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I takea deep breath and sit down at the media table. I adjust the microphones and smile at the horde of reporters who are here for the postgame news conference. The press room is always busy these days, packed from end to end with a sea of faces, iPhones and tape recorders, but it’s almost overflowing this evening.
It’s the effect of being undefeated in a tough division, a Cinderella story four years in the making. I remember the days when there were only a handful of journalists who stuck around after the games, six rickety chairs set up in a small cluster to make it look busier than it was.
There’s a different energy when you’re winning, a hot streak you hope to push to the next game, then the next. There’s a buzz, a whisper of electricity, the slow build of something very big, very important on the horizon.
“Nice win, Coach.”
“Shawn, do you have any comments about Darius Wallace’s injury?”
“One at a time, yeah?” I ask the crowd, twisting off the cap of a water bottle and chugging half its contents. I nod at Marcus Monroe, a beat writer I’ve known since college. He’s the only one in the room who stuck around when we were in the dredges of hell, and I always let him ask his questions first. “Go ahead.”
“Darius’ injury,” he starts, and I wait for him to continue. “Have you talked to him? We saw him in the medical tent, then he went to the locker room at the start of the fourth quarter.”
“Yeah, I sat with him for a few minutes after the game. He’s in good spirits. We’ll get an MRI done, but right now it doesn’t look like an ACL tear. When I know a timeline, I’ll share that with you,” I say. Marcus gives me a salute, and I point to a woman sitting in the front row. A notebook balances on her skirt, and there’s a tape recorder in her hand. “Tell me your name?”
She blushes. “Sammie,” she says. “Sammie Stone from The D.C. Sentinel’s digital division.”
“Thanks, Sammie. What do you have for me?”
“You allowed Chase Jones to throw for three touchdowns, and the Raptors’ offense rushed for a hundred and fifty yards. Any adjustments as you get ready for a Thanksgiving showdown against the Minnesota Tornadoes in two weeks?”
“The Raptors played well today,” I say, giving credit where credit is due. “Their offense looked sharp, and their QB has a strong arm. I remember two plays off the top of my head where we should’ve had a sack, but we were slow off the line of scrimmage. We’ll run some drills this week, but I think it comes down to the guys being tired. They’ve been playing hard for three months, and what we’re doing is clearly working. I’m not worried.” I move my attention to the back row where it’s standing room only. I smile at the intern from The Athletic, a kid I met last week who’s going to school for journalism. “Kendall,” I say. “I know you have something to ask.”
“Thanks, Coach.” He turns through his pages of notes. “Sorry, I had it here.”
“No rush. Are you staying in town for Thanksgiving?” I ask.
“Yeah. My parents are local. Hang on, it’s in my other notebook. I’m so sorry.” He digs in his bag, frantic, and I laugh.
“Kendall. Seriously. Take your time. I could tell a joke, but I’m not funny. At least, that’s what my goddaughter tells me. But she’s eighteen. Teenagers aren’t allowed to thinkanyoneis funny, right? It’s part of their creed.”
A laugh rolls through the crowd and I lean back in my chair, pushing my sleeves up my arms. It’s boiling in here, the heat set on high and the maximum occupancy a suggestion, not enforced. A bead of sweat trails down my cheek and I bat it away with the back of my hand before taking another sip of water.
“Found it,” Kendall exclaims, and I smile.
“Good man. The floor is yours.”
“The Titans are 10-0 halfway through November. Five years ago, this same team was on an eight-game losing streak. What do you attribute to the success?” Kendall asks.
“Man, you could’ve just asked me how we got our shit together.” I rock forward and rest my elbows on the table. “I attribute our success to hard work. That’s it. I have fifty-three guys in the locker room who bust their ass every single day, and sixteen men on the practice squad waiting to take their spot. They go all in at practice, on game day, in their personal lives with their diet and sleep schedules. I think it’s the knowledge of being close to something. Of knowing if you work just a little harder, put in a little more effort, it can be yours. It’s going to hurt either way, but it hurts a whole lot less when you have a victory to ease the ache. These guys want to win. I know they’re capable. They know they’re capable, and it’s not an overnight thing. It’s tweaking and fixing and learning and adjusting. Sometimes everything lines up, and magic happens. Right now, everything we touch is magic.”
The room grows quiet. Half the journalists jot down my response in their notebooks, pens on paper and handwritten in short form and abbreviations to go back and review later. The others bend over their laptops and their fingers fly over the keyboards faster than I can think.
My phone buzzes in my pocket, and I pull it out under the table. I unlock the screen, and the background of our team photo from the start of the season is replaced with Lacey’s name.
Lace Face
Can you stop charming the fine people of the media and come out here so we can get some milkshakes?
Please?
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I huff out a chuckle at the photo of Lacey laying on the concrete floor out in the tunnel, her right arm flung over her head in an obvious state of duress. Her hair looks like a halo around her head, and she’s flicking off the camera with her left hand.
Me
God, please don’t die. I’d have no one to ridicule for ordering a chocolate and orange shake. Life would be sad.
