“No. They’re making final decisions in the next few weeks, with the event slated for right before training camp begins.”
“Don’t they usually plan this shit a full year in advance?”
Troy nods. “They scrapped everything due to costs and lack of volunteers. The usual donors, the Carrington family and their real estate business, were demanding more control over the event. The board pushed back.”
“Good,” I state, pushing my plate away. “I think I’ve met them once, and I’m cool with never meeting them again. The guy had the nerve to ask me if I wanted to meet one of his daughters within a couple minutes of introducing himself. I don’t have any respect for a man who pawns his kids off on me.”
“He has two daughters,” Troy says. “One is married, and a vapid, narcissistic bitch. I’ve heard through the Denver grapevine that the parents don’t speak well of the other daughter. Apparently she’s a mess.”
I grimace. “Is she actually a mess, or just someone the parents don’t have control over?”
Troy shrugs. “Who knows. I’ve never interacted with any of the children. Once rich people realize I’m not going to introduce them to my clients just because they’re wealthy, they leave me alone.”
If only that were the case with me. “Do I have to give you an answer about being the MC now? Can I get them to make any concessions?”
“They’d like to know by the end of the week. I can ask about anything. Obviously you’re the founder of the charity, Jamie. You don’t have to do anything you don’t want to do. The only thing they seem to be pretty set on is having you partner with a local veterinarian to do some of the planning, as well as marketing for many of the shelters in the area. The vet is apparently very involved with the Humane Societies around Denver, and provides supplies to trap-and-release organizations all along the Front Range.”
“Who’s the veterinarian?” I ask, wracking my brain to think of who it might be. The Denver metropolitan area has well over three million residents, so it’s likely someone I’ve never heard of.
“They referred to him as Dr. A. That’s all I know.”
“Would he be an MC as well?” I ask hopefully. The thought of being front and center anywhere but a football field is nauseating.
“No, he’d be behind the scenes.” Dammit. Troy gives me a sympathetic smile. “I can ask if he’d be willing to help out. To take some of the limelight off of you.”
I shake my head. “No. I’m sure he’s not used to being in the public eye. It’s probably better if it’s only me. Maybe it’ll bring more money that way.”
“Do you want me to tell the board you’re a go?”
I sigh before nodding. “Fine. But I want to get a correspondence going with Dr. A before we meet. Before he finds out who I am.”
Troy nods. “Alright. The usual incognito email?”
“Yep.”
I’m not sure if other athletes also have an alternate email with a fake name, or if it’s just me. I know tons of guys use fake names when they check in at hotels, or when they have dinner reservations. Lots of us have private social media accounts for just close friends and family.
I’m pretty sure I’ve taken it a little further with my James Young email, though. It’s been so instrumental in allowing me to schedule donation drop offs, working anonymously at shelters, and even working out times I can stop by Colorado Children’s Hospital to visit when it’s not going to be a news story.
I can’t use Jameson or Jamie. But James is a common enough name that people don’t question it. And I chose the name Young after my favorite NFL quarterback growing up, Steve Young. I’m not even sure why I felt such a connection with Steve Young, considering I wasn’t a San Francisco fan growing up. I’d never been to California until traveling there for college. I’d seen multiple interviews with Steve as I began my football career in the nineties, right as his career was winding down.
I think the thing that really struck me about Steve was how much he fought for his job. It wasn’t easy. He didn’t have perfect seasons back-to-back. He was resilient and determined. Even after injuries and multiple concussions, he never gave up. That was the kind of quarterback I wanted to be.
I knew I loved football from the first moment my little hand touched the pigskin. I loved how it felt. How it smelled. Thesound it made when I threw a perfect spiral. I only lasted one season playing flag football, before I begged my parents to let me switch to a tackle team. Every sound, from the harsh breathing on a cool October morning, to helmets crashing together, was like music to my soul. I loved every note.
Growing up in the panhandle of Florida, I was surrounded by amazing prep sports programs. High school football is huge in Florida, and I was expected to follow my dad to his alma mater, Florida State. I know they meant well, but my parents were a little too pushy about wanting me to do things the same way they did. They met at FSU when my mom was the ‘sweetheart’ for my dad’s fraternity, Sigma Alpha Epsilon. My mom was a member of the Zeta Tau Alpha sorority, and she has always said her year as the SAE sweetheart was one of the best of her life, because it introduced her to my dad.
She undoubtedly still thinks that, even though they’re divorced. She stayed with him through countless affairs, and I know their divorce was much harder on her than him. Could be why she chose to make such a colossal mistake, engaging in an affair of her own. Of course, her affair was huge. Monumental, and national news.
The idea of participating in a fraternity practically made me break out in hives. It shouldn’t have. Being part of a football team is similar to a fraternity in a lot of ways. I knew what to expect with football, though, and couldn’t take on the idea of a frat. College itself was enough of a new life for me.
My dad waxed poetic about his time at FSU. Told me fond stories about almost getting alcohol poisoning, how much enjoyment he got out of hazing new pledges, and how a different fraternity chapter got expelled after a student reported being sexually assaulted by four members of the frat. The fact that my dad believed the frat over the girl was enough to tell me I wantednothing to do with Greek life at FSU, and I wasn’t too sure about attending there at all.
Instead, I went as far away as I could possibly go, accepting a scholarship at the University of Oregon. I knew if I stayed anywhere in the Southeast, my parents would be way too involved in my life, and I wanted to get out from under their suffocating umbrella.
For the most part, I understood some of their concerns. I’m their only child, and they didn’t want to give me up yet. Plus, they knew my struggles with having difficulty recognizing social cues. But instead of being proactive and using any means necessary to help me develop, they pulled me tighter into their circle. My childhood consisted of school, football, and them. It wasn’t until I was finally at Oregon that I could ask for help.
If it wasn’t for one of my assistant coaches, I’d still be struggling. He recognized my quiet cries for help. He saw the similarities between his son and me, and pointed me to a developmental psychologist. Which is how I was finally diagnosed with autism at the ripe old age of twenty.
