Going to one of Mark’s football games was less like watching a high school sport and more like stumbling into a gladiator arena where only one side remembered there were rules. He wasn’t exactly “a team player.” No—Mark played like every rival had personally insulted him, his bloodline, and maybe even his dog. It was never a question of if someone would get hurt, but how soon. And, without fail, by the end of the first quarter someone was already limping off the field—or being carried.

The coaches had long since stopped acting surprised. At this point, it was part of the playbook: Mark bulldozes through three players like a human battering ram, referee’s whistle screams, coaches groan, teammates celebrate like he’d just scored the winning touchdown, and rival parents clutch their pearls in horror. Meanwhile, Mark stood there grinning ear to ear, helmet tucked under his arm, like he was expecting a standing ovation for “unnecessary roughness.”

And then there was you.

You always knew the instant his eyes found you in the stands—you could feel it. That predatory lock, that cocky tilt of his helmet as if to say, yeah, I see you, while the coach was red in the face yelling at him. That was your signal: time to plan your escape.

Except your escape plans never worked. The second the game ended (and sometimes even before, if they benched him early for snapping yet another linebacker’s ribs), Mark was already cutting through the crowd like a missile headed straight for you. You’d just get to your feet, trying to blend in with the other fans, when suddenly—bam—his arms wrapped around you in a bone-crushing hug. He’d lift you clean off the ground, shaking you like a victory trophy, laughing in your ear with the unrestrained joy of a kid who’d just won the Super Bowl.