The air feels cold and fresh as I breathe in. The wind chills my face as the sun warms my body. Blended reds, oranges, yellows and browns paint the landscape like a pallet of colors forever interwoven by a runaway paint brush. A perfect day. I could sit, relax and be at peace all day, but not today. Saturday, a day reserved for battle, like Sunday is for religion. Today a war will be fought.

The battle takes place on one hundred and twenty yards of perfect green grass. Marked by white lines and numbers, the field becomes a battleground.

An hour before the war begins, we dress in our armor. Cleats to dig trenches so we may give no ground. Pads and helmets to protect us against damaging blows from the opponents. Lastly, our shoulder pads ... to help carry the burden of shame if we lose, to provide a platform for pride if we win.

The game begins and, with each snap of the ball, terrific collisions

of green and white define the

success of each play.

The war-callused, old generals stand on the sidelines. Once soldiers themselves, they know what it will take to win.

Time passes and the battle unfolds. Bruises multiply, cuts bleed, and pain becomes impossible to ignore.

Both teams struggle to gain control. The objective being to force the enemy to their end zone and prove which team is more powerful.

The end nears. We have fought courageously, and our efforts have exceeded those of our enemies. We meet in the middle of the field to commend the opponents' efforts, and for them to congratulate us. We can walk with our heads held high, pride on our shoulders. l