A Football Player’s ‘The Gridiron’ (Winter 09 Sports)

Sarkis Bedoyan
sarkis.bedoyan@yahoo.com

Entering the stadium I can already smell the fresh cut grass. The sweet aroma intoxicates my senses. It calls to my nose how the smell of nectar calls to a humming bird. Walking onto the field I can’t help but put my hand in the ground. This ground that I once called home. My hand sinks into the turf as we become one again.

From the corner of my eye I notice a lonely bench, old and rustic on the sidelines. Its color once red and vibrant now has faded a sunset orange. Rust has collected on its screws, as it eats away at the once invincible metal, much like a cancer does to even the healthiest of people. If only that bench could speak, what amazing stories it could tell, both of triumph and despair.

The grandstands surround the field, stacked high to the sky almost as if they were protecting it from invaders. The crowd in a craze like a swarm of a thousand bees hives buzzing in the background, watching with eagle eye precision, ready to explode at any moment. The stands are empty and still.

I continue to walk on the field and I see cleat marks on the ground. They remind me of a battle field that has been wrecked and ravaged throughout a war. Yet on a ground so riddled with destruction blades of hope still try to sprout up from the carnage. I look over at the goal post with their long arms pointing at the heavens.

It’s a hundred grueling yards through obstacles and mistakes to get to the goal you desperately want to reach. Much like in life. The field, one hundred yards long, fifty three yards wide, and a life changing experience forever.