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But the reality is, right now, I don’t have all that much of a choice unless I want to pack up after the first few days and head back to Houston.
I’d rather sell my left kidney than hear the words “We knew this wasn’t cut out for you” fall from my parent’s disapproving faces.
It’s already 2:30 AM., and I have to be back on that field in less than four hours at Warren’s request. I can thrive on a lack of sleep, but I can’t thrive on a lack of reassurance. And if my brief interaction with Warren left me with anything, it’s a lack thereof.
I’m not sure what exactly I was expecting. Warren’s the leader of the pack, and I’m an outsider coming into his tight-knit circle. But would a little bit of encouragement kill him? Or even just a compliment on my jersey? I mean, after all, without me, his team and his job would’ve been sold, gone,sayonara. Really, he should be grateful he has me, but can I truly fault him when he doesn’t know the truth of it all?
Gramps always said two things when it came to confronting a challenge.
Be confident, and 2) Be willing to fail.
The motto always seemed to work since confidence has always come naturally, and failure has been no mystery to me throughout my life. Both, I seem to be good at, but as with anything, it’s out with the old and in with the new. That’s why I’m revamping the motto.
Be confident, 2) Be ready to succeed, and 3) (an additional bonus) Do itDelaneystyle.
I close my laptop and notebook, where I’ve carefully compiled and color-categorized my list of football vocabulary.
Tomorrow is a new day, and watch out, Crawfield. I’m going to make you love me.
NINE
D E L A N E Y
Eat.Sleep. Football. Repeat.
Which, in Warren’s world, means waking up at the crack of dawn every single morning, freezing my ass off during the walk down to the stadium, and watching the team train for hours on end.
Every. Single. Day.
I don’t think I’ve ever seen so many sunrises in my life, nor have I ever fallen asleep before sunset. Sleep deprivation certainly makes you re-adjust to a new time zone—I hardly even had an opportunity to use “jet lag” as an excuse.
When Warren and I officially met last week, I thought that this “tryout” thing was a joke. Now, I know that Warren might not have a comedic bone in his body.
It wasn’t a joke. Until I prove whatever it is I have to prove to him, my role as the public relations manager for Crawfield FC is tentatively on hold.
At first, I was pretty on top of doing everything possible to earn my stripes. I’d be at the field at six AM sharp, looking as cute as ever, might I add. Hair, makeup, coffee, and adorable outfits. What more could you ask for? But when I learned that fashion doesn’t earn you much respect around here, a trip to thelocal bakery seemed to do the trick. They say that the way to a man’s heart is through his stomach, and that sure seems to be the case for the boys on the team.
Warren, on the other hand, is harder to crack than I’d expected. Seriously, I don’t think I’ve even seen him crack a smile all week. I have no idea what I can do to make him happy…to make him trust me.
This lack of progression between the two of us has led to a regression on my part.
I’ve slept in and showed up late to practice for the last three days in a row. The first time was genuinely a mistake. I forgot to set my alarm, but the other two times were because I dreaded coming down to the field. It’s hard to continually show up to a place where you feel you’re not welcome. Warren is the minority when it comes to the team's fondness of me, but that doesn’t matter. He takes up a majority of my thoughts—I want him to like me. I don’t think I’ve ever wanted someone to like me so much before. But I think my desire for him to like me only makes him like me less.
Take this morning, for example. The team started to run some new drills, and in an attempt to better understand what was going on, I started to ask questions.
Gramps always told me, “Curiosity killed the cat.” As a child, I never understood exactly what he meant by that. But I understood perfectly as I unloaded a series of questions onto Warren, starting with the drill.
What’s this drill called?
“It doesn’t have a name. It’s just a drill.”
