“Take a seat, Porter.” Ever the gentleman, Porter pointed first to a chair on the other side of Coach’s desk for me, then took the other one for himself. “I got an interesting call this morning.”
“Oh, yeah?” Porter replied, his eyes passing over the coach’s desk, looking for the banner.
“Yeah. It was the wide receiver coach for the San Francisco 49ers.”
Porter’s eyes snapped up from perusing the desk to meet Coach Mercer’s sightline. Due to his emergency appendicitis surgery, Porter hadn’t gotten to play the last game of his final college football season. Princeton lost to Dartmouth, which meant the other senior players felt responsible for the loss, and Porter ended his college football career feeling low. He spent the last game convalescing in his dorm room with me and his books, trying to make up for missing the team comradery.
“The Niners want to sign you as a free agent.” Coach allowed a moment for the information to sink in. For both of them.
Porter only nodded a few times but didn’t comment, so Coach continued. “There’s a camp you’re expected to be at in late July. There’s also some unofficial voluntary camps for the eighth-round draftees and unrestricted free agents in late May and early June. You should strongly consider attending both opportunities.”
The recommendation was delivered not as a choice but as a requirement to honor the surprise offer, I realized, no one in this room was expecting. Least of all me.
“Do you want to hire an agent?” Coach asked.
Wait!I blurted in my brain, but thankfully not out loud.Is this a done deal? What about the PhD program? What about my carefully constructed long-distance dating plan that works if Porter is only an hour-and-fifteen-minute train ride away, not clear across the country?
As if Coach Mercer read my mind, he continued, “Listen, I know you got into the PhD program here and that is probably where your heart truly lies, but man, this is the opportunity of a lifetime. Not that you’re asking, but if I were you, I would talk to Princeton about deferring your graduate studies. Your brain can always go to school, but your body has just been given the short window of a lifetime to play pro ball. You only have a few years to take advantage of it.”
Slow nods from Porter again.
“Not to mention you will be making more money in your twenties than you ever will as a tenured professor.” Coach put an exclamation point on his statement with a hard pound on his sleek desk.
As much as Coach Mercer was urging Porter to make an immediate decision, I knew my boyfriend better than anyone. He was not lacking in thought or careful calculation when it came to making life choices. Even determining what to have for dinner was a deliberation.
“I don’t need an agent. I’ll represent myself.” Porter didn’t hesitate.
My jaw practically hit the desk.
“You sure?” Coach asked. Before Porter responded, he continued, “Not a bad move, son. You’re way smarter than the average football player, and there really isn’t much negotiating power for an eighth-round draft pick. It’s basically minimal money for the NFL the first year and an iron-clad rookie contract. You prove yourself in your first season and then you may want to consider getting yourself a real agent. Porter, I couldn’t be happier for you, my man. You deserve it. Good luck to you.”
Porter stood to shake his coach’s hand again. “Thanks, Coach.”
“I’ll reach out when I get more information. In the meantime, I’ll pass along your number to the 49ers.”
For a few moments while they congratulated each other, my mind zinged with all kinds of questions and concerns, and I wanted to shout,Hold on, that’s it? Decision made? What about hours of pros and cons? Sleepless nights? Doesn’t Porter want to at least weigh this unexpected optionwith Charles, who can most relate? Plus, Porter and I need to talk about this change in our plan. Doesn’t he at least want to talk to his parents?
We headed out of the office and were almost halfway to Stokes Library without a word spoken between us. We simply walked side by side. My arms were crossed over my chest, and Porter’s hands were shoved deep in his pants pockets. I didn’t know what to say, and it was evident Porter was not going to be the first to speak. I couldn’t decide if I was happy for Porter that within a month, he had received two once-in-a-lifetime offers of a PhD spot at Princeton and a place in the NFL draft. I wondered if Porter was overjoyed at this unexpected fork in the road or in negotiation with the two sides of himself: smarts and speed. As we walked, Porter seemed to be intently taking in the architecture of the buildings he had been passing for the last four years with a newfound reverence, like he had already decided he wouldn’t be seeing them again. It also felt like he was avoiding seeing me.
“How do the 49ers even know about you?” I decided to be the one to break our strained silence with a fact-finding mission before I informed Porter that this all seemed ludicrously out of left field. “The only mention I ever heard you make about the NFL was when you were writhing in agony in your room before we went to the health center. Then nothing ever again. Honestly, because you were in so much pain, I thought you were hallucinating the whole thing.”
Porter nodded in agreement of my assessment of the lack of logical steps that led to this moment.
“How do they—or, I guess, any team—know you’re healthy enough for the draft when you didn’t even play in the last game of the season? For all they know, you haven’t been cleared to ever play football again.”
“Remember over Presidents’ Day weekend when you and Quinn went home and Charles and I took a road trip?”
“Yeah,” I drew out, tentative to hear where this was going. Charles’s parents gifted him a car to use on campus second semester of our senior year, and it led to Porter exploring much more of the tristate area and Pennsylvania than he was ever able to take in from the team bus.
“Charles drove me to an NFL draft camp I had been invited to.”
“You told me you went to Philadelphia to see the Liberty Bell!” I yelled, surprising myself with my eruption.
“I did see it. The camp was in Philly.” I didn’t even know which way to respond: Anger that Porter told me a half-truth. Shock that he didn’t tell me about the camp. Disbelief that Charles, the chattiest dude around to Porter’s stoicism, hadn’t let this information slip in casual conversation.
“I did well at the camp, actually. My timed forty, agility drills, and strength testing were on par with the other wide receivers there.” Porter answered a question I didn’t even know how to ask.
“That may be true, Porter, but what about your brain? You and I both know that is your greatest gift. That’s where your future is.” What I want to say is,That’s whereourfuture is: me at Columbia, you comfortingly close by at Princeton. That was our plan.
