Only the ball wasn't there as the defender anticipated. I made another sharp cut and headed toward the end zone's pylon on our side of the field. I looked out and saw there was no one between me and the goal line. I crossed the twenty-yard line before I looked back. The ball was on its way and a little high. I kicked in afterburners I never knew I had, stretched my arms to a length I never knew they would go. I told myself that this was the moment. Time stood still as my feet churned down the field. My pants felt like they were full of lead. Sweat poured down my back and my legs felt like rubber. The ball was dropping rapidly. It was going to be out of my reach. Then suddenly, instinctively, I leaped with all my strength. The ball struck the fingertips of my left hand. It threatened to careen out of my reach, but I swung my right arm in an arch and snatched the ball out of the air with my right hand. The ball and I went crashing to the ground. My first thought was to tell myself that under no circumstances was I to drop the ball. Then another nightmare surged through me like a poisoned arrow. Where was I on the field? I may have made the catch, but did I make it to the end zone. I looked toward the sideline and couldn't see because something was in my view. I looked up and saw an official standing beside me. He was looking up field, his whistle in his mouth. Both arms were raised straight above his head. A few seconds later I was pounced upon by five tons of teammates.