It was a job anybody could have done. Everybody thought somebody would do it. But nobody did. The human heart beats sixty times in a minute. Each time you take a deep breath you slow it down. The chest of men standing tall on the field may beat hundred times in a minute. I could feel the thump in my chest pacing down. What followed was benumbing of my senses, one by one. To my delight the odor of the sweat evanishing from my shirt had subsided. I couldn’t even if I tried explicitly, I just couldn’t inhale the freshness of the damp field. The wind that brushed against the nares was pure oxygen and no other emanation. The drums inside my ear were the next to demit. Now the stands were silent, the coach quiet, the players poised and my chest lost some poundage. The sweat was dripping from all my holes and I tried tasting the last drop that trickled over my left eye. I was too tired to wipe it off. My red and white tongue was apathetic to the salty sapor of my sweat. Then the gravity of things set in to make my right foot gossamer. All my muscles twitching in with all the lethargic notions of my mind I felt no cold no warmth no presence of my body. Waiting for the next wholesome expiration I continued counting my beats. The ball was the foot; the heart was the ball; the foot was the heart… Stop!!!
7 Ways Through Sunday 
And your point is...