Watch the Hips

I stare into your steel blue eyes, piercing with intent, just across the line from me.

“Watch the hips,” I think to myself. “The hips will tell the story; they cannot disguise where you’re headed. Show me where you’re going.” The thought drills itself into my brain with lazer-like intensity as I brush the salty sweat from my eyes.

But I already know the route. Fourth & goal from the two. No chance for a first down. Next touchdown wins. The surest hands on the field, put on full & open display against me for virtually the entire afternoon.

You’ve owned my ass in this friendly pickup game of two-touch football. But not this time, buddy. The ball’s coming to you. Red zone. It has to be a buttonhook right in front of me. I’m jumping it & taking it to the house. This time I get to be the hero.

It’s only fitting we bookend this beautiful fall afternoon in this manner. It’s the way we began it only a few hours earlier. It’s fate. Destiny.

It’s mine.

We were the two no one else knew. I was visiting, you had just entered your first year. We were standing off to the side when they asked if we wanted to join. Most of them were athletes on scholarship. We were by far the smallest, you at least half a head shorter than me..., & slight.

It was our second drive. No one had scored yet. Each team simply feeling out the other. We had fourth & forever, as it required three completions for gain to earn a new set of downs. We were deep on our own side of the field with two out of three incompletions, & we were going for it.

Post right all the way to the corner of the endzone. That was my route, thirty to forty yards downfield. You were back in coverage. The ball was thrown in our direction….

…or rather underthrown in our direction. I watched as you drew a bead on it, well in front of me. You would knock it down of course. Ball turned over on downs deep on our side of the field. Either that or you pick it & get the ball all the way back here with a simple touch of my two hands. Better than a punt. No return.

Watch the hips. They will tell the story.

You went straight up in the air as I moved underneath & beyond, unnoticed by you. No touch. Just snatching the pigskin you batted down & backing into the endzone before you even had time to land & turn around.

The hero! Holding the ball high in the air for my teammates as they celebrated, rushing in my direction. I’d earned my stripes, become known & accepted on the team as one who could deliver.

I didn’t notice how the look in your eyes changed that moment. I was focused on the hips.

They assigned me to cover you on defense. It was easy. No one knew you or what you could do. No one was going to throw the ball in your direction.

Until we were back on offense—once, twice, three times.

A trio of consecutive series they threw to me. Each time you picked it off, once cutting in front of me & taking it right out of my hands. I heard someone across the field remark with surprise that you could catch.

Your next series they decided to see what you could do. Three consecutive slants to the left sideline, three times the ball thrown behind you, three times turning your upper body around to catch it on your right hip without breaking stride.

And just like that we all knew.

I still had my moments. There were times you were assigned different coverage. For fifteen minutes or so you’d been off the field with a leg cramp & someone filled in for you. But when you were on me…,

It had been a long afternoon.

Smallest kid on the field. Barely eighteen.

And you owned my ass.

Not this time. This time your ass is mine. It’s going to be a buttonhook & I am going to pick-six it.

Focus on the hips. Bookends.

You break the huddle & I watch as you come up to the line across from me. I position myself just inside the endline, breathing deeply & deliberately, feeling the sweat dripping from the tips of my fingers. No way you are getting into the endzone in front of me.

I look into those steel blue eyes, filled with cold intent. I observe as you study me, looking over to the quarterback only as he comes under center, a grave expression on your face. Then, you turn back to me.

Watch the hips. They tell the story. And the story they tell is buttonhook all the way.

The quarterback scans the field as he calls out the signals, but all his attention is directed toward you. Every bit of body language betrays him.

The ball is snapped. The quarterback drops into the pocket. He’s looking nowhere else. You run the two-yard gap which lies between us right up alongside of me. You have to drive me back into the endzone if you’re going to score. I know this & I’m not biting. I see your head & shoulders turn in my direction, a light spray of salty wetness from your hair anointing the side of my face. I no longer need to see your hips. I’m locked in on the quarterback as he draws his arm over & behind his head, his eyes focused on the space directly in front of me.

I can already feel the leather in my hands, hear the cheers of my teammates.

He pumps…, but brings the ball back down, nearly losing it in the process. His eyes tell me he’s stunned, that this wasn’t supposed to happen. I have already jumped forward into the place that ball is supposed to be. I see him look up & beyond over my right shoulder. He cocks his arm & lofts the ball, calling out your name.

I turn just in time to see as you look over your left & I watch as that ball settles softly into your outstretched hands.

Post left.

I know without a doubt it was not what had been called in the huddle. It hadn’t even been an audible. It was a play designed by nothing more than a look of your eyes, a tilt of your head, a slant of your shoulders & a dash up the slope constituting the endzone. You barely even broke your stride to sell it to me. Still, you almost sold it too well for the sake of your quarterback whose heart I can see remains caught somewhere in his throat.

Game over. No bookends. Just that sinking feeling in my gut as I watch you jogging back, pointing to your team's leader with an expression proclaiming loud & clear, “You saw it, too.”

But he hadn’t. If he had I might have guessed. I might have checked you at the line, interrupting your route. You needed him to believe it long enough to sell it to me, just not so long as to have him let loose of the ball. A single moment later & that pigskin falls to the ground. We get a shot with a fresh set of downs. Two moments later & the ball is in my hands. Game over. Glory. My coveted bookends.

But he read the story just as you were writing it, finding the words as you furnished them & not a moment sooner. I was left a single word behind, one step.

It was all you needed.

Time to get cleaned up & head to supper. We laugh as we drape our arms over one another’s shoulder heading back up the hill toward the dorms & a nice hot shower. I’m your guest, staying with you & your roommate tonight. It will be good. You may have owned my ass today out on the field, but I still own yours in bowling.

Guess what we’re doing tomorrow.

Watch the hips. They’ll tell the story. And the story our hips are telling as we jaunt up the steps is that this has been a great afternoon & a whole lot of fun.

Still, I can’t wait to hear from you whether I’ve read this story correctly, even if a little slowly & a tad behind.

Did I have it right? Were you supposed to buttonhook?