The Last Hurrah

At the 50-yard line the cameras caught him again, and by the time he hit the 45, a backpedaling half circle of lights and lenses had formed. Osborne didn't look at any of them. He was at the 30, and his glance had shifted upward—past the seats, the lip of the stadium, into the black sky. Flashes popped, and he flinched. He was almost there. The tunnel loomed before him, and Osborne picked up speed. He had got one big wish tonight, and now another was taking shape. He was starting to fade from view.