Chapter 11 Luca
Luca
“WELCOME TO YOUR first film review session, gentlemen,” Coach Martinez says. “What you do in this classroom will significantly impact what happens next for you: if your football dreams go on to live another day or crash and burn.”
As he delivers those ominous words, my position coach is standing at the front of a dimly lit classroom with a screen hanging behind him and a U-shaped configuration of desks before him.
There are a dozen or so players sitting here, plus a couple coaching assistants.
Three, if you count Chelsea among them, which I do.
Especially after this morning’s drill session.
I’m not certain about her official role at the Mastodons.
When Coach Martinez introduced her yesterday, it sounded like she was going to be “helping him out” with his squad at camp, as opposed to being an official member of his coaching team.
Either way, after what Chelsea did this morning during our one-on-one, she’s earned my respect.
Coach Martinez continues, “Over time, gentlemen, it’s a fact that preparation will beat out raw talent, every time.”
I stifle the urge to sigh. Not because what Coach is saying is false, but because it’s so damned true and uncontroversial, so oft repeated by coaches far and wide, it’s hardly worth mentioning.
I glance at Chelsea sitting next to me to see if she’s as underwhelmed as I am, and when she feels my eyes on her, she turns her head and shoots me a lethal look. One that tells me to cut the crap and pay attention. Damn, if looks could kill, Chelsea’s blazing blue eyes would be assault rifles.
“Okay, let’s kick things off by looking at some footage from last season,” Coach Martinez says.
“Specifically, a few clips to show you what not to do.” He presses a button on his remote, and a few seconds later, an overhead view of a game in progress comes to life behind him on the screen.
Martinez directs our attention to a Mastodon middle linebacker in motion—a guy who’s not currently sitting in this room, notably—just before he bites hard on a play-action on a long third down, thereby allowing the opposing quarterback to complete a zinger of a thirty-yard pass right down the middle.
Ouch.
Every linebacker in the room groans in vicarious pain at the guy’s embarrassing mistake, while Coach Martinez shakes his head and grimaces.
“That was a capital offense in my book,” Coach Martinez says. “I wasn’t here to coach him last year, but I can guarantee it happened because he didn’t adequately study film on that QB before that game.”
Out of nowhere, Chelsea gruffly picks up the pen that’s sitting in front of me on the desk.
In a quiet huff, she flips open the empty notebook sitting next to it and scribbles something furiously, and a few seconds later, after she’s tilted the book toward me, she points emphatically at her handwriting.
Why aren’t you taking notes? YOU DON’T WANT THAT TO BE YOU!
She can’t be serious. Not biting on a play-action is so basic, there’s nothing for me to take notes about. If I did, what would I write? “Don’t do something totally and completely moronic”?
I languidly take the pen from her and scratch out a reply. Chill, Mathlete. That wasn’t a complex math problem. It was a rookie mistake I’d never make.
Granted, even if it had been something complex, I wouldn’t have taken notes on it.
I didn’t take notes during a single one of my college film review sessions, and that worked out pretty damned well for me, so it became my standard way of doing things.
At this point, not taking notes is actually an important part of my process.
It helps me remain Zen and let my coach’s words wash over me until they become one with my soul.
Part of my gray matter through the gentle process of osmosis.
With a roll of her eyes, Chelsea yanks the pen out of my hand, scrawls out a reply, and taps angrily on the page again. The odds aren’t in your favor here, Montague. Count the players in this room, do the math, and take some notes!
I don’t need to count the players. I know there are exactly fourteen of us linebackers sitting in this classroom, including three veterans with guaranteed spots.
Add in Moriarty, once his contract is settled, and account for the fact that some of the guys here are middles, rather than outsiders like me, and that means four of us are competing for one particular spot on the roster—the guy who’ll get to sit on the bench and occasionally go in as Moriarty’s backup, whenever the situation allows.
“Okay, now this is what I want to see,” Martinez says excitedly, referring to the latest video he’s got playing on the screen. “Look at how he waited and triggered on a dime! He read the QB perfectly, and then bam! He exploded and broke free. Do that every time and you’re going to make an impact.”
As Martinez finishes his comment, Chelsea presses her fingertip into my forearm to emphasize her effusive agreement with him. And boom, just like this morning during our one-on-one drill session, my skin electrifies at the sensation of Chelsea’s flesh against mine.
My heart rate increasing, I grab the pen off the table and scratch out another note. I grew up with Roman as my role model, and he’s always been obsessed with studying film. I know how to do this.
With a look of disdain, Chelsea snatches the pen from me and scribbles away for what feels like an eternity before she pushes the notebook toward me again.
1) I’ve warned you this is a Satan-free zone!;
2) as a QB, Satan can’t teach you to study film as an LB;
3) if you study film like you run basic drills, then, no, you don’t know how to do this;
4) you’re at your third team in four years, so it’s time to do something new; and
5) you promised to do everything I say for the next three days, so shut the fuck up and do what I say.
When I look up from Chelsea’s lengthy note, she offers me the pen with a scowl. Biting back a smirk, I take the pen and write my short reply. Yes, Coach.
“Now see, that’s how you blow up a screen, fellas,” Coach Martinez says at the front of the classroom.
“But did that happen by chance? Nope. He did drill after drill in practices and studied film after film in a classroom much like this to make sure his body and brain were both ready to capitalize on that exact moment when it came.”
I pick up the pen to take notes, since that’s what I’ve been instructed to do by my extremely testy coach …
but after only a few scribbles, I quickly zone out.
Not intentionally, but because … Okay, the truth is I’ve never been all that great at concentrating on pretty much anything for too long.
But that’s true in life itself, not only in film reviews.
In all sorts of situations, like in my classes back in college, it’s always taken very little to distract me from the task at hand.
I’m an adrenaline junkie, dude. A devotee of the next shiny thing.
It’s who I am. Add in Chelsea the Mathlete, who’s turned out to be one badass of a linebacker coach sitting here next to me looking hot as fuck and smelling like flowers, and it’s a wonder I can concentrate on anything at all.
Chelsea plucks the pen out of my hand.
PAY ATTENTION AND TAKE NOTES, MOTHERFUCKER!!!!!
I grab the pen and write back: I’m trying!
Try harder!
I take the pen again, and this time, as I do, my fingers brush Chelsea’s in the process, which prompts my entire body to surge with electricity again.
Suddenly, I’m right back in that hotel room with Chelsea the Mathlete, kissing the hell out of her, grinding my hard-on furiously against her till I’m on the cusp of coming in my sweatpants, and she’s moaning and groaning and rubbing herself into me like a woman possessed.
Unfortunately, I don’t remember precisely what all that goodness felt like in the moment.
Not specifically. It’s been way too long and I’ve had too many other experiences since then to remember the exact sensations I felt when I made out with Chelsea.
But what I do remember vividly is thinking at one point, Christ almighty, this mathlete’s going to ruin me for anyone else.
True, I was only nineteen when I had that shocking thought, so my life experiences weren’t what they are today.
Not even close. But knowing I had such an extreme thought at the time only makes me want to find out if I’d still feel similarly today, as a full-grown man, if I got lucky enough to get a redo.
“Moving on,” Coach Martinez says. He raises the remote, but before a new clip starts, the door to the dimly lit classroom opens and a young staffer in a Mastodons polo shirt pokes his head through the doorway.
“Excuse me, Coach Martinez. The big guy wants you and your coaches to come down to his office. Robby’s wife just went into labor, so he took off like a rocket, and Coach wants to divvy up what he was scheduled to handle at the all-team meeting later today.”
“Sure thing.”
The staffer disappears, and Coach Martinez turns off the projector and addresses the group.
“Looks like the linemen’s coach is going to become a daddy a little earlier than expected.
While we’re gone, use your time well, gentlemen.
Go over your notes or study your playbooks. Use every minute to your advantage.”
Coach Martinez heads toward the door, along with his two official assistant coaches. But before the three men exit the room, Coach Martinez stops at the door and calls out to Chelsea, “What are you waiting for, Coach? You heard him. He said the big guy wants to see me and my coaches.”