Page 122 of The Game Plan
It wrecks me to see her emotional after her sessions, but it’ll be worth it in the end. I hate that she’s hidden her pain for so long, but she’s finally unpacking it.
I’ve noticed a difference. I know it’s not going to be an overnight fix. No one expects that, but witnessing the progress has been incredible. My wife is healing, and I’m getting a glimpse of the Savannah I fell in love with, with even more passion and drive.
Last night, when I went to do the 3 a.m. feeding, Sav was already in there with Lennon. She was in the rocking chair, feeding her a bottle, and of course, she was tired, but her eyes were alive. I saw a glimmer of her spark as she sang a The Lumineers song. Standing in the doorway, I watched until she smiled over at me.
God, I can’t get that smile out of my head.
My phone vibrating in my pocket snaps me back to reality. I dig it out and find a text from Mom. Weariness flashes through my mind, but it’s quickly replaced with relief as I swipe open the text.
Mom: [1 Attachment]
The second I tap the image, my heart warms.
It’s a photo taken at the back of the suite. My wife is standing near the glass with our daughter propped on her hip. They’re both wearing their matching denim jackets. A large blue bow sits on top of Lennon’s head, and Sav is tilted slightly like she’s pointing at something down on the field. I wonder if she was showing our daughter where I was on the sidelines.
As I stare at our last name on their backs, I can’t contain my smile. I save the image to change to my wallpaper another time. Locking my phone, I slip it back in my pocket as the players start running off the field.
It’s game time.
The first quarter is a damn mess. We’re flat out there, and it’s not how I wanted to start the game, especially with my Peach and Lemon in the crowd. Between missed routes, busted coverage, and a fumble, I nearly threw my clipboard. Glancing up, I scan the suite window, hoping for a glimpse of my girls. I need to see their faces to remind me of why I’m standing on this sideline. I want to make them proud, but the offense is sputtering.
As the second quarter rolls around, we’re still shaky, but starting to settle in. The defense is bailing us out, but we can’t keep leaning on them. I watch Jeremiah, who earned our starting wide receiver position, drop a clean slant across the middle. The ball hit him in the hands, and it’s like he forgot howto catch. Nerves and pressure are radiating off him as he jogs past me, avoiding eye contact with his head down.
After years of observing my dad, I do what comes naturally. I jog over and match his pace, slow and calm.
“You know what happens when you drop a pass?” I ask, voice low.
He glances at me, confused, bracing for a lecture.
“You line up,” I start, firm but calm, “and go catch the next one. That’s it.”
He gives a tight nod as I slap his helmet, sending him back on the field. No yelling or scolding. Only a reminder he has what it takes. Sometimes, players don’t need a coach—they need someone to believe in them, louder than their doubt.
Halftime rolls around, and all of us coaches are fired up in the locker room. Adjustments are being called out as we get our boys focused, dialed in for the second half. He digs deep, shifting into a second gear we all knew he had, tearing down the sideline for a crucial third-down catch before toe-tapping in the corner of the end zone to seal it.
As the final buzzer rings, I throw my hands in the air before clapping Harris on the shoulders. I let out a shaky breath. The win feels good, but not as good as what I see next.
Jeremiah kneels at the sideline, helmet off, his chest rising and falling fast. He’s not celebrating; he’s soaking it in.
Jogging over, I crouch beside him. “I knew you could do it.”
His eyes flick to mine, wide and glassy. “You didn’t quit on me.”
I shake my head. “Never.”
Jeremiah nods once, slowly, like it’s hitting him, and stands up a little taller than before.
This moment?
This is why I chose coaching over playing.
Glancing up at the suite again, I shield my eyes from the sun. Sav’s holding our daughter, both of them watching and cheering. A win never gets old. Especially this one. My first game with my girls here.
This is one for the memory books.
It feels like forever as we go through post-game discussions and press interviews. Even though I don’t sit in on the interviews, I like to stand in the back to observe. It’s good practice to learn the eloquent way to answer the pushy questions, when I’ll be the one answering one day.
I finally head toward the hallway toward the exit, but come up short.
