Page 72 of Play Fake
Today we’re installing new plays, and it’s just as important for me to be out there defending against plays as it is for the offense to be out there learning how to run them. Our defensive coordinator, Andy Glen, always asks for our feedback so he can bring it to the offensive coordinator and our head coach when they discuss new plays.
I show Coach Andy where the mistakes or gaps are on offense, and he makes me feel like a valued part of the team.
My position coach runs us through some drills before we’re dismissed for lunch, and we’re back at it all afternoon in the sweltering afternoon sun until dinnertime, when we finally have a little piece of freedom.
I video call Ainsley after dinner, hoping to get a glimpse of Jack even though she sent me pictures of him throughout the day. I can’t have my phone on me while I’m out on the field, but I do check it when we get breaks, and seeing their smiling faces gives me the energy I need to get through the next set of plays.
So when she answers and the camera is pointed at the two of them, I can’t help my wide smile.
“How was your day, Daddy?” she asks.
“You know I love it when you call me that,” I say, thankful that Nick is once again in the shower. The dude takes long showers, and truthfully I don’t care to know what he’s doing in there, but I’m grateful for the quiet time to myself.
She giggles, and Jack babbles.
“What’s on your neck?” I ask.
Her hand immediately moves to the spot I was indicating, and her cheeks redden a little. “That’s from you,” she whispers.
My brows dip together. “From me?”
“Yeah. You…kind of bit me a little when you were, well, you know.” She clears her throat. “Finishing.”
“I bit you?” I remember some gentle kissing, maybe baring my teeth a little, but it looks like she has a bruise.
“Yeah.” She squirms a little. “And it was hot.”
I can’t help my laugh. “We can talk more about that later, and we will, but first I want to know how your day was.”
She launches into a story about everything the two of them did together, and honestly…this feels like the best part of my day. It’s mundane, and the details don’t really matter, but it’s listening to her talk and seeing the two of them that’s making me feel that little slice of home that’s always missing at camp.
“How about you? How was your day?” she asks.
“Fine.” I give her some details about what we did, and then I say, “My mother called right when I got back to my room last night asking about her grandchild.”
“Ivy,” she hisses.
“Ivy,” I agree.
We both laugh.
Jack starts to fuss, and she says she better go. I feel good after talking to her, but then I always do.
The next conversation I have takes me down a notch.
I see my brother Ford is calling, and I pick up expecting to shoot the shit with him about camp in our respective cities, but that’s not what I get.
“How’s Tampa Bay?” I answer.
“Did you hear about Coach Murph?”
My blood runs cold for a second. “No. What happened?”
“He was in an accident last night. They’re not sure he’s going to make it.”
“Fuck,” I mutter. Coach Murph was the high school varsity coach starting my junior year. Madden had already graduated, and he took over the program and revolutionized it. He was only at the school seven years, but he led the team to a state championship every year. He went on to coach college, where he still coaches today.
He was more than a coach to us. He pushed us to work smarter, to find our motivation, and to cultivate bonds with our teammates. He steered me in a smarter direction when I started getting into some heavy shit my junior year, and I wouldn’t be the player I am today if not for him.
