Maverick

The blindingly bright stadium lights drew sweat against my forehead, and soaked the white midriff I wore underneath my LSU jersey. It became one of the things I became accustomed to while living and playing football in Louisiana.

The heat.

The murmurs of my out-of-state teammates always made me laugh. Nothing compared to the humidity of the southern states—maybe Hell, but that ranked the closest.

Our game against Vanderbilt left us in a win that erupted our bleachers into an array of flaming purple and gold celebration. All my bad energy I’d carried around for the past two days sank away beneath the 100 yards that our cleats smashed into for a grueling two and a half hours.

Playing cornerback gave me plenty of running time, along with the ability to release my anger onto the other team with bone shattering tackles and gut wrenching blocks. It drowned out the images and frustration that lingered in the back halls of my mind. The ones I tried so hard to keep away—the staunch smell of al