Catch
Football. 500 words, 2 minute read. With Claude Sonnet and Midjourney.
Time had always been Terrell Jenkins' enemy. Not enough of it to convince scouts he belonged, to prove analysts wrong about being "undersized," to say goodbye to his father.
But for these six seconds, time would bend to his will.
The stadium hummed with eighty thousand suspended breaths. Across the line, Owen Matthews—first-round pick, All-Pro cornerback—bounced on his toes.
"Ready to disappoint Daddy's girl watching at home?" Owen murmured, referencing Terrell's four-year-old daughter from the pre-game segment.
*One.*
The snap. Terrell exploded forward, each step a testament to empty practice fields and midnight training sessions. A quick stutter-step, then drive.
*Two.*
Owen's jam came with professional violence—right hand targeting sternum, left arm barring collarbone. The corner had erased receivers all season with this technique.
Terrell countered with movements drilled into muscle memory. Right hand chopping downward across Owen's wrists, left arm swimming underneath. The technique his high school coach had hammered into him: "Your size means you'll get jammed every play of your life. Beat it or bag groceries."
*Three.*
Fifteen yards downfield, Terrell processed defensive geometry in snapshots. Safety Suarez had rotated toward the post—exactly where the original route called for. Terrell's eyes connected with Tim's for a split-second, quarterback and receiver sharing wordless understanding built over seven years.
*Four.*
Terrell's left cleat carved into the turf. Weight transferred completely as he abandoned the post route, angling sharply toward the corner pylon instead.
The improvisation caught Owen flat-footed. The corner had committed inside, creating separation no recovery speed could erase.
From peripheral vision, Terrell registered Suarez changing direction, the safety's white jersey closing from the hash marks.
*Five.*
"BALL!"
The football spiraled through charged atmosphere. Tim had placed it low and away from defenders—requiring absolute precision in both placement and timing.
*Five and a half.*
Years compressed into milliseconds. Terrell's arms extended, fingers relaxed—movements inscribed into nervous system by countless repetitions.
The ball connected with his palms with that familiar satisfying sting. Right hand over top, left hand underneath, elbows tucking inward against Suarez's approaching hit.
Memories crystallized with perfect clarity:
Grandma Eloise working double shifts, coming home with bloodshot eyes but finding energy to throw wobbling passes.
The college scout: "Son, physics doesn't lie. You're giving up five inches to every defensive back in D1."
Coach Harrington after he'd walked on: "You're here because you refuse to be defined by a tape measure."
Amara wearing his jersey, saying with complete certainty: "I'm fast like Daddy."
*Six.*
Cleats dragging through painted grass inside the boundary. The official's arms shooting upward. Stadium volume surging from roar to explosion.
For one crystallized moment before celebration engulfed him, Terrell remained still, alone with the football. Six seconds that had just changed everything. Six seconds that had been fourteen years in the making.
Six seconds of forever.