I do it now—for my dad and for Nico.
The cheers are heavy again as I open my eyes to watch my father walk with the mic to stand in front of his team. His coaching staff sits in the first row just behind him—deep-blue shirts, whistles, low-slung hats, and khakis. I could flip through more than two decades of team photos and those men, though different people, would always look the same. Behind them, his team is silent. Their eyes on their coach, all of them waiting to know who to follow. Only a handful of them are truly prepared.
“With great adversity comes great opportunity,” my father begins as chatter subsides. He glances to his team, looking at them for several long seconds without speaking again. A few of the guys shift their weight under his scrutiny, but most of them hold their position—both feet flat on the floor, hands on their knees, eyes on their coach.
“Football is a dangerous sport. I’m not saying anything earthshattering or new to any of you. We all know the risks. We’ve all seen the injuries. Hell, this isn’t even the first bone football has broken on Noah’s body. I…” My father’s head falls forward as he chuckles. “I remember when he was eight, the first time he broke his wrist. My wife, Lauren—oh she was pissed. She was ready to pull him.”
The audience responds with a mix of laughter and “noooooo!” chants.
My dad holds up a hand.
“Clearly…I prevailed in that argument,” my dad says, and the laughter grows.
“Noah has broken his wrist twice. He’s lost a tooth—one permanently—had a few concussions, had some pretty deep bruises, including one that bulged out of his thigh for what…seven weeks?”
My brother shouts “eight!”
“Eight, yeah…right,” my dad says, his laughter quieter now. “He’s had more stitches than the clothes I’m wearing. And he’s just one of more than three dozen of our state’s finest gentlemen sitting up there who can point to countless body parts and spout off injury reports.”
“Yet they all come back. They show up every summer, for training. They show up for first practice…for second practice…for fiftieth practice. They show up under the hot lights, under our high expectations. And they perform!”
There’s a wave of cheers for this part, and my dad expected it, so he lets it die out. He’s never been one to take away from the praise his boys earn. But he does not milk it.
“They show up. And they respect. And they follow. They follow each other because inside of each of them is someone who can lead. These men are all leaders. And they are going to take what they learn out here on the field and bring it forward…into their lives. They are going to lead in life. Through commitment. Through promises they make to each other. Through the strength of their brotherhood.”
The quiet is back. I’m holding my breath, and I realize how much I’m probably moving so I turn my focus back to my camera, watching the next part play out through the screen.
“As a father, it breaks my heart to see my son have to miss experiencing this the way I know his heart truly wanted to. I’m devastated for him, but so proud to see him here today. I know Noah is a man of his word, and I know he will continue to do whatever he can to help his brothers be better…stronger. But as a coach, I need to make a decision that will help that spirit flourish out there on that field.”
My eyes glance from the camera view to real life and back again while my father’s neck muscles tense in preparation.
“Tigers…I’d like to introduce you to your new QB-One, who I know in my gut will take you to the end this season—who will get that banner, who will take Noah’s direction, who will guide and lead in a way you need right now, in a way you probably need more than ever. Please give me a hoo-rah…for Nicolas Medina.”
“Hoo-rah!”
The chant happens fast, because it’s programmed that way. My father requests it and it gets said, no matter if it’s heartfelt. And this time, it is not. The word is loud, but the quiet that follows is suffocating. There are not cheers. There is polite applause, and slow handclaps while elbows rest on knees of expensive slacks in the booster row.
My brother’s eyes are lasers on Nico as he works his way through the middle of the stands, his thumbs looped in the top of his pockets, his jersey number eleven, unworn since my father wore it years ago. My brother wanted to be his own man. He wanted to be number one, both literally and in life. Nico wants approval.
The exchange of the mic is slow, and my father says something in Nico’s ear, and I stare as he listens and nods. He grips the mic fully in his hand, his back to me as he watches my father move to the only open seat in the coach’s row. Nico knows the drill. He’s the last one to speak. His job is to set a tone—to make them believe.