FREE ESSAY ON DESCRIPTIVE ESSAY

DESCRIPTIVE ESSAY

The Separating White Line
I glance up at the scoreboard; the clock reads 2:15 left in the fourth quarter. My team
is down by 3 points; we have eighty-five yards to go, and have no time outs left. I yell
out the cadence and the center snaps the oblong ball into my hands. Taking a short
three-step drop I glance to my left. The only objects I see are two beefy defensive
linemen bearing down on me. Somehow I release the ball; just in time, as I do my body is
slammed to the freshly trimmed grass. Miraculously the ball finds it's way into number
88's hands, he stumbles out of bounds at the 24-yard line; 2:05 left and the clock is
stopped. 
I jog to our bench, my coach waiting on the sideline to discuss the most effective play
for the situation. Upon my arrival I realize the scowl usually on my raging coach's face
has disappeared; in its place is a huge grin. He pats me on the butt and tells me how
good the offense is looking; the many things he has instilled in his players appear to be
coming together for at least four quarters. Its about time, we have suffered through four
straight losses, and have barely put any points on the scoreboard all season. My coach
brushes the few hairs that have kept their pigment through the painful slump of losses.
He emphasizes how much time is left and the fact that we have no timeouts.
I rush back to the huddle, "Alright guys, coach wants a Z-out, X-slant, Nick you go out
to the left flat, we're gonna stretch the defense out and I'm gonna dump you the ball a
couple steps up field. After you catch the ball make sure to get out of bounds. Break!"
My offensive linemen charge the line of scrimmage like five stampeding bulls. I linger in
the backfield to ensure the alignment was understood and there would be no glitches
before the ball is snapped. Everything seems to be running smoothly, and I step under
center. The middle-linebacker calls out, "Strong right, motion, shift right!" I exhale a
strong sigh of relief, the captain of the defense has read our formation as either a deep
pass down the right side, or an out along the right sideline. The defense isn't expecting
what's coming. My tailback Nick Guilliot is foaming at the mouth, waiting for the ball to
meet with his fingertips so he can scamper up field and get out of bounds. Once again I
call out the cadence. The second repetitive "GO!" sets my lineman in motion; all five
mammoth men vault their bodies into their opposition. The ball is put into my grasp with
a swift and deliberate snap by the center as he springs off the line and puts the play in
motion. I roll to my left, spying Nick on the left flat, two steps out of the backfield.
All of a sudden, in the blink of an eye, the tremendous middle-linebacker slams his
shoulder pads into Nick's numbers from behind. I look up field and see nothing but green
grass. The route my receiver is running pulls the cornerback and safeties off the left
sideline, and the linebacker takes himself out of the play by hitting my tailback from
behind. I dash down the sideline; finally, the strong safety catches me from behind. The
jarring hit knocks me five yards out of bounds. I quickly bounce up off of the grass,
gazing up I realize that my short scramble just gained almost twenty-five yards, and only
six seconds have melted off the clock illuminating the scoreboard. 
There is roughly twenty seconds before I need to get the next play off. I hastily race
back to the sideline. This time my coach is waiting with open arms; he slaps my helmet
and says, "Hell of a run, I haven't seen you move like that all season. Can you do it
again?" I shrug my shoulders and my coach slaps my helmet again. He yells, "Get some
balls, Broussard, can you do that again?" I quickly nod my head, confirming I share his
faith in me. The grin returns to my coach's face and he explains a play he devised in his
head seconds ago that should gain a quick couple of yards. "This should