“Sure did,” I say.
He places his large, wrinkled hand on my shoulder and pats down twice. Probably even more than my dad, Bob is excited about the film I’m making. He’s been the trainer here for two decades, and this year—it’s his last. While most of the members of the coaching staff fall into that football-coach stereotype, Bob bucks the trend. He has sixteen grandkids, and not a single one of them plays football. I asked him about it once, and he told me he’d rather they got into the arts—or took up film, like me.
“This right here? It’s just a game. What matters are the relationships inside of it,” he told me.
I was maybe thirteen when we had that talk, and I’ve never forgotten those words. I hope I never do. I wish my brother heard them. I’m not sure he would understand, though. Noah’s programmed to win, and the rest doesn’t really matter much to him.
It’s almost twenty minutes before everyone is showered and sitting on the rows of benches in front of my dad. His arms are folded, the playbook still tucked under his forearm. He hasn’t changed positions since he entered this room several minutes ago, looking up only slightly to congratulate certain players on specific plays he thinks they went above and beyond on. His mouth is a hard line, and his players begin to quiet as they nudge each other until the room becomes so still that I hesitate to breathe.
“Congratulations,” my dad says.
Several seconds pass without a response. He doesn’t want one. They know. No shouts, no “hoorahs” right now. They look him in the eyes and he nods, taking in the young, na?ve faces in front of him.
My head falls forward to check my camera view, and I zoom in tighter on my dad.
He lets his arms move to his sides, the playbook clutched in his right hand where he taps it against his thigh.
“You’re not celebrating. That’s…that’s good. I was afraid this would be harder, but I’m glad to see that you recognize what this really is…what…tonight…really was.”
I register a few swallows by players in the row closest to me. Nico is at the front, nearest to my dad, his head down and eyes at the place where my father’s shoes hit the floor.
“Defense,” my dad begins, pausing to breathe in deeply through his nose. “Boys, tonight was pitiful. I’d like you all to line up here right now. Come on. Line up. Up front. On your feet!”
Players look around the room, staring in one another’s faces, as members of our defensive squad get to their feet and amble toward the front of the room, standing in a line facing my father, their backs to the rest of us.
“Gentleman,” my dad says. My heart is beating with the power of a sports car’s engine as I wait for his voice to rise, for the shouting to begin. I knew my dad would not be happy with just winning. Winning—that closely—is still failing in a lot of eyes around here, and even though Coach O’Donahue is his point on defense, the responsibility falls squarely on my dad’s shoulders.
“Turn around,” my dad says, his voice sterner, but still in control.
I zoom out to capture the entire line of juniors and seniors, many of the faces those I grew up with, all standing bulky shoulder to shoulder, freshly showered, but still showing the red, purple and blue cuts and bruises from the field.
“I’d like you each to shake Nico’s hand. One at a time. And I want you to thank him,” my dad says, the words coming out through gritted teeth. “You thank him for saving your sorry asses! For turning around your shit performance and somehow pulling something out of his ass with less than a minute in the game! You apologize for putting him in that position, for putting us in danger, and then you get your shit, go home, and show up here again at five in the morning and prepare to work!”
“Yes sir!”
The response is in unison, and the handshakes commence, each more awkward and full of fear than the last. Nico doesn’t respond, and his jaw flexes with every new grip, his eyes flitting from face to face, and his mouth growing tighter every time.
As soon as the final shake is done, the defensive squad, minus Sasha, who my father had play both ways, slips through the side door into the locker room. My father waits as the door shuts, walking close to the door to listen, to see if anyone dares to speak when they think they’re safe. Satisfied that they don’t, he turns to face the rest of the room.
“Nico,” he says.
Nico nods, his eyes still on the closed door behind the line of guys my father just shamed.
“Game ball,” my dad says, catching the toss from one of his assistant coaches and pitching it to Nico’s hands. “You earned it. It doesn’t mean shit, because now we look to next week.”
“Yes, sir,” Nico says.
Their eyes freeze on one another in a short standoff until my dad looks out around the room.