Page 88 of Biggest Player
It is loud, fans chattering excitedly as they wait, and I can see several of them looking at their watches and phones for the time.
Two more minutes.
I’ll have to take my seat in a few seconds.
“Not always but usually,” I reply, butterflies in my stomach betraying my cool, even tone. We’re part of the hottest team in the league right now, and the fans’ enthusiasm is palpable. It never fails to amaze me.
I shake my hands out. “Jeez, who knew I’d be nervous?”
I play in stadiums full of thousands and thousands of people!
“Here. You might need this, then.” She rises on her toes to kiss me on the cheek.
“That’s all I get?” I flirt, puckering my lips.
Margot rolls her eyes, planting a kiss on my lips before I take my seat.
Behind us is an eight-foot-tall backdrop, twelve feet or so wide, with the team logo in the center. Managers, event coordinators, and building supervisors are among the throng to oversee us. Everyone wants a glimpse. Everyone wants credit.
They move the line-control barriers, and the fans rush forward.
I grin as a young boy clutching a football walks over, his eyes wide as he approaches, clearly in awe of us.
Me.
“Hey, buddy. How are you?”
He stands in front of me, not sure what to do or say. Shy.
“What’s your name?”
“Bryce.”
“Well, Bryce—do you want me to sign your football?”
He nods, still clutching it.
“Want to hand it over?” I wink, taking the ball in one hand and then signing it with a flourish, black Sharpie now permanently attached to my right hand.
Bryce beams as I hand it back, staring at the signature.
And off he goes . . .
Kendrick’s manager does the Lord’s work, keeping the line moving, ushering people along. I’ve met her on several occasions since her office is in downtown Phoenix, and I’m always appreciative of her no-nonsense, no-bullshit attitude, making sure everyone is on task.
If we let everyone have five minutes of our time, we’d be here until midnight.
And speaking of time . . .
With each minute that passes, each interaction becomes a blur—a sea of faces, names, and excited chatter. A sea of autographed photos and posters. Footballs. Some fans come with stories of how we’ve inspired them in their lives, some come with memorabilia.
All of them want a selfie.
This connection with the fans makes every moment being here worthwhile. This is more than just a contractual obligation; it’s a chanceto make someone’s day—like young Bryce’s, who couldn’t have been older than twelve—to be a part of something bigger than ourselves. And that, more than the paycheck, is what keeps us coming back to the table.
I want to be me when I grow up.
Ha!
