He finds his line and takes his place
He takes his ready stance
He crouches down like a sprinter getting ready to dart from the line
His strong arms reaching slightly
His hands opening and closing as if preparing themselves for the work
His long legs seem to go on for miles
His chiseled leg muscles are tight in anticipation of the work ahead
His face, serious and eyes fixed on the prize
The ball snaps as if in slow motion
He immediately darts from his line
His hair violently blowing in the gentle breeze
In only a second, certainly no more, he is upon the quarterback
The quarterback swerves left and swerves right
Trying to find some way out, but alas, he is no match
He matches his footsteps and his outstretched arm reaches
His eyes still fixed on the prize
His hand firmly grasps the flag and pulls it free
The quarterback is sacked
He is a rusher
And he is my son
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