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I’m totally screwed for Saturday night if I can’t even hold it together seeing him through a television screen.
After all this time, he shouldn’t still do this to me, but my body obviously hasn’t gotten the message that he’s off limits.
The commentators are rattling off his career stats that I’m sure Xavier could also recite off the top of his head at any given time. Watching Jordan with his team, you can tell the respect he holds as they all listen intently to his instructions on the plays he wants run. I often wonder what goes through his head on the field. Does he ever think about anything other than football when he’s sitting on the sidelines waiting to take the field, or when they’re walking back to reset a play? Being as good as he is, I highly doubt it. He must have the ability to block everything out except for what is happening in that exact moment. I wish I had that skill some days, that’s for sure.
On field, the play is set just like he has instructed, and once they start moving, it’s like it’s in slow motion.
I can see it coming.
I want to reach into the television, scream out to him to watch his back for the other team’s defense. His team has lost control of holding them off. They can no longer protect him.
Holding my breath and watching Jordan get sacked from behind, I slowly slide down onto the barstool. My stomach is squirming, and it feels like the pounding of my heart is so loud that everyone else should be able to hear it, because it sounds as loud as a drum beat in my head. I can’t take my eyes off the screen. The big crowd in the bar is screaming loudly at the screens on the walls, which means I can’t hear a word of what the commentators are saying. The fans are not happy that their favorite has been hurt.
The same words are repeating over and over in my head while I hold my breath.
Get up, Jordan.
Get up, Jordan.
Just get the fuck up.
This is why I struggle watching him play. These exact moments when he gets hit.
Not that it happens often, because he is on top of his game, but on the times when it does, I feel like I age a few years. My professional training means I know all the possible scenarios of injuries that could come from such a hit, and worst of all, the high risk of brain injuries to every player every time they take the field.
Come on, what is taking so long!
Get him up!
It’s just like in his senior year at high school when he went down, and I remember my mom almost running out onto the field in a panic. She’s a worrier, and Jordan’s parents weren’t there. To her, Jordan was like one of her children, so she figured it was her duty to take over the mother role for him too. Dad had to hold her back, and later that night, when of course Jordan was fine, we all laughed at her around the dinner table while she fussed over him.
I wonder who looks after him now, since his wife never seems to be around, with her own busy career. Shaking my head slightly, I dismiss that thought before it takes hold. It’s none of my business.
Time is standing still on the field as the players circle around him, and the overhead camera is trying to get the best shot of what the trainers are saying to him, so the broadcasters can get the scoop for the fans at home. I can see his legs and arms moving so that settles my nerves slightly. Slowly he gets to his feet and pulls his helmet off, giving his head a shake. He speaks to his trainer who slaps him on the ass, and then Jordan starts heading off the field to be checked by the team doctor. It’s not long before Jordan is heading back to the field, yelling to his team, and the players on both sides are dispersing back into place.
The moment he slips his helmet back on and the camera zooms in on his eyes, I see the intense concentration is back and I can finally breathe.
He’s okay, for the moment anyway.
The deafening beat in my ears is starting to slow, and the beads of sweat on my forehead are beginning to cool, but I can’t help but still feel unsettled about it.
“You okay? You look a bit pale.” Zara is by my side and giving me a once-over.
“Yeah.” It’s my only reply while she starts looking around the room to try to work out what’s happening.
“Who do I need to yell at?” I can see the tough girl coming out as she stands tall with her hands on her hips.
“Him!” I point to the TV screens where the cameras are focused in on Jordan as he’s receiving the ball once again and the play is in motion.
“Ohhhh, I see.” She reaches her arm around my shoulder and pulls me into her side for a hug.
“Man, if he makes you nearly faint and he’s not even in the room, then you are in serious trouble, girlfriend.” Zara’s trying not to laugh at me, I can tell. She is the only one who really knows how I feel about him.
“Bitch, don’t I know it.” I take a deep breath and stand up from the barstool. “Let’s get out of here. I can’t watch this any longer, and if I stay here for another ten minutes, I might just drink way too much, and we will both be regretting it in the morning.”
Linking my arm through Zara’s, we’re heading out the door as the crowd lets out a big cheer. I don’t even turn around, hoping it’s a good cheer and not another one like before.
“By the way, why will I be regretting it in the morning, if you’re the one drinking yourself stupid?” Zara asks as we step out onto the sidewalk, the fresh night air hitting us.
