The sun always felt different in Shalimar, Florida. Sticky, warm, and relentless - just like the drive in Freddy's chest. He was only five years old, a little boy with big pads and even bigger dreams. Every Saturday morning, his cleats would clack against the pavement as he ran to the car, that signature crinkle of a sour Skittles bag in his hand and a grape juice box already half-drained. That was his ritual. And I made sure to stop at the store every single game day, even if we were running late. That was his hype. His fire-starter.
Back then, he was just a chunky kid with wild curls sticking out from under his helmet, all heart and hustle. He didn't run the ball, but he made sure nobody else did either. Freddy took pride in the trenches - DL and OL, pushing bodies, protecting his cousin who carried the rock. "That's my blood," he used to say. "Nobody touches him."
His helmet would echo with the clangs of impact. His jersey smelled like sweat and hot Gatorade. The crowd would roar, but it was my voice he looked for - always mine. "Let's go, Fred!" I'd yell from the sidelines, my hands cupped like a megaphone, heart pounding as loud as the drums in the band section.
But it wasn't always pretty. Freddy had ODD and ADHD, and the field wasn't just a game - it was therapy. It was where he could release the weight on his shoulders without judgment. No stares. No labels. Just the green turf and the freedom to hit something and not get in trouble for it. And baby, he hit hard. You could hear the crack of his pads from across the field like thunder in a July storm.