Her pants are tight. Her shoes are tight. And for her first game the stands are filled with fans, plus her mom with a dozen purple and gold balloons.  Roslyn squats, the whistle blows, and she explodes — 194 pounds of woman — and hits the nose tackle so hard he falls on the turf. The crowd roars. Roslyn holds out her hand, but the guy twists his face and spits.

Fat Bitch, he says.

Roslyn says nothing. She’s heard worse — from the first practice in August to the day the judge ruled she had a civil right to play football.

Hup, hup, pop. This time the guy is ready. Roslyn grapples him to a standstill for a few seconds until the play dies. Success. She’s O-Line, guards the guys who throw and catch and run the ball.  She’s crucial, unglamorous. Nobody notices when she does well. But when she screws up, her boys get hurt.

Omaha, the quarterback says. Omaha, hup. Roslyn leaps, but realizes her mistake when she tumbles through the line and nobody else moves.  She missed the signal, jumped too early. Flags everywhere. False start. Offense. Five yard penalty.

Nice one, the nose tackle says as they line up for the next play.

Roslyn knows she should keep quiet, let her body talk. Only she can’t help herself. You ready for more? she says. Did your girlfriend see me hit you last time?

Omaha, Nineteen, Pop. Roslyn and the nose tackle slam each other and their plastic pads make a sick snap. She falls back, useless, hears the other team whoop. She tries to stand, but her ribs say no. And then the trainer is leaning over her face. His breath smells like fish sticks. You want a break, Rosie? She says she’s fine, just got the wind knocked out.  She waits a minute and then stands. Ro-sie. Ro-sie. Even over the crowd she can hear the edge of her mother’s voice.

Kill them! Kill those pussies!

Her mom is a corrections officer at Valhalla, tougher than the fake football dads with their lattes and cell phones, too much woman for Roslyn’s father to stay.

Third and long: Last chance or they surrender the ball. Roslyn squats, looks the nose tackle in the eye. Bastard. Then she lowers her head and waits for the signal. She pushes the defender right as the fullback with the ball cuts left. Then she knocks him to the ground and her teammate runs the hole, breaks the pack and sprint downfield for a touchdown. Roslyn rips her helmet from her sweaty head. No official credit, but those were her six points.

Then she sees coaches and players swarm on the field and pushes closer. The boy she hit is on the grass. Medics put him on a stretcher and into an ambulance. Sirens, lights. Rosie stands dazed, helmet in her hand for a while until an assistant coach drags her to the sidelines. It’s ok, Rosie, he says. You did good.