Declan
Some people think football
is a matter of life and death.
I assure you, it’s much more serious than that.
~ Bill Shankly
Interesting. She said it was interesting. That’s a first. Most women would be falling over themselves with effusive gratitude, talking about my moves as if they invented the game.
Not these bookish women from Waterford. Daisy’s come around a bit ever since she and Patrick started dating. Maybe if it were a book about football, they’d be more appreciative of the hard work I put in to be the kind of athlete who made it to the pros.
I don’t take the privilege of my position for granted.
It’s just a rare moment when I find a woman staring at me without stars in her eyes.
Instead, the look I got from Winona could be classified as a combination of perplexed and mildly disgusted.
Cass tried to make up for her twin, doubling down on her admiration.
A reporter approaches me—Candace. I know her well. She’s with ESPN. A regular on the field during game days.
“Declan, you’re looking strong out there.”
“Thank you, Candace,” I say, looking down at her and then smiling directly into the camera her cameraman has balanced on his shoulder.
“How’s the team shaping up?” she asks.
I answer her with facts.
“We’ve got a great lineup on the offense this year. Delaney’s back as QB. He’s a great leader. We’re gelling as a team.”
“And the word on the street is you’re expected to have your best season yet.”
“I’m putting in the work. We all are,” I say. “Football’s a team sport. We win together. We lose together.”
“Spoken like the diplomat you are,” Candace says with a warm smile to the camera.
I don’t know if I’d call myself a diplomat.
I grew up with a powerhouse father. He’s the consummate businessman.
I’ve unintentionally studied his way with words my whole life.
It serves me well when I have to shine with reporters, when I need to motivate a teammate, and when I’m outplaying an opponent’s mind games on the field.
“I’m feeling good,” I tell Candace. “Hoping we make it to the big game this year.”
“Everyone’s saying this could be the year the Thunder takes it all.”
“Let’s not jinx it,” I say with a smile.
Candace smiles. “Never. Well, I’ll see you on game day, Declan.”
“See you then, Candace. Hopefully, with our first win under our belts.”
We wrap up the mini-interview and I head to the massage table for my post-practice therapy. This isn’t a massage with candles and mood music. My therapist, a five-foot four-inch ball of aggression, is named Dixie. Don’t let the cute name fool you.
“Are you trying to drill your way through to China?” I say on a moan that borders on an animalistic howl.
“Just trying to get your muscles tender, Declan. That’s why they pay me the big bucks,” she laughs. It’s the laugh of a pint-sized sadist with supernatural strength.
Her elbow digs into my lower back. “You should be used to this by now,” Dixie says. “I didn’t know Tennessee boys were so soft under all that muscle.”
“I’m all heart, Dixie.”
“Don’t listen to his lines,” my teammate, Linc, says from the table across the room. “He’d charm the dentures out of an old woman’s mouth.”
“Why on earth would I want to do that?” I ask Linc.
“I’m just sayin’. Women of all ages drop at the sight of you. Why? I’ll never quite understand the allure.”
“You’re not into the tall, dark, handsome thing?” I tease.
“I’m more into the small, blonde and sassy thing.”
I smile. Linc has three loves: the game, his mom and his wife.
“Speaking of your type,” I say. “I have to blow off dinner tonight. Can we take a rain check?”
“Got a hot date?” Linc teases.
“I’m taking my brother and his friends out to eat in Waterford.”
“Okay, big spender. I see how it is.” Linc chuckles.
“I don’t get enough time with him. And he brought everyone to practice, so I thought I’d make time for them.”
“They all want time with the tight end,” Linc says.
Maybe he’s right. I’d like to think they want time with me, not just the Thunder tight end.
It was interesting. Winona’s words return to me. She’s not a fan.
“Aaaagh,” I moan as Dixie hits a sore spot in my middle back.
“Just doing my job,” Dixie says. “You’ll thank me tomorrow.”
“I’ll thank you the day after tomorrow.”
“Epsom bath tonight and you can thank me sooner, big guy.”
“Okay. Deal.”
Dixie finishes torturing me and I head to a cold plunge. It’s a routine I swear by. I’m not superstitious, but I know what works to keep me agile and less prone to injury.
The energy in the locker room is high. We’re ready to get this season underway. Spending time coaching kids is always rewarding and sentimental. Something about it seems to bring back memories of our own childhoods when we threw the ball around with friends or in Pop Warner games.
I shower and dress in street clothes, grab a protein shake and sit with the offensive coach for a quick rundown of what he saw during practice.
“Tomorrow, we’re focusing on red zone,” Coach says. “We’re close to showtime. Let’s keep it clean and focused.”
The film room fills with the sound of large bodies shifting, chairs scraping the floor and conversations picking up as we file out to go our separate ways.
On my way to my car, I shoot my brother a text. Despite me living in Waterford during training season, we don’t see enough of one another. I’m busy, and I’m wiped out by the end of most days. He has his crazy firefighter schedule. It’ll be nice to grab a meal with him and his friends.
Declan: Let’s do Fork & Fiddle.
Patrick: That’s kind of fancy for how we’re all dressed.
Declan: I’ll reserve the back room. They won’t mind us coming in casual.
Patrick: Sounds good. I’ll tell everyone to meet us there.
The drive down the rural two-lane road back into Waterford gives me time to think.
I’m running plays in my head, and when that gets old, I turn on the radio and sing along.
I’ve always loved singing. My mom’s a good singer.
Dad has a deep voice. I bet he’d sing well if he ever tried.
I’ve only heard him sing Happy Birthday to his three children and two grandkids.
Otherwise, he’s far too proud to sing. That’s why I sing in my car, I guess.
No one sees me. It’s not open for scrutiny.
Just me, Ella Langley and Riley Green harmonizing on You Look Like You Love Me.
I pull into the parking lot of the Fork & Fiddle, killing the engine on my Lamborghini Temerario.
It was a splurge to buy this car, but on my salary, what else am I going to spend my money on?
I don’t do much traveling except for my occasional escape to St. Thomas or Vail.
I stay out of relationships—avoiding dating for the most part.
My life consists of football and family, and my extended family—the guys on my team.
I sink back into the leather seats and roll the window down. The heat of the day is subsiding and a breeze blows across the parking lot, moving the leaves in the surrounding trees.
I take in the familiar wood exterior of this local favorite.
The sign over the door is weathered—the same one they’ve had for years with the words Fork & Fiddle hand carved into a hewn plank.
A broad porch extends the whole front of the building, making it feel half home, half restaurant. Patrick called this place too fancy.
I almost envy him.
What must it be like to only have ever lived in this town—to think places like the Fork & Fiddle are the definition of fancy?
I’ve traveled all over the country for work—to Europe and Hawaii for special games.
Been to islands in the Caribbean and parts of South America and Asia with my teammates in the off-season when they pulled together a group trip for vacation.
Patrick’s world is Waterford. And he’s got a good life with friends, a job he loves, and a wife who adores him and his books.
A couple exits their pickup. The guy waves over to me. The woman’s eyes go wide. She obviously recognizes me. Not Declan. She sees number eighty-eight: O’Connell. Tight end for the Thunder. I wave back, sending them a smile. The man grabs her hand and they walk together into the restaurant.
Fame has its trade-offs. Even here I can’t hide out, pretending I’m just a local boy, home for a season while my work relocates to a facility on the outskirts of town.
I’m always one glance away from being recognized, one accidental eye contact away from being asked to sign something—anything, even body parts.
What do they do then? Never wash their forearm?
People go nuts for pro players. I’m grateful for the good.
But I occasionally grow weary of constantly being “on” every time I leave the house.
Patrick’s truck pulls up. He jogs around to let Daisy out of the passenger side and she smiles up at him.
I sit in my driver’s seat, studying their interaction like a man visiting the zoo and seeing his first anteater in person.
Something like curiosity swirls in my brain.
Jealousy? Maybe a little. I’ve never been jealous of my baby brother.
Probably because my dad made no secret of the fact that he plays favorites.
I’ve always shown an interest in the development business he runs and I made the pros.
Patrick’s a firefighter. Dad sees that as something just a little higher than a hobby.
But now, watching Patrick smile down at Daisy with private affection, leaning in to place a soft kiss on her cheek before he interlaces their hands, an unfamiliar ache spreads through my chest.
I’m probably tired from practice—itching to get the season underway in a week.
That’s all this is: preseason restlessness.
I open my car door and shout over to my brother.
“Patrick!”
“Declan!” he turns, smiling broadly in my direction. Then he whistles low. “Nice ride.”