Jason's Revenge

The call was Pro Right 46 Counter, but all Jason needed to know was the direction (left) and the snap count (2). The defense ran an even front, which meant no one lined up over center, so Jason and the middle linebacker had seen a lot of each other all game. 

“Green 93! Set, hut! Hut!”

Jason burst out of his stance toward #48. The linebacker got a good read on the play, but took a deep angle, meaning running back Matt Davis had a wide open field. And then Matt came into Jason’s view, making a nice move on the outside.

Jason followed, but with less urgency; there was little he could do now to influence the play. Either way, he’d need to get down the field to call the hud–

The ground leaped downward. The world was sideways. Grass was coming through his facemask. Jason’s ears were ringing. 

Jason’s first reaction was to find the punk’s number. He got up and whirled his head around: #33. Outside linebacker, maybe. Not even a starter. Jason hated cheap shots. Worse still were cheap shots by two-bit players when they’re just pissed that they’re down by 20. Jason seethed; the idiot had knocked his chinstrap loose, so he had to run to the sideline. He called in the backup, and whipped his helmet off. Furiously working to fix his hardware, Jason had only one goal for the rest of the game: hit that bastard as hard as humanly possible.

There were virtually no chances to exact his revenge. #33 wasn’t in the game the whole time, and when he was, he was nowhere near Jason’s blocking assignment. He wouldn’t stoop so low as to hit him after the play. That would make him just as much of a jerk as the other guy. No, it had to be legal, and it had to be jaw-dropping. 

As Matt raced down the sideline late in the 4th, with the safety trying in vain to catch him, an idea exploded into Jason’s mind. The tight end who lined up on the field goal unit across from #33 had just gone down with an ankle injury. Jason sprinted to the sidelines to get Coach to sub him in. Coach said ok.

Jason settled into his stance, frozen until the snap. #33 looked in at the ball, imperceptive to the daggers being stared at him. ‘Good,’ thought Jason, ‘He’ll never see it coming either.’

Suddenly, the defense rushed to block the kick. Jason stepped inside to get a hand on the inside rusher and prepared to launch himself at his target. Only his target just stood there lazily, as if he had better things to do than play football, or was daydreaming about the cheerleaders. 

‘That little punk!’

During the obligatory post-game “handshake” line, the sum total of Jason’s revenge was that he lowered his hand when #33 passed by and didn't say “good game”.

It was not satisfying in the least.