Standing there in the autumn wind, waiting for the game to begin. Is he proper? Polite? Clean shaven type and upon a horse of white? Or is he a mean, mad looking man swabbing the deck? A battle wound scar from his gut to his neck! Rehab and faith, he waits no longer. What did not kill him, made him stronger. No frolick nor waltz on the football field. No mercy for opponents and will not yield. His eyes on the prize and cleats on grass, timing the snap and kicking some ass. In silver and black he's fightin' and Raidin', the back of his jersey in bold reads HAYDEN.