He returned his attention to the entire group again.
“Losing is an unfortunate part of the game, guys. It doesn’t matter if it’s high school, college, or the pros, you’re going to lose and it’s going to suck. I know how that feels,” he reiterated. “But I also know how it feels to fight your way out of a losing stretch. And that’s all this is. You know how to win. And you’regoingto win. You just have to believe in your ability to do it.”
Their expressions changed in real time, their heads lifting higher, their chests sticking out just a bit more. It gave him the confidence to keep going.
As he digested the look on each player’s face, Jamar saw so much of himself. He’d experienced how an inspiring talk, delivered at just the right moment, could give him the boost he needed to make it through the next game.
He tried not to scrutinize the current starting running back, but it was hard not to pay particular attention to the guy who was only two hundred yards away from passing him up in the team’s record books. The irony wasn’t lost on Jamar that he’d been asked to speak words of encouragement to someone he would likely have to battle for a job in the not-so-distant future.
He ended his speech with an invitation for any of the guys to call him if they ever needed help, then accepted the handshake and pat on the shoulder from his old coach.
“I can’t thank you enough for doing this, Jamar. Those kids needed to hear from someone like you, someone who’s been on the field recently and not twenty years ago like me.” Coach Green squeezed his shoulder. “Not everybody can reach players the way you just did. You’ve got something special there.”
“Um . . . thanks,” Jamar said, the words striking a chord he had been unprepared for. He’d come here to help out his former coach, with no expectation of getting anything in return. But he couldn’t deny how incredible it felt to look into those players’ faces and realize that he was making a difference.
Coach Green gave him another firm pat on the shoulder. “Shoot me a text if you can make it to next Saturday’s game. I’ll have sideline passes for both of you at will call.”
As they walked away from the group of players, Taylor leaned over and whispered, “I was ready to pick up a helmet and run out on the field myself after listening to you.”
Jamar chuckled. “I can see that. Powerhouse Powell, kicking ass and taking names across the Big Twelve Conference.”
“Powerhouse. I like it.” She tipped her head in the direction of Coach Green. “He was right, you know. You’re pretty good at giving pep talks.”
“I’ve listened to my share,” Jamar said.
“So I guess I’ll have to learn to like football if I want to build a clientele of football players,” she said.
“I’ll bet by the end of these two months you’re going to wonder how you ever lived without football,” Jamar said.
“You care to place money on that?”
He laughed at her flat tone, but his amusement swiftly dissipated at the sight of Alec Mooney approaching. His blog and podcast were lauded as the gold standard in college football. Jamar appreciated him because he was fair and didn’t rely on sensationalism to get his point across. He also liked that Alec always carried around a slim notebook, as if he were single-handedly trying to bring back old-school reporting.
Still, Jamar’s relationship with the media had been a bumpy one. They’d treated him as the darling of Texas football since high school, a kid who had it all: brains, brawn, and the type of easygoing personality that made reporters gravitate toward him. As a straitlaced kid from a two-parent, middle-income suburban household, he defied the stereotype that the NFL was comprised of young black men who used football as their only way out of inner-city poverty.
The media adored him, but they’d typecast Silas the moment it was revealed that his birth mother was serving time in a Texas state prison. Silas had taken it in stride. Jamar wasn’t so forgiving. It didn’t matter how decent and equitable Alec Mooney appeared on the outside; the fact that he was a member of the media placed him squarely in Jamar’s Do Not Trust category.
“Hey, Diesel. Long time no see,” Alec said as he approached. “You’ve been MIA lately. I figured I’d see you on the sideline of at least a couple of Longhorn games this season.”
Jamar shrugged. “I haven’t been able to make any games yet, but when Coach Green calls, he knows I’m here for him.”
Alec nodded. “How is the knee holding up? Is Dr. Hoffman the orthopedic wizard everyone claims he is?”
“I couldn’t have asked for a better surgeon,” Jamar said, bending his knee.
“Hi there,” Alec said, offering Taylor his hand. “Alec Mooney from Central Texas Sports Talk.” Jamar was about to apologize for not making introductions when Alec added, “You were in that viral dating video a few months ago. Weren’t you one of that guy Craig’s girls?”
Jamar saw the way Taylor’s jaw tightened and knew Mooney was in trouble. He crossed his arms over his chest and waited for the show. It promised to be a good one.
“Taylor,” she said in an excessively sweet voice that signaled to any guy with half a brain that his ass was grass. “I much prefer being called by my name than to be called ‘one of Craig’s girls.’ It’s sexist as hell to refer to any woman as someone’sgirl.”
Alec had the blank look of someone who’d been put in his place so soundly that he didn’t know how to react.
“Umm . . . yeah, sorry about that,” he said. “That was rude. Please, accept my apology.”
That was a half-decent recovery. Jamar was impressed.
Taylor gave him one of those regal, Queen of England nods. “Apology accepted,” she said, her smile more genuine this time around.
