My Helmet

A scratched, scuffed and sweaty helmet.  Even though everybody has one, mine was special.  I protected me like a mother bear to her cubs or an airbag to its passenger.  A helmet is the best way to see how a player plays the game that they love.  Some helmets are clean and never have a scratch, some helmets are old and seem like they weigh 20 pounds, and some are dirty and have the paint chipping off to where you don’t even recognize what team they are on.

My helmet had to go through every battle with me whether it was emotional or physical.  My helmet would need to face the abuse of tossing it to the ground or a fatal hit to a locker after a hard loss.  My helmet would support a hand and a face full of turf after a sharp “Brrrrr”, ringing from the coach's whistle letting the team know it was time to huddle up on the Arrowhead A and take a knee.  My helmet would collect blood and spit from my mouth after a stay hit connected and I needed to walk it off.  My helmet would watch and cheer as we sat on the sideline hoping the defense could get the turnover so we could get back to work.  My helmet gathered my tears at the end of the season as they would trickle down my cheek while watching the other team boast and joyfully chatter.

The day I knew I would never forget the glossy snow white color of the plastic shell that I loved so much, was the last day I was ever going to see it.  The gut wrenching feeling of having to let go of something that helped you become the person you are and want to be was burdensome.  I would miss the left lower chinstrap that would never buckle on the first try and the clean white athletic tape I had put on the face mask to differentiate mine from the others, also to remind me to hit hard as one of my football idols was Sean Taylor and he would do the same.  

I will never forget my Schutt F-7, the most unique helmet with unlimited stories.