“Don’t fucking knock up my sister, Anderson,” Chase interjects as he’s walking in, catching the tail end of our conversation.
“Is it really considered ‘knocking up’ if they’re getting married?” Chase grunts in response to my question.
“You don’t want mini Andersons running around?” Liam’s voice reduces almost to a baby voice as he whips his belt off of his pants.
“What’s that, Anderson?” Coach Aarons walks in with his clipboard hanging from his hand. “Having a baby?”
“Jesus. No, I’m not. I made one comment about wanting a kid and these two are already on their way to naming it.” Ford brings his hands up to Liam and I.
Coach shakes his head with a chuckle, his shoulders moving up and down as he walks by us and to the other end of the locker room.
The deafening sound of fans should drown out any thoughts I have in my mind as we stand in the tunnel about to run out for the home opener. Their excitement should be contagious; it should pump me up. The hype videos are playing on the Jumbotron and I should hear them and get fired up, but I don’t.
I feel anxious.
I feel pressure.
I feel an overwhelming sense of dread.
It’s been like this for months now. The pressure to come out and perform well feels suffocating. I stayed late more often than normal this week, looking over game footage and studying the playbook. I’ve been trying to think of ways to get myself out of the funk, out of my head but I keep coming up short. I spent an afternoon with a few of the rookies the other day in hopes that maybe immersing myself into everything like it’s my first season again will somehow help with everything I’ve been feeling. Somehow bring the joy back.
This game used to be so fun for me, but the anxiety has become all-consuming and I can’t shake it. I can pretend it’s not there, sure. I can walk around the facility, around the field with a smile on my face and jokes ready to go, but deep down I know something’s lurking.
When I think about everything going on in my mind and how it affects me on the field, I’m constantly having to find ways to bring myself back down. Somehow center myself. Honestly, the only thing that has consistently helped has been Mia. When my mind searches for peace, it’s her face I see and her voice I hear. Every crippling moment has always been made better by thesound of Mia’s voice. My best friend is the goddamn sunshine in my life when everything around me is dark and gray.
The offense is introduced and I run out onto the field once my name is up. Fans erupt around me, cannons fire and teammates high five me as I jog over to the bench.
“Time to work. Get in, do your job, get out. Play smart.” Liam makes his rounds as the quarterback, pumping up the team. The game begins and things are off to a shaky start.
“Fuck, thought you had that one,” Ford mentions as we’re walking off the field after a failed third down attempt. Getting out of the backfield today has been hard as hell. I’m sure my rush yards are going to be less than fifty for the whole game.
“I can’t get a fucking gap,” I shout, taking my helmet off and aggressively placing it on the bench before I sit down beside it. I can feel Coach Aarons’ eyes on me, so internally, I tell myself to cool the hell off, but it’s no use.
My hands start to shake as I sit on the bench and I can’t fucking stop them. Jerking my head around, I search the stands.Where are you, Mia?My eyes land on her a moment later. Brown hair up in a high ponytail, a homemade t-shirt bearing my name and number on the back. Every home opener since college Mia’s worn some version of a shirt she makes. I smile at the sight of her in the stands. She’s got her eyes focused on the field, though.
Focus.
Breathe.
Relax.
I repeat to myself as I sit there before being called back into the game.
As the remainder of the game goes on, my personal struggle of making it past the line of scrimmage remains the same and I barely have a run for more than three yards. Tough games like this only add to the frustrations that I’ve been facing. Thepressure to perform well is at an all-time high, especially since we’re coming off of a Super Bowl winning season. And the monsters in my head keep reminding me that I’m not fucking doing enough.
“Fourth and inches… Get in there, Campbell.” One of the running back coaches approaches me on the sidelines.
I simply nod in his direction and secure my helmet on before running into the huddle for the play. Let’s fucking try this again. Head down, barrel through.
Once Liam hands me the ball, I follow behind Graham, who pushes the pile forward and I land on his back, crossing the first down marker.
“Let’s fucking go!” Liam smacks the side of my helmet as we all get up and I jog back over to the sidelines. After watching the last four minutes of the game go by from the bench, I’m quick to run into the tunnel when the game is over. Our win is credited to Liam and Ford being an unstoppable duo as our tight end and quarterback. Ford had two touchdowns, and that ultimately helped secure the win for us.
Back in the locker room, everyone’s high fiving and talking about the game. The team played lights out football, it was a great win. But I can’t stop dwelling on the fact that my performance was less than impressive. I feel Coach Aarons’ eyes on me as I move about the locker room getting ready to leave.
“Campbell, a word?” He gestures for me to follow him out and I simply nod and head for his office.
“I’m sorry, Coach.” It flies out of my mouth before I have any real idea of what I plan to follow that up with.
