bodies.

The head referee jogs to the side of the field and stands facing one side of the stadium. With a quick flick of his wrist, he turns on a switch at his waist to activate his microphone. He brings his arms in front of his body, arms bent, and rotates them around each other, signaling the infraction.

“False start, offense, number 52, five-yard penalty, repeat fourth down.”

…And that’s the first penalty of the game on number 52, Tony Morales. This young man has been an exceptional player all year, one of the least penalized linemen in the country, as a matter of fact...

“Dammit Tony!” Conners voice screeches. The players turn and begin walking back to form another huddle.

“Shake it off man. We got this.” Sammy, a fellow lineman, says to Tony, smacking him on his butt as he leaves to join the huddle.

Tony stands still.

“Tony! Get in the fuckin’ huddle!” Conner howls.

Tony stays put. He watches the numbers on the giant play clock at the end of the field tick down from 25 seconds. Each number tumbling, dissolving into another. It is mesmerizing, hypnotic. He wonders why he had never stopped to watch it before.

“Yo Tony!” Sammy calls out. “Tony!” The gentle giant jogs back to his side. “Yo Tony, you hurt bro?”

Tony stares ahead, motionless. After a moment, he turns and smiles at Sammy

“Nah, I feel great. Thanks for checking on me.”

Sammy looks at him, confusion and concern scrunching his face. “Um...okay, well you better get your ass back to the huddle!”

Tony nods and breaks from his frozen stance. He turns and jogs back towards the huddle with Sammy ahead of him. The other players in the huddle are all staring at them, hurriedly motioning for them to join the group. He stops and steps into the circle of teammates.

“Jesus, Tony, get your head in the fucking game! Okay, trips right, 84 dash, on–”

“I’m sorry Conner, Sammy, guys,” Tony turns to look at each of the men in the huddle. “I’ve gotta do something. It is bigger than us, than this game, than this season.”

“Tony! Shut the fu–”

Tony turns and walks away from the huddle. Ahead of him, eighty yards of open field lay empty, both haunting and inviting. Conner wails from behind him. “Tony! I’m going to fucking ki-”

Whistles once again cut through the crowd noise blanketing the field. The referees run in as before, and then the head referee addresses the crowd.

“Delay of game, offense, five-yard penalty, repeat fourth down.”

The roar of the crowd begins to waver, as confusion ripples across the sea of fans.

…And that’s another penalty on the offense. Wow, Tom, things have just quickly fallen apart after this team look poised to have a chance at winning the game. Now backed up to the 28-yard line, Conner Daily is screaming at his teammate, Tony Morales, who looks to be walking away from the huddle in a daze…

Out of the corner of his eye, Tony sees his coach point at him, screaming and flailing his arms in frustration. The offensive line coach yells for Tony’s backup to get in the game. The player starts running onto the field, towards him.

“Tony! I’m subbing you out! Tony! Tony?” When the player sees that Tony is not responding, he changes direction and runs towards the huddle.

“Tony! Tony! Get off the field!” The coaches and some players on the sideline are starting to yell. A trickle of boos emanates from the stands.

Tony continues his slow, plodding walk towards the center of the field. He stops at the 50-yard line. Methodically, he unsnaps his chin strap and pulls his helmet off. His short, sweaty hair is matted down atop his head in the shape of the helmet lining. A red mark lingers on his forehead. He is no longer a faceless number.

Amid the quieting crowd, Tony hears the jingle jangle of a whistle bouncing as a referee approaches.

“Number 52, are you okay son?” The man has deep brown skin, a thin mustache, and soft eyes that betray his harsh, angular facial features.

“My name’s Tony, and yes, sir, I’m okay. Everything is going to be fine.”

The man stares back at him, and purses his lips, then relaxes them, then purses them again, as he seems to be searching for what to say.

“Well, son, you need to get off the field. We’re gonna keep giving your team delay of game penalties if you don’t. Or we may just kick you out of the game.”

Tony nods, maintaining eye contact. “I appreciate the information, sir. But I’ll be staying right here.”

The referee trots away and joins his fellow referees in a mini huddle. Tony watches the animated conversation, with the men and one woman motioning and looking at Tony. He suspects that they don’t know what to do about him. Nobody in the stadium, or the millions watching on TV, knows what to make of him. Only Tony is certain. He hopes his family watching isn’t too concerned.

In all my years of broadcasting, I have never seen anything like this. A player just abandoning his team and standing in the middle of the field. Tom, I sure don’t know what to make of this…

Tony reaches under his jersey and unbuckles the straps securing his shoulder pads. He breaths in deep as his lungs are free to expand to their full potential. Awkwardly, he pulls his arms into the jersey, and then hoists his shoulder pads off his body and drops them to the ground. A yellowed, white undershirt clings to his sweaty torso. Reaching his long arms upwards, he cocks his head back to look up at the stadium roof. He imagines the boos ricocheting off the ceiling, careening through the rafters.

The whistles scream once again. The head referee stands and delivers the verdict.

“Number 52 has been disqualified from the remainder of the game.” He makes a motion with a fist with his thumb stuck out, pointing over his shoulder.

Tony stands still.

His stoic pose reaches skyward. Solid and inert, like a Greek statue, he awaits his que. As if to encourage it, he begins tapping his cleated left foot and slightly twisting his body.

The music starts.

An electric bass booms from the stadium speakers. Then the wails of a synthesizer, the beating of a drum kit, and overlapping guitar sounds initiate a disco anthem. The infectious tune envelops the stadium, dampening the confused boos from the audience. Tony begins shaking his hips and shifting his shoulders, causing his up-stretched arms to move up and down. The beat of the song changes, and Tony acts accordingly. He spins his large body around on his left cleated foot. Facing the opposite direction, he plants his feet, brings his arms in towards his sides, and begins thrusting his hips forward.

What is going on here, Tom? The stadium speakers have started playing…disco music? And Tony Morales has taken off his helmet and shoulder pads and is now dancing on the fifty-yard line! Look at his coach, he’s just dumbstruck! I agree with you, coach. I…I’m speechless…

Tony begins clapping his hands to the beat as he dips and shimmies his shoulders, leaning towards one side, then the other, sliding his trailing foot behind him. His large body flows gracefully between moves. A look of pure joy beams from his face.

A smattering of claps from the crowd steadily turns into a thunderous echo of the musical beat, careening around the stadium. Tony starts spinning an invisible lasso over his head as he saunters around in a circle.

The song ends and leads right into another disco hit from a lost, joyous era. Tony glances around the field. Some players are starting to dance, but many are standing still and looking at him, angry, confused.

A lone player trots out from the opposing sideline, tearing off his helmet and his shoulder pads as he nears Tony. The player, unbeknownst to Tony, is a perennial backup, a practice player punching bag, who has never seen playing time on the field. The player slows and stops next to Tony, who looks over and gives him a knowing, smiling nod. The player nods back, and then starts jumping up and down, pumping his fists, before shimmying down the field.

Tony’s coach stomps out towards him. His face is beet red, a large vein protruding from his forehead. Tony can read the vicious words on his lips, his mouth sputtering and foaming. At just a few feet away, the coach lunges at Tony, who sidesteps him without breaking from his dance. Other coaches run up and grab a hold of the coach. It takes three of them to drag the flailing man back towards the sideline.

A trickle of players from both sidelines start bounding out towards Tony and his dancing partner. They, too, shed their armor of anonymity as they join them. Barely audible whistles sound as referees try desperately to regain control of the game.

Looking out over the audience, Tony sees fans streaming towards the exits. Those that are staying are dancing and swaying. The PA announcer orders the players off the field. One referee breaks from the group and runs over to join in the dancing. A few fans start jumping down from the stands and streaking onto the field. Soon, the dam breaks and masses of fans stream onto the field. Incredibly, the music continues blaring over the speakers.

All around Tony, a mob of people jump and frolic and swing each other around. He laughs until tears stream from his eyes. The scene is absurd, and beautiful.

Tony doesn’t know who in the sound booth is helping him, but he knows that soon the music will end. Security will inevitably order it stopped or cut the power to the audio system. Police will begin threatening people with arrest if they don’t vacate the field. This mass moment of life, of celebration, of breaking free from anonymity, from expectations, from the stiff traditions and rituals of the sport, it must end. How dare he challenge the norms? How dare he identify as an individual, who is putting his health and sanity at stake for the pride and entertainment of others? It will end, but Tony knows this moment will live on, in endlessly circulating clips online.

In this moment, Tony is human, alive, joyous, unique, and known.