Today's word is umbra.
We sat dejected in the umbra of the bleachers, sucking down warm water while hiding the best we could from an oppressive sun. The stench from our makeshift toilet on one end of the bleachers, in a corner boxed in with half rotted sheets o plyboard, wafted above into the visitor stands and down to our team.
Coach paced in front of us, shouting out commands for the second half as if we weren't already down 22 points. The game was over, but he would never give up.
"They're over there in their air conditioned locker room, sipping ice water," he spat. Maybe he was more upset at our conditions than he was the score. It was always hard to tell about Coach. His intensity, some said "carried over from the war," had a way of blurring the lines.
His never give up attitude, did have a way of infecting the team though. Even in these tough times, you could see it in the eyes of the players. A slight gleam of hope of a win that was already out of reach, whether any of us knew it or not.
I knew it though. We should pack it in now. Jump on the bus, put the windows down and enjoy all the breeze that 55 miles per hour down the road home could produce. That would at east take us closer to a real toilet. That would be enough for me.
That was not to be however. There was zeal in the coach and it was pouring into the players. Even me. I could feel it pulsing through my veins, coursing through my body.
We would take the field, full of zeal, and we would receive the rest of our beating. We would not give up though. Shoes laced tight, helmets strapped on, we take the field.
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