Scott
“Son, you ready for tonight’s game?”
Coach Henderson’s sharp gaze was appraising. Before every game, he liked to chat with the starting players for two to five minutes each.
It was cumbersome, but it was his style of coaching.
I found it to be unique and maybe necessary.
He liked to gauge if he was putting the right mix of guys on the field, and if that was the way he did it, then I had nothing against it.
He’s been right so far.
It would be easy to say that during the last two years the Royals had become a top-ranked NFL team was because of me. I was a big factor, but I wasn’t all of it.
It took everyone’s efforts to create a winning team.
I nodded my head and responded, “Always ready, Coach.”
“Good, good. Just do what you’ve been doing and adjust when needed, but I have confidence that we’re going to be on top tonight,” he said and eyed the white board behind him. It was different from the one we had in L.A. As the visiting team we didn’t get the expensive stuff; we got the crappy boards, the dingy chairs, and the lockers that were dented and sometimes without locks.
Football was psychological, as much as it was physical, warfare.
Anything you could do to make the opposing team uncomfortable and put them at a disadvantage was going to be in your favor on the field.
Coach talked about how successful the Steelers held the line and how the linebackers were so good at stripping the football. I knew everything he was saying; it was more for his comfort that he was regurgitating the information.
“I’m ready, Coach. We’ll win,” I said in a determined voice, my right fist pumping in the air.
He stood up from behind his desk and patted my back, “Good. I’ll see you in the locker room.”
I saluted him and left the room, watching as Dillon stood up from the bench on the outside of Coach’s modified office and high-fived him as he went inside to meet with Coach.
As I walked to the locker room, I pressed the ear buds hanging down from my hands into my ears. I pressed the Game 4 playlist and let the sounds of Queen invade my mind.
I numbered my playlists. I maintained and revised the list since my college days.
Playlist Games 1-25 were a collection of how I wanted to feel before a game.
Today I was in the current mood for Freddie Mercury and his British bandmates.
I suited up for the game, nodding heads at my teammates who were mulling about in the room.
My closest friends on the team were still talking to Coach, and while I didn’t have much in common with Dylan and the party-going guys, they were my teammates, so I chatted with them for a few minutes.
“You ready for the Big D, hotshot?” Dylan asked. He was bending down from the chair to put on his cleats, and it amused me that he was having a hard time with it.
Dylan was one of those players who could take on the nastiest smack talkers on the field, but he was nervous as hell before a game.
“Yep, couldn’t be more ready,” I answered and he looked up at me, checking if my voice sounded as sure as I felt.
“Man, how do you do it?” His question was one he’d asked me many times before. It had become sort of a ritual for us now.
“Someone’s gotta do it,” I shrugged. I wasn’t immune to nervous energy and anxiety.
Any human being was a prey to the emotions that came with being human.
I felt anticipation, excitement, edginess, and tension before a game.
But my body and my mind were able to dull those emotions low enough so that I could concentrate on winning.
Bridge called me Ice Man, and she couldn’t be closer to the truth.
When I was on the field, my blood simmered below thirty-two degrees. I didn’t feel warm, my veins were ice cold.
The only time I could feel warmth again was whenever I got off the field.
The Sports Network sportscasters often commented that the gridiron was my home; that it looked like I was in there.
They were wrong.
The football field wasn’t my home.
Home was where you felt warmth, and the smell of cooking wafted through your five senses.
I’d been asked many times, after games, by the media if I ever thought I wouldn’t make it in the NFL.
And I always had to give them a PC answer because I would come out downright cocky if they knew the truth.
I never had a doubt that I wouldn’t make it in the NFL.
With all the shit I’d been through, while the stadium field would never be home for me, it was however –
My church.
Every single time my feet landed on the turf, I felt the energy buzzing through my arms.
I worshipped the altar that commanded me to be better than the eleven guys wanting to get ahold of the ball that was my god.
And my promise was always to protect my god.
So no, deep seated in my brain and my whole being, there wasn’t ever any doubt that I wasn’t going to make it on the grand stage of football.
I gave Dylan a quick grin and answered him, “I just do what I gotta do.”
And tonight, I would do exactly that.
We were down by 12.
We were getting pummeled black and blue by the soldiers in black and gold.
Their defense was shutting down our offense, and it was the perfect time for their average offense to become good.
Tomlinson was on my face before I could even get rid of the ball.
Dex, the annoying little critter sitting on my left, said, “You’re struggling, dude. The motherfucker’s got the game in his hands.”
He didn’t need to point it out. He was talking about Tomlinson, but his insults were nicely wrapped up for me.
A back-up was supposed to be backing me up and not shitting on me.
I’d never dealt with an asshole of a back-up like him, but then again, I’d never met a guy who wanted my position like it was in his next breath.
And it wasn’t just because I was first string, it was because he had some history with the girl I liked and she liked me back.
I still hadn’t gotten around to asking Bridge about this asshole’s history with her. All she said was that he was in her past. Funny how the past sometimes visited like a nightmare in the present.
I pressed on my helmet and studied the playbook Lendl handed out to me when I came off the field, the sacking that Tomlinson handed me still raw and fresh.
“Shut up,” Swami muttered to my right. He seldom talked during games, but even he must be aggravated by the mouthy douche that ran his mouth every couple of seconds. “Conserve your energy in helping us win rather than spouting off shit.”
I ignored both of them and scanned the playbook.
The iPad felt heavy in my hands. It weighed less than a pound, but right now the weight of the Royals’ possible first loss in its season opener weighed like a mountain on my hold.
There was no doubt that the Steelers wanted to beat us on their home turf. The 68,000-plus audience at Heinz field wanted us to bleed tonight.
But we weren’t done yet.
I looked up at the game clock.
Two minutes and thirty eight seconds left in the third quarter.
The sound of the crowd in a collective groan brought my eyes back to the field.
Tally, on defense, just forced a fumble and the play was being reviewed by the officials.
I watched the referees on the side and when the official called for silence from the crowd he said, “Ruling on the field stays.”
I grabbed my helmet and pulled it over my head.
“Let’s go.” This time my voice held the command that was surging in my blood.
“Royal 40, Ten 80, Rose 25.”
I hadn’t called this audible in a while, but it was what we needed.
I could hear Coach talking in my helmet, he’d called a different play, but I’d adjusted it at the last second.
I saw Tomlinson’s eyes fired up and ready to grab the ball from me again. But this time, I’d be ready.
There was no way this motherfucker was going to sack me again.
I put my hands behind Greazy, my center, lowering them to get the ball cleanly.
“Aqua 80, Aqua 80, Hut, Hut,” I said, watching the linemen drop their stance, feeling the change in the air as I commanded my team to follow.
As soon as I had the ball in my hands, I dropped back a few steps from the line of scrimmage, scanned the field and since I predicted that they’d be blitzing from the left, I only had microseconds to shoot the ball down the field.
I eyed Dillon running as fast as the wind could carry him, seeing him on top of the defensive guy chasing after him.
I put some weight on my back leg to lift my shoulder up, getting the arch for a deep throw.
The ball left my hand and I waited with quiet reassurance that Dillon –
Boom. Boom. BOOM.
My heart thumped inside my chest as the energy that I’d been saving up for moments like these, vibrated inside of me.
I watched the arms of my receiver as he caught the ball and when he cradled it to run for another seven yards to cross the line, I pumped both of my fists up in the air.
Yeah, motherfuckers, it’s on.
Defense won games.
But great offense also won games.
I wasn’t taking a loss this time around.
Any loss was unacceptable in my eyes.
I didn’t practice hours and hours in the gym, outside the field, on sunny days, on rainy days, or in so-cold-your-teeth-will-chatter-and-fall-off weather just to lose.
My teammates didn’t either.
Anyone who said that a loss was just a part of the game was bullshitting.
Now that we’d tied the game after our defense held off the Steelers from scoring during their time on the field, I wasn’t resting until we had the win in the bag.
The play clock was running, and we had forty seconds to go before the game went into OT.
I hated OT’s.
If we could pack this one up now, why not?
OT’s were for desperate times and right now, I’d hardly call us in a desperate position.
Sure, I had to get us into a field goal position, but Bridge didn’t call me Ice Man for nothing.
It wasn’t the time for me think about her, but as my team lined up on the field, I couldn’t help but let a stray second to think of how she’d be so proud if we won this game.
She’d be proud of me even if we lost.
But wins had a better flavor on my tongue than losses.
“Kitty 28, Pooh 45.”
My teammates chuckled at what I’d just audibled.
It was a made-up play, but it was me letting them know to have fun.
There was a big difference in playing for the NFL and college.
People often thought that if you were a great quarterback in college, you’d also be a great quarterback in the NFL.
Wrong.
Sure, you could be, but only a handful ever were.
The differences were night and day. I had to practice differently and look at the schematics in an NFL perspective rather than the good ole’ college days or I would never be successful.
But with all the chasms, I also knew that one thing was essential: FUN.
So, at less than a minute on the clock, I was telling my guys to have fun.
We were at the grandest stadium, surrounded by fans that bled their team colors, and every noise was being thrown at us to ruin our rhythm and concentration.
But we had the ball.
And that in itself was enough for me.
I called out the play, this time the real one. The one where I expected my wide receiver, Holder, to run the perfect route, jabbing out, before breaking out post route, misleading the safety on his tail.
After the center handed me the ball, I gripped the ball in my hands, eyed the field, and blocked out all the boos and harrowing cries from the fans who were about to lose their minds.
As soon as I eyed that the safety got turned around, I saw the perfect opening that Holder had created.
I could hear the thundering feet of the defensive backs coming at me, but it was too late for them.
Because, I just threw the ball, covering 60 yards in the air.
And Holder was right there, untouched, waltzing, dancing in the end zone.
The hushed silence of the crowd was music to my ears.
And as my teammates rushed towards me, I knew that this right here, this would never get old.
I remembered every game I played.
I remembered every win and every loss.
My neurons may fire out of whack sometimes, but I was certain that they’d never fail me during these times.
I ran towards the middle to shake hands with the quarterback of the Steelers.
And as he congratulated me on a great game, he whispered. “Hats off. Great game tonight.”
I accepted his congratulations and looked into the eyes of the man who had been one of the most efficient league quarterbacks to play outside the pocket, and in return, I said, “Thank you.”
There had been news that he was on his way to retirement and if it was true, I wanted him to know how much he meant to the game that many had played, but so few had garnered success like he had, so I voiced out, “It’s a privilege to play against you.”
“Thanks man,” was his reply.
It would be easy to gloat over wins and we would, because it was the name of the game, but not on their field.
Not on their turf.
At an early age, my coaches taught me that for respect to be given, you had to hand it out when due.
Plus, I’d never been one for overt clichéd dancing and extreme acts of post-celebration on the field, I liked to savor the victories for a minute and then prepare for the next one.
I pulled on my jersey and I felt the wetness and warmth drip all over my skin, and as a bunch of players on the opposing team congratulated us, I pasted a big smile on my face for our win.
Yeah.
Yeah.
YEAH.
We did it again.
And we’ll do it again and again and again.