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Murphy
When I left Sabrina in bed this morning, I kissed her goodbye, and she told me to win.
I think that may be easier said than done today. I head toward the locker room after the trainer finished stretching out my arm and taping me up for the game. When I walk back in, I notice something doesn’t feel right.
I can’t explain it, but the room feels off somehow.
I see Brady zoning out with his earbuds in his ears. Bash is getting his hands taped. Dixon has his helmet on as he smacks it, psyching himself up. We all have our own ways of getting ready for a game. I just don’t know that any of it will be enough after the shit week the team has had.
Practices have been a mess.
Morale is nonexistent.
I don’t know how to turn it around.
I don’t know if we’ve got it in us.
Coach Barnett walks into the room and over to the corner where the speaker system sits on a shelf. He shuts off the music and moves back to the center of the room. He isn’t the coach who typically gives the pregame speech. That’s usually Coach Phillips’ job. Pretty sure Coach Barnett must know that we need him today. He’s watched us struggle all week. He kept telling us we were better than this, that the way we were playing was beneath us.
I think he’s the only one who can pull us together now.
Coach calls us in to the center of the locker room. “Take a knee, men.”
You can tell by the expression on his face and the fact he’s not making eye contact that this isn’t going to be a normal pregame speech. Coach Barnett isn’t a yeller. Coach Phillips is the loudest of our coaches. Coach Barnett is one of those guys who’s scarier when he’s quiet.
Today, he’s quiet.
“I recruited Jamie. I went to Iowa and recruited him myself. I went to his house. I sat at his table. I ate dinner with his parents. I met Charlotte that night. I convinced him to pass up the wrestling scholarship he was being offered at the University of Iowa and to come play for me. I sat there and promised his mother he’d be safe.”
His shoulders raise and drop as he takes a deep breath before continuing. “I know you’re all upset. I know you’re hurting. I am too. Whatever guilt you have, I’m feeling it too. But the way you’ve practiced this week is a disgrace. It’s beneath you, and it’s beneath Jamie.” We can all feel Coach’s eyes searing through us.
“Do you think he’d want you to lay down and feel sorry for yourselves? Because that’s what you’re doing.
“Do you think he’d want to be the excuse you use when you lose this game? Because if you walk out onto that field and play the way you have all week in practice, you’re not gonna win. “You’re gonna hand them the win. Do you think that’s honoring Jamie?”
Coach has gotten louder now. “This game. This game is personal. This is the game you’re gonna remember at the end of the season. How you choose to play this game is going to determine how you remember it. You’re hurting. Make them hurt worse. Make them scared of you. Make them scared to touch the ball. Make them scared you’re going to destroy them. Make them want to get back on the plane and go home.”
“You’re angry. Take it out on them.” Coach’s eyes are starting to tear up. “You want to hit something? Hit them. Show them they can’t come into our house thinking they’re gonna push us around in a game dedicated to one of our captains.”
Then Coach looks at me. “Play like Jamie would play.”
Coach moves to the side of our circle as Coach Phillips moves into the center.
“Bring it in, men!” he yells.
Helmets are put on as we move in closer.
Coach calls out, “Who’s house?”
“Our house!” the team yells back.
Coach calls out louder, “Who’s house?”
We move in closer, as a single unit. You can feel the electricity surging through the locker room. We echo back, “Our house!”
Coach’s booming voice can be heard vibrating throughout the halls. “Who’s house?”
Shoulder to shoulder and bouncing on our toes, the response is nearly deafening.
