Gray sends me a pass to view his practice. Due to the intensity of prepping for the post-season, the coach has put the stadium on lockdown, not wanting a bunch of fans watching his team as they prepare. So only a few people are allowed inside.
Since I now have my car, I head over, parking in the student lot. Being on a campus brings back memories of my own school. And as much as I loved college, I’m not sorry to leave it behind.
The team is already in the thick of it when I arrive. It’s a cold, crisp day, the winter sun weak yet shining onto the field and my section of the stadium. Snuggling down further into my puffy coat, I cup the cocoa I brought with me and watch.
Even though he has his helmet on, Gray is easy to spot, tall and lean in comparison to the stocky linemen he’s standing next to. They’re sporting full pads and jerseys today but wearing running shorts on the bottom. I track Gray’s number eighty-eight as they huddle then break to get into formation.
I love sports. It’s always been a part of my life. Football is no exception. I grew up with Hall of Fame winners coming over for Sunday dinner. I have numerous Super Bowl-winning “uncles” and have standing tickets to all major sporting championships. I might easily have turned jaded. But I haven’t. I still get a thrill watching athletes perform at top level.
But it is abundantly clear that Gray’s team is off their game. Missed passes, bad timing, sloppy defense, uncoordinated offense. Squabbles break out, players’ tempers on edge. Oddly, when viewed as individuals, it’s also clear that the players are excellent. Their talent is evident. It’s when they must play as a team that the weakness is exposed.
The head coach seems to agree. He nearly has a fit after yet another bad play. I say nearly because he’s one cool customer. Most would be shouting. The offensive coordinator is, his face purple as he bellows at his players to get their “damn heads out of their asses and fucking get it together.” The defensive coach has been reduced to ribald cursing that’s basically one long spew of, “Fuck!” But the head coach merely whips off his hat and slaps it against his thigh before pacing along the sideline.
Whistles are blown and the players go to their respective coaches. The rest of practice consists of endless and brutal drills.
When they’re finally set free, the guys trudge off the field with their heads hanging low. It’s too silent, and I ache for them. Slowly, I make my way down to the field. One lone player has remained. Gray pulls off his pads and jersey with a single tug, sliding the entire kit over his head and tossing it next to his helmet on the ground with a look of self-disgust.
“Hey, Cupcake,” I say softly as he plops onto a bench seat.
“That was some shit, eh?” His usual smiling mouth is a flat line. “Fuck it, we’re so fucking off now.”
“Is it because of Drew?” Losing the starting quarterback can often mess with a team. From talks with Gray, I know Drew was their leader and their friend.
Gray runs a hand through his hair. He’s cut it, the thick mass shorter on the sides and sticking up along is his crown in a messy fauxhawk. With his current scowl and fine features, he reminds me of David Beckham. Well, if Becks was giant and had a smooth, sexy voice.
“I think we’re spooked. And something’s going on with Rolondo. Fuck if I know what, though.”
“What position does he play?”
“Wide receiver. Jersey number four.”
“Ah.” I’d watched the wiry guy with long dreads. Rolondo had been off, dropping catches and getting in two scuffles with the defensive backs who’d been covering him.
“Yeah,” says Gray with a sigh, “‘Ah’.”