He takes his stance under the glow of the stadium lights. His knuckles white bear the weight of his immense frame. He remains perched like a gargoyle. He is still as stone as if he has been carved delicately by a mason. Patiently and anxiously he awaits, tuning out the sounds that bombard him from every direction — the roar from the crowd, the chanting of cheerleaders on the sideline, the shallow breathing of his fellow offensive linemen, his own heartbeat thatpounds in his throat — until all he can decipher is the cadence being barked out behind him. Finally he hears it. “Hike” is hollared and the ball is snapped. He fires from his stance with the velocity and potency of a detonated missile. This mass of speed and power meets immediate resistance, yet the lineman shoves forward, his heavy feet still churning, his heart still pounding, his mouth salty as sweat beads trickle to his lips. He must move the mountain of a man before him.