23. Do I Hate Football Now?
23
Do I Hate Football Now?
The best way to gain more yards is advance the ball down the field from the line of scrimmage.”
-John Madden
Dylan
“Can you just catch the fucking ball for once?” Marcus screamed at me. Anger vibrated off every inch of him as he ripped the helmet from his head and stomped down the field in my direction. Cameron moved to stop him, but Marcus gave him a death glare that made the entire team shrink away.
I bent and picked up the ball from the grass. It had slipped through my fingers yet again. I’d caught it. I’d caught it, but I hadn’t been able to hold onto it. I felt the bumps on the ball against the tips of my fingers, rough and grippy. I should have been able to hold onto it. There was no reason why the damn thing should have flown out of my hands and into the grass.
Yet there it was.
“Do you want a fucking interception?” Marcus was beet red as he got up in my face. I had a couple of inches on him, but his anger had me shrinking away. “Are you trying to be the worst in the league? Are you trying to get kicked off the team?”
He slapped the ball out of my hands as if to show just how easy it was to get the ball away from me. My wrist twinged as it twisted with the momentum and I winced.
“If your wrist is still that fucked up, I don’t want you playing,” Marcus announced, his voice now low and dangerous. Disgust twisted his features as he looked at my empty hands. “Get your act together, Callahan.”
He stalked off before the coaches could come out and break up the fight that was clearly brewing. I just stood there like an idiot.
I didn’t know what Marcus’s problem with me was. He hadn’t said more than two words to me since the accident last season. I knew he’d come to visit me in the hospital. He’d sent flowers that were the first thing I’d seen when I’d woken up from surgery, but I hadn’t seen him.
He was avoiding me and yet could find the energy to scream obscenities at me when I failed.
“Fuck this,” I whispered, rubbing at my injury. It ached more than usual today. This last catch had hit my hand funny, bending my wrist. Maybe that was why I’d dropped it. This damn wrist. This damn injury. Hate, anger, shame, fear, and panic started to well up in my chest.
Why couldn’t I get past this? It was just a broken bone. I’d broken bones before. I’d given my body to the game harder than this one injury. I had a dozen concussions and probable brain damage that was worse than this stupid wrist injury.
Yet this was what was going to ruin me.
“Go cool down and hit the showers,” Coach yelled at me from across the field. I realized that Marcus had left the field which meant that we couldn’t run plays anymore. I was alone on the field. I sighed, feeling defeat weigh my shoulders. I nodded to Coach. I didn’t need to have him go over ball catching procedure with me again. We’d already run drills for two hours today to help me practice.
It obviously wasn’t working.
I wondered if the practice field could just swallow me whole. I could live underground here and finally get some sleep.
But I would miss Natalie. I was glad she didn’t follow football or know anything about the game. She’d be so disappointed in me if she knew how badly I was doing at practice while she watched my daughter. My daughter should be ashamed of me too. A tight end that can’t even catch a ball was not a good father figure.
I walked slowly off the field toward the locker rooms.
A couple of kids on the berm watching practice yelled down to me. “Hey! Callahan! Can we get your autograph?”
My mood brightened slightly. Two boys, probably in middle school or high school whooped with joy as I climbed up the grass to where the visitors were allowed to watch the preseason practices. We usually had a pretty good sized crowd, but it was the end of the day so only the die-hard fans were left watching.
The boys eagerly held out the hats they’d gotten today as entry gifts. They’d already gotten dozens of signatures and there wasn’t much room for me to sign the baseball caps, but I managed to find a space and add my name to the group.
“Thanks. This will probably be worth a ton when you’re traded,” one of the boys remarked, carefully stowing the cap in his bag.
My stomach dropped.
“Yeah, my dad says we shouldn’t have even bothered. You’re going to end up homeless and broke with the way you’re playing,” the other boy remarked. “He says your sponsorships are going to start drying up.”
His friend elbowed him hard in the gut.
“Oh, sorry. Thanks for signing the caps, Mr. Callahan,” the first boy said, glaring at his friend.
“You boys keep watching the team,” I said, my voice sounding distant and far away.
The two boys walked away, leaving me dumbfounded.
Homeless and broke. I wasn’t too worried about that actually happening, but if I kept playing this badly, the kid was right. The sponsorships would dry up. We’d had a big meeting about financial literacy every year since I’d started playing professionally. It wasn’t uncommon for players to blow through their NFL money, and once they weren’t playing, there wasn’t anymore coming in. A lot of players really did end up broke and homeless, or barely scraping by.
I couldn’t do that to my daughter. She deserved someone who she could look up to. Someone that could provide for her.
My hand ached and I looked down at it, rubbing the scar lines.
I didn’t bother going to the showers. I just threw on my clothes and left. The car was hot and sticky, the leather seats squeaking with my sweat. I let the car cool down for a moment before pulling out to drive home, letting the radio wash over me. My lawyer still hadn’t emailed me the results to the DNA test. It was still early, but the fact that it wasn’t done yet still made me anxious.
I fiddled with the radio, needing something to calm my nerves. Nothing good was playing so I flipped through the channels pausing only when I heard my name.
“Callahan just isn’t playing like he used to,” the radio voice proclaimed. It was one of the regular announcers on a local sports show. I’d met him a few times and he was a decent guy. “If he keeps this up, the team is going to trade him.”
The words were an eerie echo of the day.
“Inside sources say that the owners of the Omaha Twisters are considering a trade. He just isn’t worth the money so far this season. Technically, he’s still out on medical leave, but he’s just not showing his potential at these preseason practices. If he plays this weekend, we’ll see if they keep him. If he doesn’t play, I’d trade him. He’s just too much money for not enough play.”
My shoulders slumped low enough they could press the car’s brakes.
“There’s apparently an offer from the Chicago Bears, but it would be a fraction of his current salary,” the radio continued.
“That may end up being a bad deal for the Bears!” the other announcer replied. The two men on the radio laughed like it wasn’t my life on the line.
I couldn’t move up north. I’d lose Alex. He’d never leave his family, even for me, and I couldn’t ask him to. And Natalie? She had her job and school here. Besides, she’d only known me a month. It would be stupid for her to chase me across the country at this point. And what about Ellie?
I hit the radio button off with a little more force than necessary, my breathing harsh in the stuffy silence of the hot car. The owners should trade me. I was a liability at this point. Not an asset.
Maybe I should just quit while I was ahead. I still had enough fame to get some sponsorships. It might be enough.
But I wouldn’t be happy. I loved this game. I loved playing. If I quit now, I would forever regret it. I wasn’t ready to quit. Besides, I didn’t know how my world would make sense without football. Football was how I knew it was summer. Football was how I celebrated holidays. Football was all I knew, and if I gave it up, I might as well crawl into a grave and throw on some dirt.
I revved the engine, gunning my car out of the parking lot and onto the highway.
I didn’t have a plan. I just needed to get home to someone who could make me feel like it might end up okay.