Joseph was the first brother to get punked for his jacket. But with respect to spiritual experiences, even the great interpreter of dreams couldn’t see legendary wide receiver Jerry Rice. So when Putty and his boys rolled up on me in my fresh-off-the-rack 49ers Starter Jacket, I braced myself for a fate worse than the pit.

“I like that coat,” Putty said, already reaching to check the tag. It was a gift from moms for my tenth birthday—maybe I should’ve wished to see eleven. “Too bad it ain’t real.”

His boys laughed. And if I was using my double-digit brain instead of the buggy old model, I would’ve shrugged and moved on. But I was proud to say my 49ers Starter was 100% official.

“Word?” Putty said, rubbing his peach fuzz. “Let me try it on.”

Time froze. Nobody moved an inch, the line of scrimmage being a crack in the sidewalk. Putty had a solid twenty pounds plus puberty on me with a savage line ready to snap. My skinny ass was in illegal formation, one play away from a turnover-on-getting-beat-down. WWJD? Jerry was skinny. Jerry was fast. Jerry had hands. All I had to do was fake a pullover, catch Putty off guard with a hook, then scramble like I never scrambled. I saw the draw play in my head. Seven x’s like chalky white spiders chasing down little o me. 

And I could …  

Go … 

All … 

The … 

Nope.

Didn’t even reach the next block before I got tackled, the subsequent roughness very unnecessary. No Hail Mary could save me. And in those half-conscious seconds, I had a dream I was in the NFL, but the offensive coordinator said I had to play dead because my freedom (femur?) was too injured. Whatever that means.

RUSSELL NICHOLS is a speculative fiction writer and endangered journalist. Raised in Richmond, California, he got rid of all his stuff in 2011 to live out of a backpack with his wife, vagabonding around the world ever since. Look for him at russellnichols.com.