Editor’s Note: The following post is something a bit different than what our readers are used to. Please consider it as purely entertainment and a work of sports-related fiction.
There laid the Dallas Cowboys’ starting quarterback, Tony Romo, motionless, on the turf. His armor pierced. His flesh inflamed. His face grimaced.
Our bodies have the ability to steal time. There’s no software on the planet to stop the minutes in our lives. Time dictates how we look, how we feel, how we live.
We combat the aging process with medicine, exercise, good thoughts, and a healthy diet. But life goes on. Nature takes what it wants, regardless of the lies we spell out in our heads.
Time wins the coin toss every time.
Our guy was down. All we could do was wait. All we could do was pray for a rewind.
The Dallas Cowboys warped into a time machine. They flew back to yesterday. They returned to turmoil.
The world spun sideways, then stopped. Time aimed for slow, and simmered the moment into hours. There we stood. Breathing in toxic melodies.
Between our lips, we whispered: that’s our leader; that’s our past, present, and future wrapped into one; that’s our quarterback.
Time has aged Romo. The battles on the field do not compare to the spars he had with time. The quarterback has marched on. As his body fights off the extra hours, the 34-year old gunslinger rises again, and again, and again, with a shot of youth, ready to battle.
Romo fights back like a child playing touch football in the backyard. There he is young again. It’s there that time can’t whisper reminders of its address.
This is where the quarterback escapes time; it’s where he vacations away damaged tissue and fibers. This is where the fabric between the body and mind is rebuilt.
The backyard is a sacred place where time is the audience. It is not a participant. It cannot change its permissions.
Invited members arrive by bicycle. The players tune up, divide into two groups, and kick the ball far away. A play is generated. A receiver memorizes the quarterback’s article, and plants his foot, ready for the snap.
Set. Hut. Hike.
Romo, now aging backwards, releases the ball into the air. The wind carries it until it lands safely into the receiver’s hands for a score. The quarterback is born again. He is free from pain. His mind commands his body once again.
The backyard has no clocks installed, but standing tall in the grass are light posts. They are dimming. The young quarterback must hurry.
Set! Hut! Hike!
The young Romo runs out of the pocket. He must score to win. A younger defender bounces off him, and in for a score goes Romo.
The lights shut down. The members disperse, and glide away on their bicycles. While Romo rides his bike, he glances over his shoulder to look at the backyard. It is dark and lifeless. But Romo knows that changes.
He knows the backyard will be there tomorrow.
But, right now, he understands that he is not riding his bicycle home. His brain is dialing a phone number — it is calling for its body.
Back at the stadium, Romo is helped to his feet, and walks off the field. His armor is readjusted. His body and mind go into a great war. The body asks for retirement. The mind pleads for extra seconds.
Romo looks at the field. He pulls down several shades until he finds the colors he likes. The field turns into the backyard. Our guy walks back onto the grass.
Time stands up from the audience, and points at the clock.
Romo knows the bandage is falling off. He knows time will win. He knows the backyard can’t last forever. So he hurries to the huddle.
Set! Hut! Hike!
Time will have to wait.
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