Holding the Line

The midday glare hit my visor. I wasn't frozen anymore. My cleats dug into the synthetic grass blades, and I felt the spring in my knees. Just ahead stood another figure mounted on a display base, frozen mid-stride. I lowered my center of gravity, stretched my hands forward, and pressed my palm firmly against the white painted yard line beneath me. The turf was rough and warm. I planted my boots and held the formation.