Some people swore the house was haunted. To the ghosts, it seemed unlikely anyone believed. They bumped into the living without the slightest notice. Sometimes they made a sudden movement to remind each other they were still around. Mostly they bounced among the residents coloring happy memories or darkening deep regrets. Never had they sparked passion in the hearts of the living. The ghosts wished people believed.
Tommy woke slowly from an afternoon nap. He rubbed his eyes, stretched up his arms and locked his fingers together crunching his knuckles. A ghost bounced around the cracking fingers before disappearing. Tommy smiled at a sudden thought.
This time he would do it. Weighing only 98 pounds, more or less, his mother had told him he was too small to play football. “You’re better suited to chess,” she would say. But he wanted to grind his toe in the grass and scuff up his shoes until they were green. He yearned to slip the shoulder pads on, bury his head in the helmet, and chew on the mouthpiece. Today he would race down the field and catch the winning pass. This was going to be his year; he would not be too short, too skinny, too uncoordinated. He was playing football, no matter what.