Unfortunately that's always been the biggest problem here in New York. Finding the right players at the right price point to protect me every Sunday, because I get sacked more than any other quarterback in the league, and that shit is no fun. When commentators throw out my stats in a broadcast it sounds as if I'm the worst quarterback to have ever played the game, and that I don't know my ass from my elbow. But that's far from the truth.
I'm the shit.
I was the number one draft pick.
I won the Heisman Trophy.
I've been raised to dominate and to win. So I definitely know how to avoid my opponents when I'm on the field, but the fact remains that I need time to throw the ball. It's that simple. Football 101. You can't blame me if management can't do their jobs, and pay five good men more money then they've ever seen in their lives to protect me and give me time to throw the damn ball.
"Stevenson!"
"Yes, coach."
"Meet the new guy. We're putting him in place of Wachowski."
That's just great. Ten minutes ago my tight end got trampled, and the backup is suspended because of a drug violation; so now after halftime, I'm going to be thrown in the middle of the goddamn game with a tight end I've never met before.
I realize that injuries and last minute replacement of players is part of the game, but I still hate that shit. I'm having a hard enough time establishing chemistry with the players that I already know.
"Pleasure, man," the new guy says eagerly.
I reluctantly shake hands with this big ass, grinning, muscle-head who appears to be my new tight end. I don't feel like meeting this kid right now, because we're losing and I'm pissed. Plus I don't feel like making pleasantries, or getting friendly with new players. He may not make the cut. Then I've gotten all attached for nothing. I learned that hard lesson my rookie year in the league. Nobody's job is safe. Everyone is expendable.
"What's up," is all I mange to say in response.
I'm not trying to have a full blown conversation with the new kid, when we only have a few minutes to figure out how the hell we're going to get the ball into the end zone next quarter.
"Followed you when you played for Capitol City, man. I'm a real fan."
"Thanks."
I don't really like talking about my time at my alma mater, Capital City College. Mainly because I was a winner there. Aphenomas the papers often described me. And people often compare my performance there to my performance now. Which can be best described asnotwinning.
"Cooper's got the goods," Coach says with confidence. That's unusual for him to speak so highly of someone who's brand spanking new to the team, but I've been sold the same bullshit before. So I'm not going to even get my hopes up.
"Excellent," I respond with faux enthusiasm. "We need someone on this team besides myself who hasthe goods."
"Looking forward to helping out," Cooper says then he walks away towards the rest of the team who's waiting to hear our usual halftime strategy slash pep talk. I sayusualbecause it seems like we're always losing after the second quarter, and therefore always getting these types of motivational speeches.
Yet that shit never seems to work.
I pause for a moment to myself, thinking that I may have come off as a bit of an arrogant asshole to the new guy, but he'll just have to understand. It's just my frustration talking. The press has been ripping me a new one over the last two seasons and it's been taking its toll.
I feel the weight of each and every season on my back and it's heavy like a motherfucker. When we lose, and we lose a lot, everyone looks at me as if this shit is not a team sport. As if it's all on me. They say I don't protect the ball. That my arm is not as powerful or accurate as it used to be. They say I don't play like I want to win. As if I don't want a championship ring when that's all I want. It's all I've ever wanted. It just seems so far out of my grasp right now. I can't seem to see a bright light at the end of this loserville tunnel.
"Stevenson!"
"Yes, Coach." I answer one of my other coaches - Coach B.
"We have plenty of time to turn this thing around. Stop trying to go for the damn touchdown every throw. Just get a first down for Christ's sake!"
"Somebody needs to catch or run the damn ball in order for me to do that, Coach B." I say loudly enough for all of my sloppy wide receivers to hear.
"Somebodywill if you'd just throw it to the man you're supposed to. We've run these plays all week, but you seem to have forgotten every single one," Coach B replies icily.
The team's offensive coordinator, Coach Benny, is not my biggest fan. Rumor has it that he actually wanted to go with the number two quarterback in the draft the year I entered instead of me. As a matter of fact, I was told the owner didn't particularly want me that badly either, although he'd never admit to that publicly.
From what I can tell over the last three years that I've been with the Nighthawks, only our head coach, Coach Ryan, really wants me here. That's why I try my best to work my ass off for him, as well as for myself. I don't ever want his position to be in jeopardy because of me, but clearly I'm not doing such a good job of that, because after halftime, we lose by seven points.
