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It didn't matter to me that around these parts - a few miles from future high school juggernaut De La Salle (Concord, Calif.) - that this was a meaningless no-nothing opener.
This was my first high school football game writing for the Contra Costa Times, a suburban newspaper based about 40 miles east of San Francisco.
The contest was hosted by a nondescript Mount Diablo team that hadn't won many games in years.
Sure enough, the home squad was getting whipped at halftime before the coach inserted a kid that had more speed and talent than the two teams combined.
He powered through, leapt over and zipped around the opposition with the greatest of ease. He scored three touchdowns to lead his team to an upset victory.
After the game, the once down-trodden bunch all but carried the lad off the field, making this an easy storybook tale to tell.
But the game's hero resembled no fairytale character I'd ever known. He took off his helmet and with scars below each eye and a couple chipped teeth looked more like a grizzled boxing veteran.
He spoke like one too.
His English was broken and his tone was barely audible. Just as I pieced together a final quote, his dad approached in a soiled mechanic's jump suit. He was holding a paper bag in one hand and a 3-year-old in the other.
"That boy of mine can really play, can't he mister?," he slurred. "But he wasn't better than me."
While the man, stinking in alcohol, went into an unintelligible diatribe about his playing days, the boy just stared at his own worn-out cleats.
I was on serious deadline so I excused myself, patted the boys' hardened back and fled back to the office to complete a 12-inch game story.
The drive was an emotional roller-coaster for me. You learn in college to write about the story's most important facts. It's called news judgment.
On one hand, the game's details were simple: "Phenom comes off bench to rescue team to victory," was the obvious storyline.
But was that truly the most significant occurrence that night? Weren't the touchdowns, the cheerleaders, the victory celebration diversions from the real life drama: "Illiterate teen overcomes drunken hell home to excel on the gridiron?"
With no time and little space to pursue those images, I completed my assignment and with heavy heart eventually drove home.
The next morning, I read about the boy's storybook speed and spectacular touchdowns and how he led his team to an improbable win.
And though I didn't report on what I considered the most memorable part of that evening, I took solace in knowing that as long as it took that kid to read the story over and over and over again he would escape the reality of his own life.
Much like he had escaped tackles the very night before.
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