Ever Wake Up Sometimes Wishing You Hadn't?

I don't mean this in the "life sucks" way, it's just that I have some dreams that are so intense and so powerful (some good, others scary), that when they are good, I find myself wishing I hadn't awakened, that I could just sleep and stay there a little longer, even if it isn't real.

The most frequent of these good dreams have to do with sports, oddly enough. In my awake, real-life world, I know I miss sports, competition, the field of battle, and the guys. Most of the time I deal with it fairly well, but sometimes, man, it literally hurts I miss it so bad. It isn't any one thing either, but it's a whole package of things, small ones for the most part...psyching yourself up before going onto the wrestling mat for a match, that deep breath and focus just before bearing down to strike out a tough hitter, or stepping it off, three steps straight back, three to the side, one last look at the goalposts and a nod to the holder to let him know you're ready for the snap just before kicking a field goal.

The dream I have had the most often since the end of my varsity sports days centers around football. I find myself getting off the bus and carrying my shoulder pads and helmet to the locker room outside the field. The only difference is, it's ME there, the me of now, knowing everything I know about life, myself, and most of all, how much I miss the game...only, no one else knows this. So I take it all in, slowly, just as I would if I really had it to do over again. Our school mascot was the Tigers, so, of course the press box played "Eye of the Tiger" before every game. I hear the first few chords of that famous song by Survivor, and my pulse quickens. The trainer helps me on with my pads and jersey, I walk around slapping shoulder pads with my teammates, telling them "Let's go boys!", then we walk out, captains (myself included) in the lead. Walking out through the gate, we slap hands with the crowd and students, the music rising, we work ourselves into a frenzy behind the paper banner built by the cheerleaders...and just as the last chorus of "Eye of the Tiger" hits, we burst through the paper to raucous cheers, yelling like wild men, sprinting to the sidelines, helmets lifted to the crowd in appreciation.

Then, dead silence. The team huddles on the sideline and we recite the Lord's Prayer, and ask for Him to watch over us, protect us from injury, and forgive us our sins. Then we spread out along the sideline, helmets in left hand behind the back, right hand over our hearts as the National Anthem plays, and it gives me chills, a lump in my throat, but it's different, deeper, more meaningful. This Chris knows about 9/11 and the aftermath, the valor of the soldiers who fight for the flag and our country, and that a quiet young man who is a teammate on the field with me this very night will die nine years later in the mountains of Afghanistan so football games like this one can continue take place. We win the toss and defer to the second half, meaning our team is kicking off. I was/am an All-Region and All-State Honorable Mention as a kicker and punter (also play(ed) wide receiver) so I pull on my helmet and lead the cheer, "Tigers! clap, clap Tigers! clap, clap yeeeaaaaahhhhh Tigers!!...and the kickoff team becomes a mob scene, then dashes onto the field, where we line up eleven strong.

As I step off my steps (seven back and seven to the side for kickoffs), I pause...breathe in the crisp autumn air, glance at the crowd, take a look at my teammates, all of us poised and ready for battle. For the next 60 minutes, all is right with the world and nothing else outside those sidelines matters...not my grandfather, my hero, strong, proud, in the stands cheering for me, who will be dead my sophomore year of college of a broken heart of his own from the death of my granny; not my stepdad, also in the stands, who was a wonderful male role model to me growing up, but who will finally have all he can stand of my biomom and leave her less than a year later to start a new family with a wife who loves him; and certainly not my own badly bruised heart, pounding in my chest, which sometimes feels 62 rather than 26.

Suddenly, reality snaps me back to consciousness in the form of the referee's whistle. I raise my arm, and then drop it to signal my teammates to begin the sprint downfield, and I kick the ball high, deep, hanging, and then we unleash hell. Grunts, sprinting bodies at kamikaze speeds hurtling downfield, the cracking of helmets and shoulder pads, and the crunch of a solid tackle as I hit the returner and save a touchdown. The dream isn't always exactly the same, sometimes we win, others we lose, but it always ends with me walking off the field, taking it all in, perfectly content...and then I wake up.

Although I have a pang of sadness because I realize it was a dream, I am thankful because God allowed me to have the experience at all, both in real life the first go-round and in my dreams now. It's things like this, these dreams, that lead me to believe there is more to life than this bag of bones and the mortal coil. Even though my playing days are done, I truly believe my heavenly father knows how much this experience(s) meant to me then and how much more it means to me now...and even if I only get to visit that place in my dreams now and only occasionally, I still get to go. What a wonderful gift that is...thanks Dad :).