The field is alive with the darting and dashing of players that are trying to fight for one small ball that could define or destroy a team’s reputation on the spot. The glaring sun amplifies the deep green grass that constantly gets trampled by the spiked lacrosse cleats sprinting back and forth crushing and tearing up the grass, letting it fly through the air; all that remains are bare patches of dirt. There is a blur of colors ducking under one defender and spinning past the other. Now it is one-on-one with the opponent and the torn, dirt-stained net. Alas, there is one more hurdle between him, his team and the championships: me. My breath halts and everything slows down. I see the opposition bearing down on me trying to be intimidating with every ounce of his body. Then the moment comes, His body twists, putting everything he has behind that shot. When he finally shoots and my heart stops, I see nothing through the black bars of my helmet. I don’t follow the ball, I can’t follow it, the speed of his shot is undeterred and I just react, no thought, no knowing, just a reaction, quick and fluid snatching the small ball straight out of the air.

by Brendan