The Buses Rolled In
The buses rolled in just as the sun broke through the heavy Michigan sky, casting thin bands of light over the frosted practice field. Diesel engines growled to a stop, brakes hissing like tired beasts. Doors folded open, and from the first bus stepped Frazier—shoulder-broad, legs like spring-loaded pistons, and a grin stretched so wide across his face it seemed he might burst into a sprint at any moment.
He stood there grinning like he was about to run it in from the five-yard line—again.
Everybody on that field knew the look. It was the same crooked, unstoppable smirk he’d worn in last year’s district final, when the Tigers trailed by five with less than a minute to go. When the offensive line split just enough for him to punch through the gap and drag three defenders across the goal line like they were bags of leaves. That grin wasn’t just joy—it was certainty. The kind that made the opposing team check their chin straps twice.
Coach Reynolds stepped onto the gravel, clipboard under his arm, chewing the stub of a pencil. “Look alive, gentlemen. Game faces.” But nobody looked away from Frazier.
The crowd at this early Saturday scrimmage was thin but knowing. Old men in orange hunting jackets, townies who remembered when high school ball was the only thing that mattered; parents wrapped in blankets and holding steaming coffee; a couple of local reporters scribbling in pads. And a few college scouts hiding under the bleachers, pretending they weren’t watching every move Frazier made.
“Same grin,” muttered Davis, the senior linebacker from Jackson High, spitting into the dirt. “Kid thinks he’s Superman.”
“Superman dragged us into overtime last year,” his teammate replied. “Better pray he leaves the cape on the bus.”
But Frazier wasn’t thinking about capes. Or overtime. Or even the freezing wind licking the back of his neck. His eyes—sharp and clear as fresh ice—scanned the field, counting angles, reading weakness. The other team hadn’t even unpacked their bags, and he already knew where the cracks were.
“Frazier!” Coach barked. “Warm-up drills.”
“Yessir,” he grinned.
He bounced on his cleats, gliding into line, chest rising like a drawn bow. The snap of leather pads and the slap of helmets filled the air. Receivers cut crisp routes. Backs juked invisible defenders. But everyone—teammates and rivals alike—kept glancing at #22.
They knew he’d break one today. You could see it in his stance—like a coiled steel spring, itching to explode. Like a tailback who remembered every yard he’d ever lost, every hit that dropped him early, every defender who ever thought they could stop him. Today wasn’t a game. It was unfinished business.
“Run it through!” Coach shouted.
The whistle blew. Frazier exploded through the line, cutting left, planting hard, spinning past an invisible tackler. The crowd gasped, even for a drill.
There stood Frazier, grinning that grin—like he’d already run it in from the five-yard line.
Again.
And no one—not the boys from Jackson, not the wind, not the gods of November football—would bet against him.
Not today.
