Step behind: Part 1

“Lets go,” Coach Brian yells. “Nice job out there.”

His face glows under the florescent lights illuminating the field. It is not quite dark yet. The sky continues to change from a brilliant collage of purples, pinks and reds to deep blue as the world beyond the field darkens.

“Vic.” Brian points my attention to the field. The ref is standing on the 44-yard line, feet together, waiting for me to throw him the game ball.

“Here.” I use all my might to toss it to him and pull my hands back into my sleeves as I watch my team come out of the huddle. Part of me wishes I was out there with them: the Chelsea Devils Pop Warner A-team, national champions in 2000, a team I was supposed to be on. Now, a year later, I am here on the sideline of our playoff game and things are not going so well for us. I look at the down markers. Third and five.

When I first got injured, holding the down markers was my job. With my left arm still in a sling, I would hold one end of the ten-yard chain, then graduated to the ball marker once it started to heal. Now, I am in charge of the game ball while the team is on defense. I've had it a lot this game.

“Let's go Devils!” I hear the crowd cheer. Carlos, the fullback, makes the first down. For the week or so that I played this year, they had me running the ball. I tug at my jersey, attempting to keep in more heat around my thighs. Number 42. A fullback's number. The number Coach Mike wore in high school. I need to be worthy of it, he told me when they gave me the position.

Be worthy.

It's my third year playing for the Devils, though I only actually played on C-team. Little boys, just hitting double-digits, packaged like miniature men. I was offensive tackle. Hit the player in front of you. That's the assignment. On the line. Protect the ball. Hit him.

Tweet!! The whistle blows, closing the half. I glance up at the scoreboard. 7-0. Them.

The team brings it in as I make my way to the ref. He tosses me the ball. I clasp onto it with both hands, cradling it to my body, right hand over left, as if receiving a handoff. “Hold onto it or you'll lose it.” Brian's voice echos in my head as I see his hand come down on the ball of each player. “Even standing off to the side, you hold the ball like your life depends on it." His face is red from the strain in his voice. "Keep a strong grip and protect it.”

The role comes naturally. Protecting. It is the first Thursday of the month which means my aunt will have visitation Saturday. It will be another normal first weekend of the month; wait in the shadows while Auntie Hannah goes to pick Leanna up, go out to eat, possibly go to the movies, eat, buy snacks on the way home, eat, and watch Bill Cosby, Coyote Ugly, and Big Mama's house while finishing a carton of ice cream each. Food intake does not matter for those two days, or at least it didn't before Jane began weighing her when she got home on Sunday. I pull the ball closer. Just two more days.

“Alright boys,” Brian yells getting the teams attention. “And ladies. This is what it comes down to.” His voice is strong. Deep. A working man with a worn face and calloused hands. I look around at the sea of 13-year old faces. I know none of them from anything but the context of football. I am the only person in my grade. Twelve years old in a sea of young men and only one other thirteen year old girl in a men's locker room. Bundled in my Chelsea Devil's jacket and loose fitting jeans, my long hair is all that gives away the fact that I am not supposed to be here.

In my pads, there is no difference between me and them. Not on the surface. My tied up hair, flattened female jockstrap, and c-cup that I tie down with sports bras and ace bandages are hidden beneath the same shoulder pads and helmet that they wear. I can even hide how my shoulder bones protrude now that I have lost enough weight to play on the team. Being two to three inches taller with an extra fifteen pounds on my chest, I can not make the male twelve year old's standard of 125 pounds. I have enough trouble meeting the 145 cut off for the A-team while staying strong enough to compete.

I always wonder if I would be different if I could take the weight from my chest and transplant it into the muscles in my arms. Strength is a skewed concept, portrayed as controlled and constant. In a world where consistency and safety are no guarantee; where the beatings can begin at any time; where every moment someone is gone you wonder if you will ever see them alive; where home is just as terrifying as the idea of not having a place to rest your head at night, strength is a process that has no logic, just a foundation to build off of.

My obsession with monitoring my food intake has solidified itself. Some would call that self-control, a means to a goal that I am working to achieve. But instead, I am a twelve year old with an injured arm, no chance of keeping up and an emptiness in more than her stomach who will never play football again.

“Lets go!” Brian is done talking and the team runs past me on their way out to the field. I cradle the ball in my right arm as I follow behind them, wondering briefly if this is the end of my time as a Chelsea Devil football player.

Two more days. My thoughts shift back. I need to be strong.