Blind Ambition | ✓

06 | Hype

I was about one more hit away from puking. The turf was about 10 degrees hotter than the actual temperature outside, and if I didn't get myself up, there was a serious possibility I'd just melt into the ground.

"Gunther!" A grating voice cut through the hot, sticky August air, and the sound itself pulled me right back up to my feet.

Coach Knox was from Louisiana, but not the proper southern New Orleans kind of Louisiana. Coach Knox might as well have stepped right out of The Waterboy and into Fairfield County. Nobody moves 1500 miles unless it's for money and trophies, but after three years at New Livingston Day School, Coach Knox had it all.

"You have a good time last night, son?" he asked as he clamped a hand down on my shoulder.

"Yes sir, I did," I gave him a weary nod. "I mean, you know...at home, in my room...doing my summer reading."

Thankfully this morning's practice called for partial pads, otherwise the way Coach Knox was gripping onto my shoulder might have bruised me.

"You're lucky the scouts we had coming today are only coming to second practice, cause you're playing like the god damn village idiot, boy."

The scent of the minty gum he was always chomping on washed over me, and it made my head spin.

"Yes sir," I nodded again. He slapped the top of my helmet endearingly and sent me back out to the field.

I grabbed water from one of the trainers and squeezed the bottle into my helmet and missed most of my mouth, but the cool rush of water down my jersey felt good against my burning skin.

When I huddled the offense for another play, I could swear I was getting drunk off the pure smell of liquor on everyone's breath.

"Listen," I hissed out. "I need 30 more fucking minutes from you guys, okay? That's it."

A collective groan came from the huddle, followed by a few absentminded nods.

I chewed on my mouth guard. "We're gonna run a jet sweep. Eight yard curl to the sideline. I'm gonna throw the damn ball, and so help me god somebody better catch it, or I am going to break into your house while you're sleeping and shave your eyebrows. Got it?"

Another collective moan/nod combo came from the huddle, and we broke. We lined up at the 20 yard line, and even though we were only going against our second-string defense, I tasted the red zone like I tasted the blood on the inside of my mouth.

Everything in my life came easy to me. I did well in school without really having to study. I made friends and got girls without trying. I'd taken the phrase work smart not hard and made it a pillar of my entire existence. But most importantly, I'd engineered myself to be so good at football, it came easier to me than breathing.

Call the cadence. Motion. Drop back two yards. Avoid the rush. Stay in the pocket. Receivers still in coverage. Run. Run. Run.

I tucked the football underneath my arm and shouldered my way through a tiny hole in the defensive line before rushing into open field. 15 yard line. 10 yard line. 5 yard line. Goal line.

The moment I caught sight of our logo painted black on the turf in the end zone, I dropped to my knees and dry heaved.

Everything in my life came easy to me. But football? Football made me me, and I wore the crown like it was simply another part of my head.

✗✗✗

The seniors on the team got locker room sauna privileges before anyone else, and a group of us sat huddled in there trying to sweat out the rest of the beer and vodka from last night before having to drag ourselves back onto the field in an hour.