Nose pressed against the cool glass I peer outside at the expanse of green grass littered with gold, orange and red leaves. I see him trot out to the middle of the football field. E. Smith is in big white letters on the back of the navy and silver jersey. My E. Smith is only 3 ½ feet tall, 50 pounds, but he is bigger than life on this backyard field. He’s grown a lot over the two Christmases since he received the remainder of his football garb. The gray polyester pants gather just above the knee and leave a good 6 inches of knobby knees and slim calf muscles visible above the white athletic socks. I know his toes are curled up inside the navy and white high-top sneakers, but he insists on wearing them because the high tops most closely resemble what the real players wear when he surveys his closet for tennis shoe choices. His gray and black Carolina Panthers helmet is scraped from many Sunday afternoons spent just this way. The chin strap still fits properly, but he occasionally allows it to slip up to cover his mouth to imitate his view of a mouth guard. In the crook of his right arm is a kid-size yellow and red football. He holds it snug against his body and protects it with his arm as he jogs to the middle of the field to begin play.
He stops for a moment and ambles around in a circle. I can see his lips moving and I can imagine the instructions-“I’ll go long. Pass the ball when I hit the 30 yard line and I’ll go in for the touchdown.” The huddle completed he places the ball on the ground. In his 3 point stance with hand on the ball he is facing my window, but he has eyes only for the defensive linemen that he imagines snorting and growling across from him. He stares at them with serious, calm eyes. Lips call numbers that I cannot discern and the ball is in play. At the snap he has simply picked the ball up himself and back-pedaled 4 or 5 steps to allow his own line to protect him while he surveys the field for receivers. Ah–an open receiver down field. He tosses the ball 15 feet in the air and just forward enough that he can catch it in full stride as he runs down the field. With head back and teeth gritted he turns on the speed as he outstrips would-be tacklers on this quest for the goal. He makes it into the end-zone bordered by the Pine on one side and the Oak on the other. He smiles and throws his arms up–TOUCHDOWN! Leaping wildly he turns his back to me and heads back to the center of the field.
His long run has earned him a moment of rest and he collapses in the middle of the green grass. He lies there on his back looking up at the Wedgewood-blue fall sky with scattered sheets of white clouds. The Oaks and Poplars that surround his playing field still hold the dry fall leaves. I can see the wind shaking the limbs and I imagine that he hears the rustle of applause that they offer him– congratulations for his great attitude and winning play. I applaud him, too, from behind my window.
He rolls up off of the soft grass and trots to the end zone to retrieve the ball. The next skirmish from the line of scrimmage is already taking form in his head. He accepts the lonesome job of carrying his team to victory with joy and he runs his best toward the goal line every time without exception.