[Socially Isolated] Bubble Boy and the Father that Never Existed

The football sails towards me. It might as well be a rocket from the hashmarks on Scrimmage thirty yards up field. My gloved hands clutch it, and my arms absorb the momentum, bringing the ball to my chest. I see it there, through the plastic of my isolator suit helmet. My name is scrawled on the ball, just above where my fingers would grip the stitches for a pass. The sound of the sterilized air rushing in from the hose at the top of my bubble can't block the joyous sound of my father yelling 'solid catch, son!' and his hands clapping for the return pass.

[I wrote this five years ago during my struggle to replace the sadness of not having a true father figure in my childhood with cosplay experiences which only became a struggle for inclusion]