Share This Article
[wp_social_sharing social_options='facebook,twitter,googleplus,linkedin,pinterest' facebook_text='Share on Facebook' twitter_text='Share on Twitter' googleplus_text='Share on Google+' linkedin_text='Share on Linkedin' pinterest_text='Share on Pinterest' icon_order='f,t,g,l,p' show_icons='1' before_button_text='' social_image='']
I thought for a second he’d been shot and I started scanning the cat walk and top rows for a sniper or something to explain that wound.
Turns out it was the floor burn to end all floor burns.
“If you hit the floor a certain way,” Noreen said, “that’s what happens.”
Good Lord. That should never happen. Noreen hustled to the bench, where a new jersey was waiting, and slipped the bloodied one off over his head. There was a sound, perhaps the din of fainting in the aisles, but certainly appreciation for more than just taking a charge.
“I guess it was worth it,” he said with a debonaire smile.
He slipped on a No. 41 jersey and played a few minutes, but that started to show blood, too. In time, his No. 34 was cleaned off and returned to his torso, but the memory remains