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Blood, Guns and Whores - Chapter 3. Punt Pass and Kick

Blood, Guns and Whores - Chapter 3. Punt Pass and Kick

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Published by W. Ross Ayers
Chapter 3 --- "Blood, Guns and Whores - An All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog“, is a coffee table novel made of micro chapters and illustrations about a boy growing up in the small farming community of Blissfield, Michigan and on to adulthood in San Francisco. W. Ross Ayers

Goto http://www.BloodGunsAndWhores.com to read all the posted chapters, check out how this is cool and different. Or just buy the book to get the full rich experience of the illustrations, artwork, and story in the way it was meant to be experienced.
Chapter 3 --- "Blood, Guns and Whores - An All American Tale of a Boy and His Dog“, is a coffee table novel made of micro chapters and illustrations about a boy growing up in the small farming community of Blissfield, Michigan and on to adulthood in San Francisco. W. Ross Ayers

Goto http://www.BloodGunsAndWhores.com to read all the posted chapters, check out how this is cool and different. Or just buy the book to get the full rich experience of the illustrations, artwork, and story in the way it was meant to be experienced.

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Published by: W. Ross Ayers on Oct 05, 2009
Copyright:Attribution Non-commercial

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06/09/2011

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Blood,
 
Gunsand Whores
 
~
An All American Tale
 
of a Boy and His Dog 
Writtenand Illustrated by W.Ross Ayers
 An SFWC Co-Publishing Studio Production © 2011 by LND, inc. All rights reserved 
 
 
, is a coffee table novel made of micro chapters and illustrations about a boy growing up in the small farming community of Blissfield, Michigan and on to adulthood in San Francisco.W. Ross Ayers
3.
 
Punt, Pass And Kick
It was August 1977. I was eight. All I asked for my birthday that year was a football. It was twoweeks before the Punt, Pass and Kick competition. By age, whoever had the longest punt,pass and kick won.I had never touched a football before. I knew I would win. I was a purity of clarity and knowing.I knew I could beat all the other eight-year-olds.We went to the hardware store in town. I picked out the least expensive leather football. Itook it home full of excitement, ecstatic and joyous.Every day after school I practiced in the front yard. The grass was thick and green. The oldmaple tree shadowed the yard. The air was clear and open.
My hand could barely hold the ball to throw it. Punting was easier. I didn’t have a tee to kickfrom. The white plastic tee that came with the ball couldn’t even hold it straight enough and
high enough to get under it to kick. I used a smashed tuna can instead.I tried lots of different ways to kick, none much better than the others. I kept getting my stepsconfused. Sometimes it would go six feet, sometimes not at all, tumbling end over end.Sometimes I would fall on my ass trying and then get up and do it again. My friends wouldlaugh and I would turn hot bright red, say nothing and try again.I knew I would succeed.I told everyone that I was going to win. I knew it. It was sure, I saw it, I was it. All me and myfriends talked about at school was the Saturday. The Punt, Pass and Kick competition. Everyday at recess we practiced. I saw even more that I was going to win.
 
Then they talked to me.
“Walt,”
my mom and dad said,
“you only have two weeks to p
ractice. You just got the
football and you don’t even have a real tee. Don’t be disappointed if you don’t win.”
 
My mind stopped, my confidence wavered.
“I’m going to win, I..I’m better...”
 
“We just don’t want you to be upset when you don’t.”
 
That night it rained and during recess the next day the blacktop still had puddles of darkwater. We practiced anyway. My leather football got wet and overnight it stretched andbloated.Now it was even harder to get my hand around it to throw. And it was soft to punt and kick.The week ended. Saturday arrived. My dad drove me to the high school football field.
“Don’t be disappointed Walt.”
 
It seemed like hundreds of kids were there from eight to fifteen years old. I had never seen somany kids and parents. They filled the wooden bleachers of the small stadium.All of the trophies, first through third were displayed on a table next to the field. That was thegoal. T,he proof. Take one home.I stared at the gold one.The eight-year-olds went first by alphabetical order. I nailed the punt with one of my best sofar.I smiled filled with triumph. Then everyone else went, one by one through the fifteen-year-olds. I kept track in my mind. I had punted further, way further than any of the other eight-year-olds.Then it was my turn to pass. It was a good pass, right on line. Again I kept track in my mindand I passed further than all the other eight-year-olds.I was winning. And by a lot.I sat down on the wooden bleachers next to my dad, my face glowing.

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