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I move amongst my teammates, stretching and chatting. I learned a long time ago that the easiest way to stay loose before a game is to mingle. Some players put on their headphones and revel in the music, but me, I like to feel the pulse of the team. I make some easy throws with one of the coaches to warm up my arm as the stadium starts to fill up.
It’s a close, hard-fought game, but we manage to pull out a win.
We go straight from the stadium to the airport for an overnight flight from New York back to Sacramento. Randy takes the open seat next to me on the plane and rummages around in his bag. He pulls out a paperback book, but he doesn’t open it.
“I’m going to start practicing next week,” he says.
“Yep. Coach told me.” I’m still starting next week. Coach wants me to play our last game before the bye so Randy can ease into being on the field again.
It’s what I expected to happen, so I’m neither surprised nor upset. The games I’ve played couldn’t have gone better, so I’m optimistic about my football future.
“You’ve done well. I was a bit nervous when they signed you. Rumor was you weren’t much of a team player.” Randy nudges me with his shoulder. “Your reputation surprises me now. You like it here?”
I’m startled by the last question. And unnerved by him freely admitting that he wasn’t sure about me when we first met. “Of course I like it here.”
“But?” he asks.
“I don’t know if I can replicate what I’ve done this season elsewhere.”
Now that I’ve said it, I realize I’m more terrified than I was before the season started. What if this was a fluke? I’ve earned another chance at a starting position, but I haven’t demonstrated anything to myself that I don’t already know.
I’m a talented football player. I was a talented football player last year. And the year before that. And the year I threw eight interceptions.
Talent isn’t enough.
“You can’t,” Randy tells me. “You can never replicate last season. Or last game. It’s a clean slate every week. It’s the best and the worst part of playing this game. Just when you think you’ve got it figured out, someone gets injured. Or the other team’s strength is your weakness. Or you chuck the ball where you think the receiver is going to be and he isn’t there.”
“How do you prepare for every possibility?”
“You don’t. The best game I ever played was four days after my daughter was born. I’d hardly slept. I was running on nothing except for adrenaline and power bars, and I was so tired my brain was barely functioning. Everything I did was purely instinct. It was beautiful. If I could replicate it, I would never lose again.” He laughs. “Unfortunately, I can’t usually make my brain go offline. And my wife can’t have a kid every week.”
“It isn’t supposed to work like that.”
He raises his brow. “How is it supposed to work?”
“The more prepared you are, the better you play.”
He chuckles. “I’ve thrown millions of passes. I’ve memorized countless playbooks. But every game brings something a little different. You can’t prepare for everything. At some point, you’ve got to rely on your training and hope for the best. When were you at your best?”
“Regular season. My rookie year. Before the eight interceptions.”
“There you go. No pressure back then. No expectations. The expectations make it hard, yeah?”
“Yeah. This feels like my last chance,” I admit softly.
“It always feels like your last chance. You play one game at a time. And you have to try to enjoy the ride.” He nudges my shoulder again. “You’ve done well here. We’re lucky to have you.” He reaches up and adjusts the light before he opens his book.
Randy has countless years on me. Tons of experience. He’s a former MVP. A Super Bowl champion. He carries more expectations than I ever have, and he’s still managed to become one of the greats.
If he can play the best game of his career when he was at his most distracted, why am I still worried? What will it take for me to move past my fear?
I stare out the window as the lights from the city fade away.
TWENTY-EIGHT
ELLIE
After I leave Sacramento, I tell myself to avoid everything football.
