There's no reason to be rude about someone as great as Mr. Klubnik.
I know him. He should have been a star. He was born for greatness, and it never came.
High school football was supposed to be his stage, the place where he would become more than himself. Instead, he sat. Always sat. On the sidelines. Waiting. Hoping. And waiting some more. The coaches looked past him.
Every fall, the world mocks him with reminders of what he lost. The crisp autumn air, the smell of freshly cut grass, the distant echo of cheers. He imagines the plays he could have made, the victories he could have celebrated, the joy he could have felt. He was supposed to be the one in the end zone, spiking the ball in triumph.
And sometimes, when the night is still and the house is silent, Mr. Klubnik closes his eyes and imagines it all again: the crowd, the lights, the roar of victory. And in that imagined moment, he cries — not for the life he has, but for the life that was stolen from him, for the star that never shone.