Bright sunlight shone through the grimy windows of the trailer. “God damnit!” shouted Billy Earl as he woke with a start and smashed his head against something hard. He blinked groggily, and realized he was staring at the bottom of a chair. Standing up, the world blurred in front of him. He cursed again loudly. He looked around at his tiny, cramped kitchen. The clock read 2 pm. Ramen noodles were still in a pot, unheated. Crushed cans of cheap beer littered the floor. A 40oz bottle of liquor was on the table under which he had passed out, almost completely empty.  After a halfhearted cleanup whilst whistling “Ramblin’ Man” by the Allman Brothers, Billy Earl headed to the back of the trailer for his morning routine.
The back of the trailer had been converted by Billy Earl himself into a sort of shrine to his high school years. His various yearbook photos were plastered on the walls, along with his class photo and his framed diploma. At the corner of the room, a brightly lit trophy stood encased in glass. It was engraved with the words “Alabama Central High School, Billy Earl McLellan, Running Back, All State 1984.” Billy Earl looked happily at the trophy for a moment, then turned to the projector. He turned it on, and a video that had been placed in the projector previously began to play on the opposite wall. Billy Earl sat heavily in a sunken red armchair and allowed himself to be immersed in high school football highlights. 
“Yeah, hit ‘em, Billy!” He yelled at the screen.  As the video continued to play, Billy Earl, fully engrossed in what was happening on the screen, became more and more agitated. “That’s a bullshit call, what I wouldn’t do to get my hands on that ref… That boy always did play dirty, I never liked him anyways… Ooh, hit him with the footwork, didn’t you Billy… Stupid colleges, ‘you have to maintain a grade point average of above a 1.5’, what a load of horse crap… Coulda gone pro straightaway if the damn NFL didn’t have those stupid rookie rules…”
After the hour-long video had finished, Billy Earl stood up, sighed loudly, and walked back into the kitchen. Having poured water over his solid block of Ramen from the night before and turned on the stove, he cracked open another beer, sat down to wait for the Ramen, and began, once again, to relive the best moment of his life.
It was a cold night in November, 1984. Bill Earl breathed in the cool air and looked up at the crowd, brightly cast in industrial fluorescent lighting. He spotted his four-year high school sweetheart in the stands, cheering and wearing a jersey with his name on the back. He turned back to the game; fourth quarter, his team down three but with the ball. Billy earl lined up behind the quarterback, ready for the play-action play where he would fake the handoff and then catch the ball up the field. Current Billy Earl knows the glory that awaits him on this play, the 40 yard touchdown that clinched the state title, but he has trained himself to relive the memory perfectly.
Jarring him from his hallucination, the phone rang loudly just as he was about to catch the ball. Billy clutched at it immediately and picked up. “Billy Earl McLellan, All-State running back, 1984. How may I be of service?” The voice at the other end of the line sounded exasperated. “Billy, will you stop picking up the damn phone like that, you sound like a right fool. Anyways, come to Dale’s in about an hour, we’re playin’ poker. Bye.”
An hour later, after Billy Earl had sufficiently tired himself out from the five minute walk through the trailer park, Billy arrived at Dale’s trailer. It was painted with palm trees and had a neon Budweiser sign attached to the top of it, and Billy didn’t think much of it. Nevertheless, he strode inside and gazed upon his three other overweight, alcoholic friends. “Man, I haven’t been this hungover since the party after I won the state championship!” said Billy Earl upon entering. “Billy, I was on that damn team too. You weren’t the only one who won the championship,” said Dale, an overweight man in a Hawaiian shirt. Billy Earl appeared to not have heard him, and continued to stand in the doorway, as if in a trance. “Man I could go on about that game for days. My sixty-four yard catch in the fourth quarter that secured the victory, or when I trucked that one scrawny kid so hard I musta concussed him for about a month, or when…”
“Billy!” Yelled Cletus, a permanently sunburned, balding man at the table. “It’s over! It already happened! You gonna sit down or what?” But Billy Earl remained in the same place, slightly swaying. The memory of the greatest moments of his life were too much for him. “Oh, Christ, this again,” said Dale. “Billy! Wake up! High school is over! You’re 38 years old, for cryin’ out loud! You will never be in high school again! Are you playin’ poker, or are you gonna go home and watch that stupid high school highlight reel for the millionth time?” For the first time, Billy Earl seemed to hear him. Enraged and unable to come to terms with reality, Billy Earl turned on his heel and left the trailer. “Good riddance,” said Cletus. 
Back at his trailer, Billy Earl, now visibly upset, walked into his high school shrine. Approaching his trophy, his prized possession, for which he would have sold his trailer and every other belonging to keep, he stroked its glass case gently and said “At least I have you.”