It was a season filled with only one finger. One that represented the struggle, bond and strength of twenty. Hands that were continuously pointed toward the sky. Reaching, reaching.
Our strength was often underestimated. We gripped the leather of the ball and ate the dirt, straining for each point. Not one team handed the win over on a silver platter, every drop of sweat was earned. The length of our arms doubled when we crossed the line. The whipping noise of the belts projected into the stands. Only one weed in a garden of perfect daisies and the opposing team took control.
There were always the moments of amazement. The hundred yard pass that is placed in one’s hand as if it is a golden gift. The cohesiveness of the team at that moment, a completed puzzle that started out as a million little pieces.
The feeling of achievement, stepping off the football field with a smile and our hopes fulfilled. Knowing we accomplished what we set out for and that flag football was our sport; where we skinned the bones of competitors and took home the gold.