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With the exception of Biden possibly losing to Trump on Tuesday, I thought I had gotten over losing. I haven't. Maybe that's good. Last night I experienced a moment of normalcy during these times of COVID under those Friday night lights in Texas. The Veterans Memorial Chargers and Mick were opening conference place against the Porter Cowboys, one of several cross-town rivals in Brownsville, at the city's coliseum, Sams Stadium. Dante and his girlfriend accompanied Olivia and me.

It was a defensive battle with Porter maintaining field position, but the Cowboys could only mount a field goal despite their dominance. Then halfway through the second quarter, the Veterans quarterback rolled left and launched a bomb that Mick snared streaking along the sidelines. He shook off the corner and went 80 yards for a touchdown. It was, believe it or not, one of the most thrilling moments of my life.

Both teams struggled in the second half, but with one minute left in the game, the Cowboys were on the Chargers' 22-yard-line facing fourth and ten after the middle-linebacker dropped an interception right in his hands. The Chargers blitzed and the Cowboy QB launched a desperation pass down the middle of the field. The receiver had it knocked away, but the defender was flagged for pass interference. Two plays later Porter scored to take a 10-7 leave.

Veterans, with 50 seconds remaining in the game, returned the kickoff to the 40 and with 15 seconds had the ball on their foes' 40. The coaches slotted Mick on the right side. He thinks of himself as a playmaker and his coaches appreciate his skills. They called his number. He ran a post, but it wasn't an aggressive pattern. The safety shadowed him from behind and blocked Mick from reaching the slightly overthrown ball. There was contact as the defender held his position, but it wasn't sufficient for a pass interference call. One more unsuccessful heave and the game came to an end.

Goddammit, we should have eked out a victory I lamented as I pounded my fist into the other palm of the other hand. I doubled-up on the Xanax, but I couldn't sleep. Mick is only a sophomore and it's a laudable achievement that he is playing a major role on the team, but in the most crucial situation he didn't meet the challenge.

"When the coaches designed a play especially for you, you have to get open by hook or by crook," I told him. "They were counting on you to rise to the occasion and you didn't. We may think of football as a game, but it isn't. It's black-and-white. It's all about winning and holding your helmets high in the air or slinking off the field as losers. You say your ankle was hurting from an earlier tackle. That is not an excuse. Everybody plays hurt.

"When you ran your post, you should have made a subtle feint to the outside and the cut back in order to establish inside position so you could have given the quarterback an angle, but since you didn't, once he threw the ball, you allowed the defender to slow you down rather than you running over him to snare the ball."

"But I was running the pattern they called."

"You're aren't a robot on the field. Your most important responsibility is shaking the defender. Within your general instructions, you can ab-lib, you can improvise, but you have to get your butt open. The coaches put their hopes and confidence in you and you failed them. I wouldn't be reprimanding you if I thought you had given 110% percent, but you didn't. Your effort was half-assed. You weren't focused and it didn't dawn on you the importance of this play."

It's like a newly found erection. The emotion runs through my veins. After coaching varsity soccer for a decade, I moved to another school and coached both freshmen and junior varsity teams. The school went to the state finals three times and won one during my tenure as an able assistant. I had one excellent team after another and my knowledge of the game grew exponentially. In terms of my players, come hell or high water, I was going to put the best eleven on the field with five or six competent replacements. If it were a league game, I wanted to win. If it were a non-conference fray, I experimented, winning or losing meaningless. Only a conference record counted in order to capture the league cup since there is no state playoffs for the underclassmen.

Keeping the best athletes on the field was not an easy proposition since Texas has the no pass/no play rule. An individual can have nineties in every class, but a 69 in one class and he is ineligible. I was constantly lobbying the teachers and I was generally successful, but this art of persuasion cost me more than a few six packs of beer and girl scout cookies. But the pressure from pressuring the teachers took its toll on me. In the majority of cases the players wouldn't even meet the minimum requirements of submitting a notebook. I would lose a whole weekend of relaxation preoccupying myself about whether or not the teacher was going to change the grade on Monday.

"Soccer is supposed to be your god," I would snap at them after practice. "This is supposed to be the supreme passion in your lives. This is supposed to be the reason you breathe, yet you can't do your part in the classroom to keep eligible. Do you think I experience a rush begging teachers for grades because you are too lazy to meet your responsibilities? But do you know the reason I do it? I want to win more than you guys want to win. You bow at the altar of soccer; I don't pray to that idol, but I have pride. There is going to come a day when I say enough of this shit."

The day came.

The grades were released. My leading scorer had failed his geometry class. We were vying for the district championship the following week against the team with whom we were tied for first. I went to his teacher with my plea. I couldn't believe my ears when she told me, "Buy me a $50 Red Lobster gift certificate and I'll change his grade."

What a fucking bitch I thought, but she extorted her $50. Her karma was a worse bitch because she was undoubtedly a person of bad intentions. Shortly thereafter, her mother died of cancer, her father died of cirrhosis of the liver and her husband was arrested on sexual molestation charges. I didn't shed a tear. I could only hope for her sake that the shrimp had been good.

Game day arrived and the players filed into the locker room. I kept tabs because there were stragglers who didn't arrive until the last minute. I would call their homes to make sure that they were on their way. I kept waiting for my leading scorer. I asked the players about him. They didn't know anything. I called his house. Nobody answered. I continued looking around me as we warmed up 15 minutes prior to the opening whistle. He never showed. I shook my head. This is it I told myself and at the end of the season--we did tie for the district championship--I submitted my resignation.

I have nothing but fond memories of those kids and days, but my enthusiasm has diminished markedly. I watch games when I'm at a bar and I check out ESPN on the internet to stay abreast of the latest news and results in order to retain my manhood when discussing sports with other fellows, but I don't lose sleep over the teams that once held the key to my happiness. I can't help but chuckle as I observe myself 24 hours later pissed over last night's outcome and Mick's failure to transcend the moment. But it's a good rush to feel passion.

But if Joe Biden drops the clinching touchdown in the end zone, I will forget Mick's missed opportunity and move on to his next game. Moving on to the next four years with Trump calling the signals will rate the worst setback of my life. I will spend many sleepless nights that no amount of Xanax will assure me a temporary respite from Trump's blindsides.