Best Friend on the Sidelines
From the time he could crawl, the boy had carried Mickey everywhere. Mickey had been to the grocery store, the doctor’s office, even a disastrous family camping trip where he wound up with a singed ear from getting too close to the campfire. Through every scrape, every tumble, and every bedtime nightmare, Mickey was there—loyal, fuzzy, and a little worse for wear.
So when football season rolled around, there was no question: Mickey had to come along. “He’s my best friend,” the boy insisted, tugging Mickey under his arm while slipping on his oversized shoulder pads. Mom, knowing better than to argue, tucked Mickey into her bag with the same reverence one might reserve for holy relics.
On the sidelines that Saturday, Mickey sat on Mom’s knee like royalty. He leaned slightly forward, as though he were analyzing every snap and pass. Parents whispered to each other: Was that mouse really calling plays? Because every time the boy glanced toward the sideline, Mickey seemed to be nodding in encouragement—or shaking his plush head in quiet disapproval.
To the boy, Mickey wasn’t just a stuffed toy. He was the undefeated coach of a one-kid football dynasty. When the boy stumbled, Mickey’s stitched-on grin reminded him to get back up. When the boy broke through the defense, it wasn’t the cheering crowd he heard—it was Mickey, squeaky voice and all, shouting, “Atta boy, champ!”
Of course, Mickey never got credit in the official stats. He’d never score a touchdown, never wear a jersey, never drink the celebratory Gatorade. But the boy knew the truth: every yard gained, every bruise earned, every victory shouted was shared between them.
And as the game wrapped up, Mickey sat content, his fabric ears flapping a little in the breeze, like he’d just won another Super Bowl. After all, in his best friend’s eyes, he already had.
