SNEAK RIGHT!” Coach JJ yelled to me from our sideline. This play was a designed quarterback run to the right side.  My team, the Tampa Warthogs, broke the huddle and jogged  up to the line of scrimmage.
My team was the best team in the league, and we had never lost a game and we had never been scored upon. Today, we were wining twenty-one to zero in the third quarter, and we could tell that the Orlando Bumblebees were furious.
“DOWN… SET …HIKE!” I shouted and the ball rushed into my hands. The ball came from my center, Carson Leopold.  I dropped back and scanned the field for a hole big enough to run through. There was an hole on the right side. My lineman had blocked a hole big enough to drive a car through. Istepped forward, tucked the ball under right arm, and sprinted to the opening.
I made it to the first down marker, and just as I was about to step out of bounds, a player on the other team dove low and took my legs out from under me. Whistles blew and flags flew but the only thing I heard was the crack that came from my broken leg.
Pain rushed through my leg, and I couldn't even think because of how badly it hurt. Coach JJ rushed over to me with our teams trainers. As the trainers looked at my leg one of them confirmed my that my leg was broken. The next thing I knew, I was put on a stretcher and being rushed to an ambulance with the doors wide open and my dad waiting inside.
“We are taking you to the hospital Emmet. After you got hit, your tibia was cracked in half,” the doctor said anxiously. We sped down to the hospital. The drive was usually about thirty minutes, but we made it there in less than ten.
We arrived to the emergency room entrance, and our ambulance was received by men and women in matching Florida Hospital jumpsuits. One of them helped remove the stretcher and encouragingly whispered, “It’s going to be okay Emmet. Your injury is not too bad.” The man delivered me to my room and left me with my dad.
My dad, Danny Johnson, was about forty years old with sandy blonde hair and worry lines throughout his face. He always looked sad and anxious because of what had happened to my mother. Three years ago, she had been in a car accident when my dad was driving and he blamed himself for it. So he had total control over the house. He drove me to my school, Franklin Middle,  every day and picked me up at the end of the day. He worked as a manager at Bank of America.
Apparently he had already spoken that the doctor, and with a grave look on his face, he said, “ The doctor said, because of your leg, that you won't be able to play for another six to eight weeks. You will have to be on crutches, but until then, you can't play football.”
I was speechless. I had been playing football for eight years, and besides seeing a few kids sprain their ankle, I had never known of anyone being unable to play for this long. I suddenly felt angry. I was angry at the Orlando Bumblebees, and I was especially angry at the kid who had purposely cheap shotted me.
That night when I got home, I lay down in my bed and thought about my dumb broken leg and how I couldn't play.  I blamed it all on that kid. When I'm healthy, and ready to play, I knew that I was going to cheap shot him in the next game.
Next Saturday, we had our first game since I had been injured. I stood on the sideline, wearing crutches and my number five jersey. Coach JJ had said that I could help him with the play calls and to make suggestions to our back up quarterback Walter Walters.
Before I came to the Warthogs, Walter had played quarterback, but when I joined the team, I took his place. Now, Walter was usually our star receiver, but because of my injury, he was needed to lead our team at quarterback. As he dropped back into the pocket for the first time in two years, looking very nervous, he threw a horrible pass that ended up in our opponent‘s hands. The safety who made the interception scampered to the sideline and out of bounds to avoid getting tackled.
Walter walked back to the sidelines with his head hung low. I encouragingly said, “Hey, next time get your footing and make sure you are watching the receiver when he receives the ball.” Walter  just nodded and sat down onto the bench to get some water to drink.
After the interception, the Antarctica Penguins drove down the field and scored a touchdown by throwing a forty yard pass to their receiver.
Inside, I knew that I would have made that pass, and I knew Walter was a terrible quarterback, but I kept that to myself. I couldn't wait to get back on to that field.
The Antarctica Penguins ended up driving all the way up the field for a touchdown. Our offense walked on the field, and Walter looked more nervous than he had before. He called, “Hike,” and Carson snapped the ball into his hands. He stumbled back into the pocket, clutching the ball. I could tell that Walter was too scared to throw. He started running before even looking for a receiver. Walter managed to get two yards before being pushed out of bounds. On the next play, Walter did the same as before. This time he got hit hard and proceeded to fumble the ball. Walter was furious. This is how the rest of our season was until week eight. That was the week I came back.
When I came back, I changed my usual pregame routine. My usual pregame routine was to eat pancakes and bacon. Then I would sit in my room for an hour or so listening to music. While I was listening to music, I would visualize how the game would go and the decisions I would need to make. But today was different. As soon as I finished my pancakes and bacon, I drove down to the field with my dad to warmup.
We had two hours until game time, but I wanted to make sure that I would still be able to throw good. We started at ten yards, then fifteen yards, and my dad and I  kept moving back in five yard increments until we were throwing back and forth at fifty yards. We kept throwing until the rest of my team started to arrive.
When the whole team got here, we started to do team warm ups. We sat in a circle and stretched out. After our stretches, we walked through a couple of our plays. Every single pass I threw was perfect. It felt great to be back.
We stood on the sidelines for the national anthem, and then it was game time. We won the toss, so we elected to receive the ball first. When their kicker kicked off the ball, all of their fans yelled, “OOOH!”
He had booted the ball all the way through the back of the end zone. This means that we would begin the drive at our twenty five yard line. The first play we would run was a play action pass. I called for the ball and stomped my foot twice. Carson rushed the ball into my hands. I faked the run to our running back, Jemeel, and then rolled outside of the pocket. I saw Walter streaking across the field and I bombed the ball down to him. The throw was absolutely horrible. As it flew through the air, it had no spiral and it looked like a duck. When it landed, it was not in Walters hands but it was in the hands of the Orlando Bumblebee defender. I realized that this was the same defender that had cheap shotted me, and broke my leg.
I was furious because I remembered that I had promised to myself that I would cheap shot him back. He thought he had a wide open touchdown, but I came from behind and grabbed his face mask and flung him to the ground.
The strange thing was that I didn't feel any better after I did this, but instead I felt guilty. I was no better than he was. I had done something worse than he did. He had hurt me first, but I hadn't forgiven him like I should.
We won the game, but I didn't play good. After the game, I went up to the defender who broke my leg. I apologized for  grabbing his face mask, and he apologized for hitting me out when I was out of bounds.
I felt better after I apologized and when the season went on, I payed better and more respectfully. I also wasn't as arrogant and I didn't feel like I carried the entire team by myself  anymore.