Thankfully, receivers are lousy blockers, and the tackle stepped away, towards the sideline. I see the QB fake the tailback dive handoff and roll my way.

“Boot left!” I roar around my mouthguard, smashing my forearm down on the nuisance’s hands gripping my jersey. His face rams into my shoulder pads as he loses balance. I slide off him. He bites turf. Lousy footwork on his part.

The QB is heading towards the first-down marker. On my sideline. I’ll beat him there, but there’s the related issue to consider of two hundred seventy pounds of hot meat with a head of steam moving in front of him… skinny doesn’t mean weak, but brick walls are tough enough without momentum.

Time slows as the impact approaches. Two options: around or through. Around will take too long. I put my head down and dive at the QB, ignoring the fact that an angry bull is between us, lowering his horns.

I come to four seconds later, my linebacker lifting me by the jersey, screaming into my face.

“You got’m, boy! You got’m!”