“And that’s exactly what I mean by pushing boundaries,” he says, scooting us toward the lockers when a group of students pass. “You’ll not only be the first female sports reporter here, but also the first...” He visibly struggles to find a non-insulting term.
“...with a physical disability,” I supply, grimacing.
“You don’t have to play the sports to report on them,” he concludes, “you just need to report the facts. Stats, a few highlights from the past games, and predictions for the next one. I’d also bet that you’d bring a refreshing angle.”
The truth is that, even though sports don’t interest me much, there’s no way I’d say no to this offer. One, because Mr. Lee is actually going out on a limb to make a change, and however small it is, it’s something. Two, because I’m determined to prove myself this year. It may not be the way I’d wanted, but it’s better than nothing.
“Okay,” I say, feeling a little nervous, “I’m in. Just tell me where to start.”
He hands me a notebook with the Preston Prep Red Devil logo on the front and a very official-looking pen. “Tomorrow night. First football game of the season. Let’s kick things off right.”
I clutch the notebook in my hand and swallow. “Got it. Tomorrow night.”
And that’s how I end up, twenty-four hours later, standing by the fence that surrounds the field. It’s my first time watching a football game anywhere but in the stands, next to my parents. I glance back at them now, decked head-to-toe in Devil spirit wear, eyes laser-focused on my brother out on the field.
Truthfully, I feel a strange sense of relief not having to sit with them. Sometimes it’s almost like they’re afraid to be too enthusiastic about these things when I’m around. No fun allowed. It never bothered me much before, but I’d been on the meds, the last three years spent blissfully unaware of their overprotectiveness. Now, I can feel exactly how smothering it’s been. There’s life here. The roar of the crowd. The booming announcer’s voice. The crackling energy in the air. For once, I’m able to feel it all.
No. Not just feel it.
I’m able to be a part of it.
It’s only a few minutes into the first quarter. I’m still dubiously inspecting the settings on the camera Mr. Lee let me borrow when the crowd suddenly jumps to their feet. The cries of excitement draw my eyes back on the field. I spot Emory’s jersey number—quarterback, number 17—just in time to see him jerk his elbow back, sending a spiraling throw down the field. I fumble for a moment to position the camera, hoping to catch something good, and see the receiver through the viewfinder—number 32—glancing over his shoulder as he races toward the end zone. I press the shutter frantically when the ball comes to him. He leaps in the air, catching it effortlessly against his chest and landing perfectly behind the white line.
The stands erupt into deafening celebration.
The band kicks into gear, sending the cheerleaders into a flurry of dance. I cheer along with the crowd, albeit mainly because I’m almost positive I actually got a shot of the touchdown.
I’m crushing this.
Once the ref blows his whistle, Emory rushes over to his teammate and they move into a ridiculous and obviously over-choreographed victory dance that makes me honk an involuntary laugh. They bang their helmets together and do the ritual slapping of butts in celebration.
I get a picture of that, too.
The rest of the half continues in much the same way, and I might not be big into the sportsball, but even I’m impressed. Preston is absolutely wiping the floor with the other team. Any concerns that this year’s team isn’t up to last year’s standards are sure to be crushed. I know from my brief but frenzied afternoon interviewing students about their predictions that there’s been some worry about this. I guess when you win once, everyone wants it to happen again. On more than one occasion, I’ve overheard Emory lamenting the loss of a few integral graduating seniors and thinking it would be hard to fill their shoes. Clearly, these worries were unfounded.
When the buzzer finally blares, signaling halftime, I’m happy to put down my equipment and take a drag of the coffee I’d brought with me.
“Seriously, how many cups are you up to a day?” Sydney asks, bounding over from the cheerleaders. She’s got glitter on her face, and I swear her skirt is an inch shorter than