Page 63 of Brushed and Buried
Eventually? The flippant dismissal hits me like a slap. Ten years of burying this part of me, of us, and he reduces it to something that would just “eventually” surface.
“Did you know what Mitchell was going to do to him?”
“Mitchell’s a piece of shit, but that’s not news.” Victor’s voice remains steady, clinical. “What exactly are you asking me, son?”
“I’m asking if you knew he was going to proposition Adrian, if you set the whole thing up.”
“I set you up to see the truth, yes. Someone needed to open your eyes.”
The silence that follows stretches long enough that I can hear my own heartbeat.
My grip tightens on the phone. “What gives you the right to manipulate people like that?”
“Because you needed to learn discipline, to compartmentalize. That’s what champions do. They don’t let personal complications derail their focus.” His voice takes on the tone he used during my youth training sessions, matter-of-fact and uncompromising. “Look at your career, Vincent. Six years in the NFL. Endorsement deals. Financialsecurity. You think any of that happens if you’d gotten distracted by some art boy at eighteen?”
“Distracted.” The word tastes bitter. “Art boy. God, you’re such an asshole, Dad.”
“Watch your tone with me, son. I’ll let it slide this time because I understand you’re emotional.” His voice stays controlled, but I know him well enough to catch the warning underneath. “That’s exactly what I’m talking about. You and emotions never mixed well. That’s what was happening back then. You were falling apart on the field, missing tackles, losing focus during critical plays. You were struggling even before that final game. The scouts noticed. I had to do something.”
The memory of that final game comes rushing back. The way my hands shook before every snap, the way I couldn’t seem to find my rhythm.
“The pressure you put on me,” I say slowly, “the constant monitoring, the way you made every game feel like life or death. That’s what was messing with my head, not Adrian. You turned football from something I loved into this crushing obligation where every play felt like it would determine my entire future.”
I take a breath, the words pouring out now.
“The way you’d dissect every mistake for hours after games, replaying my failures over and over until I could barely sleep. You made me believe that one bad performance meant I was letting down generations of Holloway legacy.”
“Pressure makes diamonds, son. You needed to understand what was at stake.”
“What was at stake for you, you mean.”
Victor’s voice hardens. “Everything I built was for you. My reputation, my connections, my coaching program. You think any of that meant shit if my own son couldn’t deliver when it mattered?”
The raw honesty in his admission catches me off guard. For the first time, I hear something beyond the calculated control, something that almost sounds like fear.
“When I learned about Callahan approaching Mitchell,” he continues, “I saw an opportunity to show you exactly what kind of person he was. Someone unpredictable, impulsive, one of those idealistic types who’d drift through life following their feelings instead of making calculated decisions.”
He pauses, and I can almost hear the gears turning.
“Not like us Holloways. We plan, we strategize, we control outcomes. This kid just went wherever his heart led him, thought he could charm his way through problems with his art and good intentions.”
“He was trying to help me.”
“He was being naive and reckless. He’s the kind of person who brings others down with poor judgment.”
“So, you orchestrated the whole thing, making sure I’d be there to see him at Mitchell’s hotel.”
“I made sure you understood what you were dealing with. You’re dealing with a boy who thought he could manipulate the system, who had no concept of what real sacrifice looks like.” Victor’s voice takes on the hard edge I remember from my youth. “In my day, we didn’t let anything interfere with the goal. When your mother started becoming difficult, when we were fighting constantly, screaming matches that went on for hours about my training schedule, my work priorities…”
He trails off for a moment.
“She’d threatened to leave, demanded I choose between football and family like they were mutually exclusive. All that chaos, all that emotional drama bleeding into my preparation time, affecting my sleep, my focus during film study. I couldn’t perform at peak level with that kind of domestic instability poisoning my headspace.”
The thoughtless way he mentions destroying his marriage and disrupting my childhood sends a chill through me. “You chose football over your family.”
“I chose excellence over mediocrity! And it worked. Two Pro Bowl seasons, a coaching legacy that opened doors for you that most kids can only dream of.”
“And Mom? What about what she wanted?”
