We all remember him.  That player on our high school team, the little guy.  He was too small, too slow, not strong enough.  Yet somehow he willed his way onto the field.  He was the guy during  off season workouts who led every sprint, who went all out in every drill.  We called him "Crazy Butch", or "ManCub".  Our dads called him "Mighty Mite".  Remember that time he unloaded all 145 lbs on the stud RB from across town?  He got up woozy, but we went berzerk.  Man, that play pumped us up like Brittney Spears' chest after a visit to her plastic surgeon.

He was the guy  who came and knocked on our door at 6:30 in the morning, the summer before our Senior year.  Drug us out there to run bleachers!  In the summer, no less.!!  We ran ten sets, sweated out the things we shouldn't have been doing as high school kids.  And he ran three more after we had quit because we were afraid we might  puke.  

He wanted it more than any other guy on the team.  He never pretended he was gonna play ball after high school, he just played with all his heart.  He was ignored by the girls, laughed at by our opponents, and loved by our coaches.  How 'bout that time he got in the face of our all-conference tackle at half-time of the division championship game?  Called him out in front of the whole team, said we all needed to do more if we were gonna win. 

He was the guy we all laughed at when he first tried out.  He was the guy we thought was way too serious.   We look back now and wish we'd have put as much into it as he did. We don't know where he is, but we're sure he's succesful.

He was the guy we secretly all wished we'd have had the guts to be.  He was the Bleacher King.