He eases into his stance, placing his feet like a sumo wrestler and planting his hand in the turf in front of him. I set up off him like a sprinter, ass up, feet back, weight on my fingers. I feel them sinking in as the singing and dancing starts. Linebackers are screaming and showing blitz, taking two lightning-quick steps forward between me and the other D-linemen, only to stop dead at the line and slowly back off. The QB screams the cadence. He sounds like a 12-year-old hammered by puberty, and I smirk a little bit.

“Motion left!” Hugh yells. I’m left. The slot receiver jogs behind their line and lines up just outside me. I don’t like people outside me. That’s why I’m an End.

The snap goes just then, no time for thought. The tackle’s foot flashes forward and tries to reach around me, but I crash into his outside shoulder with all the force I can before he finishes his first step. He stumbles, but keeps his feet – I’m in a good position after the first quarter-second, but then the slot shoves me inside.