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Sometimes it’s a highly anticipated early season game, or a conference matchup that’s been blooming into an intense rivalry. Other times it’s the championship.
Today is one of those times.
Right after Christmas, I left for Atlanta to prep with the team. Coach Gomez is wound tight, and I don’t blame him; it’s the first time McKee has gotten this far since his tenure as head coach began. The other seniors on the team have been as quiet as I am these past couple of days, meditating on what will be our last college game, win or lose. Some of these guys will end up in the NFL like me and Sanders, but a lot of them won’t. For some of them, this is the last football game they’ll play, period.
And I need to lead them to a victory.
I uncross my legs and stand up, wiping my hands together. The floor of the gym isn’t the nicest meditation space I’ve ever used, but it’s been working fine for my purposes when I add on the noise-cancelling headphones. There are a million thoughts going around my mind right now, begging for my attention, and I can’tgive the time of day to anything that isn’t related to the game plan. It’s just the truth.
I check my watch. T-minus an hour to game time.
In addition to being in Atlanta, the game is Monday night, prime time. We’re playing against Alabama, but that doesn’t scare me.
I can do this. The team is good, and we’ve been clicking on all levels the last couple of games in particular. I could recite the plays in my sleep. I’ve watched so much film of Alabama’s season I can spot their defensive moves in half a second. And I’m going to need to do exactly that to win.
Bo glances over at me as I walk by, rolled-up yoga mat tucked under my arm. “Coach came in while you had your headphones on. We’re having a talk in a few minutes.”
I nod, clapping his shoulder. “Thanks.”
We look at each other for a long moment.
“I appreciate you, man,” I say. “You’ve been incredible this whole season.”
“You’re not too bad yourself,” he says with a lopsided grin. “We’re taking this fucking trophy home.”
“We are.” The words ignite the fire in my belly. I take a deep breath. “Sixty more minutes.”
“Sixty more minutes.”
As I head down the hallway, I check my phone. My family texted wishing me good luck; they’re all at the game, of course. ESPN did a special interview segment on Dad and me a couple of days ago as part of their pre-championship game coverage, and the pride in his voice had me choked up. They got footage from when I was little, throwing around a football at seven, ten, twelve years old, and Mom gave them photos of me in my various uniforms over the years to use in a montage. Some of it wasa little embarrassing, but it was mostly fun. The only awkward moment came when the interviewer asked about my dating life and brought up Sara. I steered the conversation to Bex and got to say that she’ll be on the sidelines taking photographs of the game, so that was awesome.
But I do wonder if Sara will be watching tonight. I haven’t contacted her; her parents asked me not to, and I’ve respected that. But I wish I could send her a message and make sure for myself that she’s okay.
Darryl walks around the corner, whistling. “Hey, Darryl.”
“Callahan,” he says. “Ready for the game?”
“Yeah. Coach is having a talk down in the locker room. Almost time to suit up.”
“Let’s go then.” He leads the way down the hallway. “Bex is here?”
“She is,” I say warily. “She’s actually one of the student photographers. She’ll be on the sideline.”
“Is she?” He pushes open the door to the right room. “Good for her.”
I narrow my eyes. He sounds too flippant for my liking. Hopefully this means he’s just focused on the upcoming game, and with a little luck, finally realizing that Bex is off the market and won’t be back on it anytime soon.
“Yeah,” I say as we join the rest of the guys gathered in the middle of the locker room. “I can’t wait to celebrate with her later.”
I can’t wait to get out onto the field and play this fucking game, but seeing Bex post-game will be incredible. The second we secure the win, I’m finding her on the sideline and kissing her senseless. Just the thought is enough to make me want to run out onto the field.
Coach claps his hands together once we’re all in one place.“Gentlemen. You traveled the road, and you made it here. Let’s take a moment to let that sink in.”
Most of the guys drop their heads down, thinking or praying, some swaying in place, others shutting their eyes. I do that, visualizing the exact moment the referee will blow the whistle to end the game. The stadium will go nuts and my teammates will mob me, but I won’t celebrate until I find my stubborn, perfect girlfriend. Having her on the sideline as a student photographer, besides being cool as hell for her, is a bonus for me. I’ll see her way sooner than any of the other guys will see their partners.
I imagine the whole scene—the confetti, the press running around, Bex chiming in when I talk to the interviewer from ESPN. My teammates pulling me into hugs. The guys from Alabama congratulating me as I tell them they played hard. The moment my family comes down onto the field to congratulate me; the way my father shakes my hand before hugging me. I even imagine the way the championship cap will fit on my head and the weight of the trophy in my hands as I hold it up. This visualization technique is one I use often, but I’ve never gone this in-depth with it before.
I want to leave nothing to chance. I’m going to win this game, come hell or high water.
