Lisa Schroeder - The Bridge from You to Me

“You play hard tomorrow night,” she says. “You think of Benny, and you win that game, just like he’d want you to.”

“You know there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for him,” I tell her, tears in my eyes.

“I know.”

“And we’re gonna win that game.”

“I know.”

It’s an away game in Lansford, about a twenty-minute drive, which means most of our fans will make the trip to watch. As annoying as it gets to have everyone talk football with me everywhere I go, the support we get on game nights is incredible. Once in a while, I wonder if I’ll miss that — knowing you have a whole town on your side.

In the locker room, Coach passes out the round stickers with Benny’s number and tells us to hold the helmet with the face guard against our chest and place it on the right side.

I know it’s all about showing that we love and support him, but the thing is, I don’t want to play with a sticker of Benny’s number. I want to play with Benny . And the stickers remind me that I will probably never play with him again. And that right there is enough to make me want to run away and never come back.

But of course, I don’t. I told Mrs. Lewis we’d win, and I have to somehow put all my feelings aside and go out there and play.

“I want you to remember something,” Coach says. “Football is about defending what’s ours. Let’s go out there and defend our territory, like we do every game. But tonight, and every night for the rest of this season, let’s defend our friend and teammate Mr. Benjamin Lewis. We will not let our guards down, for him. We will play with confidence, for him. We will play our best, for him. I believe!”

“I believe!” we yell.

“Now go out there and make him proud.”

It’s not that I don’t want this win. I do.

I always want the win. There is pure magic in that moment when you look back and see what you did, sometimes against all odds, to come out ahead. Day in and day out, we struggle: with homework, with test scores, with parents, with teach-ers, with girls, with friends — some days, it seems, with everything . And we are usually alone in those daily struggles.

But on the field, when we struggle, we do it together. There is no greater feeling than knowing you have a team that is behind you one hundred percent. All working toward the same thing. All playing with heart and grit and passion, to make it through the crap and to come out the other side successful.

I love this team. I love what it feels like to be part of this team. When I’m on the field playing, most of the time, whatever’s going on in my brain takes a backseat and the desire to win for my team takes over.

Tonight, I’m trying so hard, and yet, Benny’s absence is there, following me like a shadow. It’s worse than any defense coming my way. Nothing’s going right. I’m a step ahead or a step behind, and once, I even let the ball slip through my fingers.

“Shake it off,” Temple says to me when we huddle up in the third quarter. He slaps my helmet. “You can do this. We can do this. All we need is a first down. Focus on that right now.” He calls the play; we clap and break.

As the football spins toward me, I see an image of Benny that day in my yard, tossing the ball around. It was a time when possibilities seemed endless and things were just as they should be.

The defender comes out of nowhere. My sixth sense must not be working, and when he intercepts the ball, it’s another missed opportunity.

Another moment I can’t get back.

Another thing taken from me.

I leave the field, disappointment swallowing me whole. Right now, troubles seem endless and things are not as they should be.

The question, of course, is what am I going to do about it. I know I’ve got to find something to hold on to. When I look up into the stands, I take a deep breath.

Because maybe, just maybe, I’ve found it.