She Can Run Out of the Stands Anytime

“Mom, get off the field!!!” That was me, shouting at my mother as I lay on the ground in agony, surrounded by my coaches and my father, my hands a bloody mess and my ankle feeling like it had been shattered into a thousand pieces. It was ok for anyone else to be on the field, but not my mom. Anyone but my mom. The sight of her running on the field while I was twisting in pain on the ground would have been the beginning of a nightmarish series of harassing any eighth grader would have done anything to prevent. In 1989, I was “the man” in my grade school, at least in my mind I was. Ready to graduate in May and start my high school life, I was receiving quite the attention as a burgeoning athlete, in particular on the football field. I was, in my opinion, ready to break loose and set the world on fire, with my faster than light speed and strength that could only be matched by Olympic athletes. Or even this guy. The team I played for kinda sorta sucked. There was...