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I get out of the car and begin taking photos. He’s going to like this property, as it’s as close to beachfront as I’ve seen so far. Soon, both the developer and real estate broker arrive. I get a pit in my stomach as they approach. I’m not cut out for this. I’d much rather eat a bucket of wings and watch a game in my air-conditioned hotel room than be standing here doing this.
“Alec Tate?” A taller, older man in a sports coat asks me. How he can stand to wear a sports coat in this humidity is beyond me. I wore football uniforms and pads in the San Antonio humidity, so you’d think I’d be used to it. But by day three here, I’d ditched the Sebastian-issued business professional wear.
I nod and shake his hand. “You must be from the brokerage firm?” I say, and then move to the younger guy with a well-trimmed beard. “And you’re the developer.” I had just reviewed their names before I got out of the car, yet I can’t remember them for the life of me. I’m pretty sure one of them is John, but there was another John that I met with yesterday, so maybe I’m just confused.
They give me a tour of the empty lot, and I try to come up with questions that might satisfy Sebastian’s curiosity.
“The last of the buildings from the previous owners were demolished and removed last month, and as you might be able to tell, it’s a double lot. So basically we’re selling the whole block as a parcel,” the broker says.
“We’re interested. I’ll get these photos and specs over to headquarters. My brother, Sebastian, will be in touch.”
We shake hands again, and finally, I can breathe normally. No more meetings for this trip. Hopefully no more meetings for this kind of thing ever. I’m grateful to Sebastian for giving me employment when I was no longer employable in football. Being this CEO of Fun has had its, well, fun moments. At least it’s more about recreation and helping people than it is about scouting or human resources or building permits or a million other things Sebastian and Oliver have to worry about.
I climb in an Uber that’s just arrived for me and settle in, grabbing the courtesy water bottle from a mini-fridge in the back and twisting off the lid. It’s nice to get to chill while someone else drives, but I’m kind of over it now. I’m itching to get my license—to drive again. It will feel good to be behind the wheel. What once freaked me out feels possible again.
“Wait,” I tell the driver a few miles away from my hotel. “Can you turn around? I’d like to go there instead.” I point to the high school on my left that we just passed, that I spied down and away from the bustle of twelve lanes of traffic.
“Uh, okay?” The driver doesn’t sound so sure, but she gets off the freeway.
“I really appreciate you being able to change your route for me,” I tell her as I climb out. I pull up the Uber app and give her as large a tip as I dare. Sebastian is a tight fist.
Since it’s summer, the school is mostly deserted, but sure enough, like I’d hoped, and maybe even sensed, the football team is out on the field. It’s hot and muggy, and I don’t envy their tough physical workout. It’s nice living in more temperate Colorado.
Except, am I going to stay there long-term?
I have no idea. And I have no idea why I’m strolling in there and climbing up to the top of the bleachers. I settle in under the shade canopy and start to make predictions and assessments in my head. They run a five-two defense, and their offensive routes make me smile. I remember running those in high school.
It’s not long before one of the assistant coaches climbs the bleachers, a tablet under his arm. I start to wonder if I’m not supposed to be here.
“Hey,” the coach gives a friendly smile. “Uh, is there something I can help you with? This is a closed camp, I’m afraid.”
I lift a hand and move to stand. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m sure it is.”
“You’re Alec Tate,” he interrupts, squinting and bringing his hand up to shield the sun from his eyes.
I nod. “Yes. I’m in town for some business—unrelated to football, unfortunately—saw the high school and—” I shrug, knowing I could never explain what I’m feeling in a million years to this stranger. “—thought I’d stop by.”
The guy breaks out in a wide grin. “There’s nothing like high school football.”
“Nope. There isn’t.” Now we’re both beaming. It’s like an unspoken code between us. Totally and completely understood.
“Why don’t you come down on the field, so you can better see? We have some water down there, too.”
I spend the next hour there at the training camp, taking it all in. Saying little but feeling completely at home. Some of the kids even ask me for my autograph when the practice ends.
“Get out of here, boys. I’m sure Mr. Tate doesn’t want to sign your sweaty towels.” The head coach barks.
“It’s fine. I don’t mind.” I laugh. I wonder, mildly, if these kids know my stunted history in the NFL.
Doesn’t matter. This isn’t about me.
I try to give them eye contact and I find myself joking back and forth with several of them before they leave.
“Sorry about your injury,” one of the taller kids says.
My gut doesn’t burn with embarrassment like it usually does when I hear comments like that. “You know what? It’s not about what happens to you, it’s about how your respond to what happens to you that makes the difference.”
Where did that come from?I don’t really know, but it feels good. I feel ready to change my responses to healthier ones.
