Page 6 of Dream Chaser
I fight a smile as I tell him, “I’ll have you know I once changed a flat while journaling.” I lean in. “In cursive.”
That earns me a round of approving grunts. For Gen X, these guys in particularly, sarcasm is their love language.
“I like this one,” Jake says, jerking his thumb at me. “He’s got jokes. Still wouldn’t last five minutes in a Blockbuster after-school rush.”
Jake stretches his arm over the booth like he’s settling in for a long story that no one asked for but everyone’s about to get. “You know what else used to be better?” he asks then answers. “Football.”
Here we go.
“Oh, absolutely,” Lucas jumps in like he’s been waiting for this topic. “Helmet to helmet? Legal. Sideline hits? Encouraged. If your brain wasn’t rattling like a can of spray paint by the end of the fourth quarter, were you even trying?”
They all chuckle.
“Now they’ve got these rules,” Jake states, setting his mug down like he’s dotting an exclamation point. “You can’t evenlook at a quarterback the wrong way without getting flagged for emotional targeting or some bullsh?—”
“Can’t even celebrate without a fine,” Lucas adds, shaking his head like someone’s canceled Christmas. “Back in the 90s, weearnedour concussions. And the glory.”
“Players today have nutritionists and hyperbaric chambers,” Ryan mutters. “We had orange slices and Motrin.”
Jake lifts his mug. “We were raised on turf burn, not turf toe. Played in the mud, not on these fancy ‘non-abrasive surfaces.’ Hell, one time, I dislocated my shoulder and popped it back in using a car door.”
I blink. “A … car door?”
“Mid-game,” he says proudly. “And we won. Overtime. Thanksgiving weekend. Snowing. No gloves. That’s football.”
Lucas sighs wistfully. “Now it’s all data tracking and heart rate monitors. What happened to good old-fashioned pain tolerance?”
“They’ve got GPS in their cleats now,” Ryan grumbles. “For what? Directions to the end zone?”
I nearly choke on my beer, but I don’t dare laugh too hard. I’m still technically owned by these men.
Jake slaps the table. “Not saying the kids these days don’t have talent, but back in my day, talent was a bonus. You know what counted?”
They all answer in unison, “Grit.”
I nod like I’ve just been inducted into a Gen X cult of pain and glory.
Jake points at me again. “You’ve got talent, Skinner. Big guy like you? Got potential to be one of the greats. But do you have staying power? Do you havegrit? That’s the question.”
Playing along, I give them the most menacing smile I can, one through gritted teeth. “Damn right I do.”
They continue on, and on, and on, and …yeah, you get it.
I’m still trying to process the phrase “traumatic sports injury turned life lesson” when I hear chuckles from behind, turn, and see several familiar faces stroll toward us.
Alex’s sons, Liam and AJ; Ryan’s sons, Luke and Jackson; and Lucas Links’ son, Logan. AKA: my unofficial backup.
They’re younger. All played football and still have cartilage in their knees.
“Oh, great,” Jake mutters. “The TikTok generation just showed up.”
“Make room, old men,” Logan says with a grin, sliding into the seat next to me. “We’re here to rep Y and Z.”
Jackson plops down with a dramatic sigh. “Is this the ‘Back in My Day’ table? Are we telling war stories about dial-up internet and how hard it was to rewind VHS tapes?”
AJ grabs a fry from his uncle Jake’s plate without asking. “I love it when y’all talk about the glory days. Like we weren’t born before you figured out how to use Venmo and had to ask your kids.”
Logan chuckles and looks at his father. “Tell me again how walking uphill both ways builds character. I missed that lecture.”
