I can't believe that the league expects me to take that shit from those vultures week after week. I'm not a machine. I'm flesh and bones with fucking feelings believe it or not.
I've been warned before by management to stop avoiding the press. That's why most games I try to answer some questions and avoid some of the others, but today I couldn't do it. We should have won that game and everyone knows it.
Everyone blames me, because I'm the star. The draft pick that this city has been waiting eons for. Fans are chomping at the bit for me to deliver, and I wish I could, but not with this ragtag team of players I've got backing me.
I can't wait for free agency status. Then I can finally leave New York. It would be the best thing for everyone involved. They don't want me anymore, and I don't want to be here. It's as simple as that. And the icing on this shitstorm cake is that my family is here tonight, because I'm playing in my hometown of Philadelphia, one of the Nighthawks biggest division rivals.
I feel a familiar and powerful thump on my back.
"Tough loss today, Gunslinger."
Kimball is the most respected veteran on the team and captain of the Nighthawk's defense. He knows how much I wanted to win this one for my hometown. Even though they're the competition, I realize that I have plenty of people who follow my career and kids who look up to me here, and I feel like I've let them down.
"Yeah, it sucked ass."
"No doubt, young boy, but let me tell you something a player once told me when I was a rookie. Everyone doesn't make it to the pros. It's not your right to be here. It's a privilege. And the real measure of how much you honor that privilege is how you face adversity when it meets you week after week on the field."
"I'm trying my best, Kimball."
"No, you aren't. Not by a long shot. Your head isn't right. I caught some of your games when you were in D.C. You're used to being the star of a team. The best player on that team. The best player in your division no doubt. But it's not like that in the pros, man. Everyone was the star of their college teams in the pros. Everyone was that go to player. So now you have to set yourself apart from an entire league of elite players. And the only way you're going to accomplish that magical shit is to get the fifty-three men here invested in helpingyouwin week after week.Thatwould be trying your best."
"I would've thought that their paychecks would be all the motivation they needed to become invested in winning. That and the fact that losing sucks."
"Then that's your first mistake, and one you've clearly been making your last three years here. Most football players aren't moved and shaken by dollars. Real warriors have to be motivated by something more. Something bigger than dollars and cents."
"Let's keep it real, old timer. This locker room doesn't give a shit about me or winning."
"It's your job to get them to care. About you. About the team. About winning. I can help you with defense, but it's up to you to get your offensive men on board."
I slam my locker shut in frustration. I'm not angry with Kimball, but it's just a frustrating situation.
"I feel just as fucked up as you, Gunslinger. I've been busting my ass in this league for thirteen years and am only holding out maybe one more season, because I want a championship. I want a Superbowl ring before I retire, Stevenson, and you're going to give it to me. You just have to step the fuck up."
Now I'm ready to curse Kimball out, but not because he's saying shit that I haven't already gone over in my head a thousand times, but because this is not the day or time I need to hear it. At this point he's kicking a man when he's down.
"We'll talk about it more later, chief," I answer dismissively.
Kimball shakes his head and then walks away towards the showers. He's been in the league for over thirteen seasons, and he's definitely to be respected, but I think that if he had said one more damn word, I was going to have to pummel him.
* * *
I take my family out for dinner at my mother's favorite steakhouse. She always gets a piece of prime rib and a crab cake and my dad and I always get the lamb chops. My father and I are alike in many ways, but in others, we're as wide apart as two people can be.
"You guys sucked, Uncle Saint!"
Little shit.
Not only are my parents here but so are my aunt, uncle and my brother's son Jake. My brother Michael and his family live in Pennsylvania, even though he plays for Seattle. They both decided that they'd rather raise their children on this side of the country near my parents. So his wife, Kennedy, occasionally flies to wherever he's playing to see him, especially because they are trying for kid number two. Their son Jake typically stays back with my parents when she's gone, because he has school.
My nephew is a good kid, but he's twelve, and twelve-year-old boys are pubescent, annoying and smelly. That's just a fact. And today is no different.
"How'd your dad do today?" I change the subject already knowing the outcome of my brother's game.
"They won," he replies proudly.
"They always win," I say.
"Yeah they do," he replies chuckling. "And you guys don't."
