Okay, here's my idea. You write about what you would most like to see happen tonight, but not in prediction form. Write as a sports column, as a fan watching the game, as Greg Marshall's internal monologue*, anything like that.
Oh, and "We get a win" doesn't count, because everyone knows that one. Here's mine...
[i]He knew the ball was coming to him. Hell, everyone in the stadium knew the ball was coming to him. The Calgary fans were on their feet, cheering and screaming, just trying to make it hard for him to hear the snap. They could try all they wanted - he knew that when the ball was snapped, he'd feel it, sense it, know it was his time.
As the seconds on the play clock ticked down, his muscles tensed. He glanced down to check his footing and realized that there was a trail of blood running down the middle of his once-white jersey, neatly separating two number "3"s. Whose blood? His? He didn't even know. He didn't feel injured. He didn't feel the bruises he knew he had from hurling himself at linemen, from plowing into the confused mass of bodies in short yardage, from the tackles - two or even three enemies - that dragged him down to the turf. He just felt an inner calm. Everything had gone as it was supposed to, and now, with the game on the line, it was his time.
Jamie had hit from all over the field - one from almost fifty. He had been possessed out there. Maas was calm, calm for Maas anyway, and had shredded the Calgary backfield. Ranek was playing hurt, and though he refused to show it on the field, his face was just a little too pale. Nonetheless, he had gotten some yards, kept the enemy honest. And those jokers on the other side of the ball... well, the defence had been good, very good. Receivers either blanket covered, or viciously hammered when they touched the ball. Reynolds had taken huge hits, once from Hitch and another from Belli, and left the game early. If it wasn't for Burris playing absolutely on fire, this game would have been in the bag back at the half. Game? Who was he kidding - it had been a war. Two teams, both desperate for a win, refusing to give an inch.
Then it was time. He felt it, like an electric jolt - the way the line suddenly erupted with the impact of defensive and offensive lines connecting, the sudden surge in the crowd as they yelled harder and crained for a better look and giving the impression that they were about to flood onto the field, the flash as the receivers to the outside took off in an effort to draw some pressure away. Away from him. He threw himself forward.
Maas turned, and suddenly the ball was in his hands, perfectly transitioned. Like poetry. He felt the rythm of his feet hitting the turf like every step could cause an earthquake. The line loomed in front of him. No opening. A smile flitted across his face - he didn't need one. He almost never did. Lowering his shoulders, he aimed directly at the point where two of his teammates were one-on-one with two red-clad warriors bent on keeping him out of the endzone. It was time to make it a three-on-two.
In a flash, it was over. He found himself looking down at the ground, and thought that he was injured because all he could see was red. Then he realized that he had made it into the endzone, where the red field paint told him that the game was over. Just like that, with no time left on the clock, he had changed a four-point deficeit into a two-point win, simply by moving the ball two yards. And then he was in the air, and on his feet, his teammates hugging him, slapping his helmet. Maas grabbed his facemask, and screamed over the din, "We did it, Rads! We did it!"
Okay, your turn.
*Did you know that Chuck Palahniuk (author of Fight Club) once wrote a book that included chapters from the perspective of the main character's tape worm? Seriously!