Page 13 of My Secret Bandit

“Grumpy this morning, huh?”

“Yes! And I’ll tell you something. I am not going to practice after this or back to the office. I’m taking my ass home and going right back to sleep.”

It was early as shit, but, funnily enough, I barely registered the hour on the clock when I got out of bed this morning. An early morning practice sounded horrendous, but an early morning practice watching professional athletes spend time with the kids in their community was journalism gold.

With a whistle between his lips, Jordan Abel rounded everyone up in front of us.

“All right. Scrimmage time. You’ll run your plays, then we’ll help you adjust and give out any tips we can. After that, we’ll break off and go through some drills. Offense on me, Alec, and Woodpecker. Defense with Mattie, Q, and Campbell.”

“What kind of name is Woodpecker?” one kid near the back of the huddle yelled out. An uproar of laughter from his teammates followed his question.

“What do you say, Peck? You wanna explain that one?” Mateo teased. The surrounding men tried to hide their snickers by covering their grins with their hands or just turning around altogether.

“Tell you what, kid,” Woodpecker—actual name, Allen Peck—started, “hit me up in a year or two. It’s too early in the day to deal with angry parents. Now come on, times a tickin’.”

The kids broke off into their groups and started going through plays.

Jordan, Mateo, and the rest of the pros stood nearby.

Eyes transfixed.

Absorbing every move the boys made.

Mateo stood with his arms crossed, his chest looking even larger than before. He leaned over to Jordan and said something before moving out onto the field as the play ended.

“Can I show you something?” Mateo asked one kid. He stepped aside and let Mateo into his position. Crouching, he got into the same stance the boy had been in moments ago. “You stand a little flat-footed, right? Because of that, you’re coming off the ball late, and number eighty beats you through the lane.” The boy looked down at Mateo’s feet as they moved up and down, almost unnoticeable from the small distance that separated us. “Keep your feet moving. It’ll help you accelerate faster. You’ve got great field awareness, trust your gut, tiptoe ’til the snap, then breakaway. You’ll beat your man every time. Cool?”

“Yeah.” The kid nodded.

“You got it.” Mateo patted his helmet. “Can we run that last play back?” he called over the group.

Maroon jerseys on offense and black jerseys on defense, the kids got into position. The boy followed Mateo’s instructions and shifted softly.

Ball snapped, the kid took off. The last few times they ran this play, the tight end got ahead of him by a good five feet, making a completion every time.

But not this time.

An extraoomphpropelled him forward. Diving, he knocked the ball from the air, inches from the tight end’s hands.

A frenzy of enthusiastic “oohs” echoed across the field, and Mateo’s “attaboy” resonated with heartfelt excitement.

The rest of the practice went a lot like that. Each kid getting to shine after some helpful insight from the pros. The guys even got on the field and played with the kids.

Wonder filled the eyes of every boy as they wrapped up practice, Mateo and the rest of the men interacting with each kid. A pat on the back, a handshake, a slap to the helmet, anything to show them they were proud of them.

Then the real journalism bit kicked in. We spent the next thirty minutes talking to the pros, the kids, and the coaches, getting their perspective on how today went.

“What kind of impact do events like today have on these kids?” I asked the high school’s head coach just as Kyle walked up to join us.

“They love it. Today is always the easiest with getting them out on the field. They look forward to this practice every year. They bring their best stuff to the field, hoping to impress their idols, and that excitement seems to carry throughout the season, and for a lot of them, it goes beyond high school.”

“You think your players really get that kind of inspiration from one practice with these guys?” Kyle asked.

“It’s not just one practice. While today is the one all the cameras come out for, these guys are always giving back and helping us get these kids ready for adulthood, regardless of if they continue with football or not.”

“That’s great, Coach. Thank you,” I said, letting him get back to his kids as the school bells beckoned them to their classes and the field cleared out.

“Do you always have to be such a skeptic?” I asked Kyle once we were alone.

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