"Still have one more series to go, Coach. Let's see what happens."
We get the ball to start the second half, so I'm chilling on the sidelines and waiting for our chance. Our defensive coordinator is going over some pictures and stuff on his tablet with the guys who will be taking my place after this series, nobody talking to me. I'm so locked in the zone.
We need emotional content. Not anger.
That's true, but anger is part of emotion, and right now, I'm running on high octane anger and rage. Five years, and not a word, then suddenly, I find out why. Five years ago, Whitney tore my heart out and left nothing but a black hole that still hasn't filled.
"Defense!"
I look up, and realize we punted, going three and out. I run out on the field and form the huddle. "Hawk Triple Blast," I call, looking around at the circle of faces that are mostly totally different from the guys I was playing with in the first half. These are the scrubs, the guys who are praying for a slot on the team and hoping a good performance might get them a roster slot, or at least a spot on the practice squad. "Let's run this shit."
We break, and I roll my jaw, making sure my mouthpiece is in. The other team sent out their starting offense to start the second half, wanting to put up something that looks good for their fans back home, and I can see they're licking their chops, knowing that other than me, it should be easy pickings.
"Fire, fire!" I scream, adjusting. "Blast twelve papa! Blast twelve papa!"
Some of what I yell is bullshit, meant to draw off the other team. The only part that matters are the words 'fire' and 'twelve,' which resets the linemen back from their zone stuff scheme to basic smash mouth football, and that I'm going in right behind them. We need to punch these guys in the mouth, get them on their heels before they can settle into a comfortable pattern, and grind down the newbies I'm surrounded by.
The ball snaps, and I blitz, ripping through the guard's grip before he can get pressure on me. The quarterback is mobile, but he called a straight drop back pass, and my helmet catches him in the middle of his back before he can do much more than roll and try and protect the football. We crunch to the ground, and the quarterback collapses underneath my weight, groaning in pain as he does. I roll off, walking back toward the huddle while our home crowd roars and the other guys look on. I look back and see that the quarterback is still down, holding his right wrist in pain.
My part of the game is over, and Coach pulls me out, looking at me in a bit of wonder before sending in my replacement. The game's in hand, and now it's time to try and unload before seeing Whitney.
After five years . . . Whitney.
Chapter 13
Whitney
"So what did you think of your first live football game, Lorenzo?"
Laurie's only five, but she talks like someone a lot older than you’d think. She still eats like a five-year-old. The remnants of her spaghetti and meatballs stain her face on both sides of her mouth, and I think that's a speck of Parmesan in her hair, although it's hard to tell.
"It was quite different from what I'd expected," Lorenzo replies, sipping at his wine. "The crowd was smaller than I thought there would be."
"Pre-season games are almost always light sellers," I explain, sitting back and watching my daughter finish her spaghetti before our desserts arrive. "The fans kind of know that for most of the game, the players won’t be trying their fullest, especially the starters. They're there to get live practice in, and since the game doesn't count for the standings, they relax. It's a long eighteen weeks of real games they've got ahead of them before the playoffs start, and they only get two weeks off during that time."
"I see. Still, it was entertaining. Too much pausing for my taste, but I expected that after you two made me sit through the videos."
“Troy kicked ass, Mama!"
"Laurie Nelson, who taught you to talk like that?" I ask in semi-outrage.
"It was in that movie we watched," Laurie says, giving me her most angelic smile. She's so like Troy that it's hard to deny her anything, especially after seeing him today, and she knows that she can use her good looks to her advantage, and not just with me. She's hard to control that way. "You know, the one with the aliens who sucked the people's faces?"
"Yeah . . . I thought we said we weren't going to copy what they said in that movie too?" I remind her, and I can't help but smile. My daughter's got a mind like a steel trap, and very few things escape the sponge than is her brain unless she wants to ignore them. "Remember, I said that it's not polite to talk that way?"