I see Riddell, he sits beside me. Looking at me with an empty face. He does not move, but sits still, seemingly waiting in anticipation. He is still scorched by the horrors of the previous fight. He doesn't look like he will be able to last any longer before he completely falls apart. Suddenly, I am lifted to an insurmountable height. In shock, I cannot move. I am still; buckled into position. I see Riddell on last time before we head off to the big game. It is cold atop this mountain. The brush of air, constantly sweeping all hair in every direction. A whistle blows and off we go. Getting pummelled and bumped, dented and scratched. By the end of the night, I will be an empty carcass. I see Adams careen by at a high velocity before we briefly impact but are then moved away once again. None of the faces I can see show emotion.
The night is over and I am laid down once again. As I assumed, once again, an empty carcass, I am. Scathed by the friction of war. I am tired and unable. I do not see Riddell anywhere nearby. I assume the worst and that he is lost. Maybe to be replaced by a Schutt or Xenith. The thought saddens me but only briefly for my emotion is faulted and empty. I see nothing but only darkness. I hear nothing but only silence. My round body rests stiffly on the ground.
An ode to a helmet, what it could be.
A helmet I am, a helmet you see. Empty, scathed, scorched. I've fulfilled my duty.
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