Page 54 of Player
I can feel the tension running through the entire team.
"You thought you had this in the bag and you eased up, andthey took advantage to get back into a game you’re supposed to dominate!" Adams continues. "And if you think this kind of bullshit won’t matter against Morgan State, what do you think happens next week and we start our conference schedule? Huh? That's a certainty!"
Murmurs rise in the room, further fueling Adams' anger. "You think you're hot shots? You think nobody can beat you? Well, let me tell you something: you're arrogant little pricks. And that's what will be your downfall! So I suggest you pull yourselves together and make them eat their helmets!"
He falls silent, shoots fiery glances at each of us, then leaves the locker room.
"Offense with me," Hacket calls out.
We follow him to the other end of the room where he briefs us on what changes he’s putting into the offensive gameplan to adjust to what Morgan State’s showing out there. He’s all business, which helps the offense come down a notch to a better place than we were. When we return to the field, we're on edge—motivated but tense.
We take the kickoff for the second half, and I’m ready to lead the offense out when Adams puts his hand on my shoulder to hold me back.
"Player, you stay. Chauncey! You're in!"
I frown but don't say anything. The coach's orders aren't up for debate. I remove my helmet and mouthguard before sitting on the sideline bench.
I hate this view. Damn, if it were up to me, I'd be doing everything in my power to turn the tide. But Chauncey’s been ‘the man’, and under his command the Jaguars score two touchdowns on back to back drives that allow us to retake control of the game. One Morgan State fumble returned by the Jaguars defense for a touchdown at the end of the quarter, and the game’s all but over with.
I watch, helpless, as the rest of the game unfolds. The Jaguars' victory doesn't lift my spirits. If Coach pulled me, it's because I disappointed him. I keep dwelling on this thought as I leave the locker room after changing.
I head toward the team bus, a massive red coach bus emblazoned with the OMU school emblem: a Greek helmet surrounded by stars. It doesn’t match the team but fuck it. My position is important, and my value is recognized, yet I don't feel like I belong with the Jaguars.
I'm convinced it would have been the same on any team. I never wanted to play at a professional level, that was my father's ambition for me, nothing more. I would have been content blowing off steam on the field, just to release my anger, without expecting anything more. But I had to mess up enough to put myself in a position of weakness and give my father the opportunity to control everything in my life.
Leaning against the side of Morgan State’s stadium, I kick at the gravel that scatters in all directions. I follow the path of one pebble that goes further than the others, and my attention fixes on Coach Adams.
The big boss of the Jaguars is walking alone when a man joins him. Adams doesn't seem happy to see him here, he looks around as if making sure no one sees them. He doesn't notice me, probably because I'm in the shadows, and he addresses the stranger who has joined him.
From this distance, I can't make out their conversation, but the coach is strangely calm. His composed attitude contrasts with his usual behavior during practices and games.
I focus on the man he's talking to. He's tall, thin, with almond-shaped, pinched looking eyes His oily skin is marked with acne scars. His clean, perfectly pressed suit isn't the attire you'd imagine for a football fan.
A presence beside me pulls me from my thoughts. "You played a good game."
I glance at Chauncey before shaking my head. "You're the one who saved our asses. You took over in the second half."
He seems to consider this, and his voice is thoughtful when he responds, "People talk a lot about the quarterback, but football is a team sport."
"No QB, no touchdown. Media says it, fans say it, and pro contracts say it, we're the most important guys on a team. And you know it."
Chauncey looks down at his shoes before turning his attention back to the bus. "Yeah, maybe."
"If you're not convinced, you should at least pretend to be, because if Adams finds out, he'll chew you out."
I stay quiet, frowning. It's not like me to give advice, but I wonder where this guy came from. He has the position coveted by every player in the country—some would sell their own parents to be in his place—and yet he doubts himself?
If Chauncey wants to put himself down, that's his business. I couldn't care less what he thinks. Without waiting for his response, I head toward the bus door. His voice rises behind me, "I wish I could be more like you, Player."
I freeze but don't turn around. He continues, "You know exactly what you need to do and where you're going in life. That's something I envy about you."
Chauncey couldn't be more wrong: I have no idea where I'm going. I'm forced to follow the path my father chose for me, and it makes me sick when I think about it too much. My position is due to chance, to luck (or rather bad luck), and I could do without this damn "providence." If I had been terrible at sports, my father wouldn't have this hold over me. Just goes to show, what's a blessing for some is a curse for others.
My mood isn'tgreat when I get back to the dorm, late. For once, I have the strange hope that Alabama might be asleep on the living room couch. But when I cross the room, I realize there's no one there.
Instinctively, I turn my attention to Dixie's door, where a sliver of light filters underneath. A crazy idea crosses my mind, but I shake my head to chase it away.
Instead, I enter my room and throw my bag on the floor. It lands in the middle of the room with a loud thud.
