Marty’s last transmission

Marty Smith, voice trembling like a man reading his own breakup note, keyed in his final, desperate transmission from deep inside an Ole Miss equipment-closet—wedged between a busted tackling dummy and a crate of unwashed jerseys. “Lane Friend… gone to LSU…” he whispered, as if saying it too loud might shatter his already fragile soul. He dabbed his eyes with a sweaty wristband, terrified of how his special friend, a die-hard Rebel with the emotional stability of a raccoon on Red Bull, would take the news. “If this message reaches the outside world,” he croaked, “tell them I tried—Lord knows I tried—but the Tigers have stolen our man, and my heart can only take so much.” Then the lights flickered, the air vent groaned, and Marty clutched the nearest shoulder pad like it was a lifeline. “Smith… out.”