A senior game was supposed to bring emotions; it was practically invented so moms across the nation could satisfy their need to snap a photo of every event a teen attended in their adolescence. My mom definitely fit into that category of people, especially on that day in particular. Excitement and nerves went hand in hand whenever a football game was about to begin, that game included, but there was also the feeling of dread.

My parents stepped down on the small strip of pavement between the black, wiry fence surrounding the turf field and the particularly freezing metal bleachers. My dad sent me a small smile, gave a curt nod, and adjusted the baseball cap on his head. I returned with an overly animated wave, and shooed them away to stand in the line of teary eyed mothers and proud fathers, who waited for their son’s names to be announced. I turned to my friend, Caylee, and took a deep breath, then pulled out my phone to check the time. The procession would start any moment.

“My hands keep shaking,” I said, my paper cup filled up with cocoa was sloshing around in my unstable fingers.
“Well, it’s below forty, I’m practically numb,” Caylee replied.

I glared at her, while laughing, since we both knew I wasn’t shaking because of the dipping temperatures. Although she was right, the wind was completely merciless that day. I sipped tentatively at my hot chocolate, thankfully enjoying the small amount of warmth the styrofoam gave, and attempted to calm my reeling nerves.

“I really can’t believe my brother is graduating,” I shook my head, while disbelief continued to wash over me.
“He still seems like a freshman to me,” Caylee snorted.

“He acts even younger.”

I smiled to myself, as an announcer began talking over the speaker sitting in the press box at the top of the bleachers. He told us that the parents were to begin gathering at the entrance of the field, and the players would start filing towards them. As the boys crossed the stretch of pavement between the locker room and the turf, I spotted my brother, number fifty two. Caylee craned her neck to see them meet with the overjoyed mothers and fathers, the microphone crackling to life with a voice listing names.

“David, who is accompanied by his parents, Dan and Heather, has been with the team for three years.”

“Aw, look at your mom! She’s so happy,” Caylee noted, watching my family proudly march down the field with the other ecstatic ones.

“I hope she doesn’t start crying, for the sake of Dave,” I squinted, my eyes following my parents and brother.
I pulled out my mother’s camera, and began snapping shots of the three of them, not even looking at the memories I was capturing as I took them. A small part of me wished I was down there with them, but I knew my mom needed a photographer and I was happy to oblige.

Another minute or so and the parents flooded out of the gate back to the bleachers. I gave mine a thumbs up, and I saw my mom wipe tears from the corner of her eyes, as I rolled mine.

“Nice job out there!” I giggled, sarcastically.

“Yeah, yeah, it took everything your mom had not to trip on the field. And they were walking so fast I practically had to sprint to keep up!” My dad said, grinning at my mom, as she smacked his arm and rolled her eyes.

The game was about to begin, as the players lined up in their positions on the field.

“Let’s go Joe’s!” One our fellow fans, a crazy mother known for screaming the whole game, yelled out.

Then they were off, the ref had blown the whistle. The boys ran swiftly, all going for the ball. Bodies smashed into bodies, helmets cracked against helmets, and players fell to the field. Dave hadn’t started, which was peculiar, but I happily kept my eyes glued to the game.

Our team was down from the start, 7-0 within the first two minutes of the game. After they scored their touchdown, mothers galore were screaming for their sons to make a play that would leave them proud; except mine. My mother’s was the only voice missing from the mix of cheers, chants and chatter. I turned to her, tore my eyes from the field in curiosity, and saw her straining her neck to see over the tops of rowdy heads. My eyes followed her line of vision, attempting to share the view she watched so intently. Suddenly, I recognized all the loud had slipped into vast quietness. All of the commotion of before, the laughter and jeers, disappeared. Then two heads parted from my view, and there was nothing else besides the boy lying face up, back to turf, clutching his leg. Even from the top of the bleachers, I could make out the pain written across his face, and could decipher the wrinkled jersey. It read number fifty two. My brother was the one sprawled across the field, his eyes screwed shut, and digging his fingers into the turf. My mother flew down the metal steps, faster than I’d ever seen, as the whine of an ambulance coming to a stop pierced my ears.