Tocsinagon

Titus could feel his stomach tighten as his heart began to thump.  He hadn’t taken the time to notice, but he was playing his first game in Camplay’s home stadium.  A nervous smile crept out from behind his lips.

The ball was put into play and the action whirled around him.  He felt like he was two steps behind everyone else; he looked like he was three.

Titus felt more like a spectator than a participant.  The ball was thrown to him and he juggled it instead of cleanly receiving the pass.  Before he could make a quick pass to a teammate, he was buried under two white shirts.  His turnover led to a quick score for the white squad.  Luke came over and helped him up to his feet.

“Do you want to make this team?” said Luke.

“What?”  Titus was stunned.  “Of course I do!”

“Well, you don’t look like it.  You look scared!”

The quick score allowed for substitutions by both squads.  Titus and Luke rotated out, while Tag and the other two came into the game.

“Nice playing,” said Tag sarcastically as Titus passed him.

Titus walked to the sideline as Grall gave an encouraging clap to the three of them.  Titus was beginning to doubt himself.  The pressure that had built up inside him had tightened his muscles.  His mind was cloudy.  His legs felt like iron.  His arms felt like they were two-by-fours tied to his body.  He was beginning to concede defeat.  Then his father’s words began to ring in his ears.

“You will fail if you don’t expel every ounce of energy onto that field.  If you don’t give it your best effort, you will regret it for the rest of your life.  Regret is worse than failure.”

The chains of failure were snaking around his legs.  He was paralyzed by his own expectations.  Titus was awakened from his thoughts by the clanging of the bell at the south end.  Tag was jogging back, laughing and slapping hands with other players.  The fog that clouded Titus’s mind began to clear room for the sunlight.  Tag and the others didn’t know or care who Titus’s father was.  Their only goal was making the team.  The intensity of their focus melted away the pressure that attempted to constrict them.  The strain was peripheral to their prize.