I’d never considered myself a cat guy; I figured if I ever had a pet, it’d be a dog. Man’s best friend. But no, I had to be the guy who falls for a cat that knocks over everything and looks me dead in the eye while doing it.
Nate’s palm cups my shoulder as he walks by. “Heading out, I’ll see you later.”
“Later, man,” I reply as I fasten the string on my athletic shorts.
Ford Anderson, our tight end and another close friend of mine, gives me a nod from across the locker room as he exits, and I take a seat on the black cushioned chair next to my duffle bag.
“Hey, Liam, can I bother you to sign something for my son?” I glance up to see Ian Marx—one of my newer tackles—standing over my shoulder holding one of my jerseys in his hands.
“Hell, I should be asking for yours. Are you kidding me?” I smile, reaching for the jersey and marker. “What’s your son’s name?”
“Brody.” He smiles from ear to ear when he sees no hesitation in me agreeing.
I sign my name on the jersey and reach into my locker to grab a pair of gloves.
“Give him these too.”
Ian’s eyes widen and he tries to thank me, but I cut in, “I need one of your jerseys. Signed. Think you can spare one for me?”
“Really? You want my jersey?”
“You’re here doing great things. Hell yeah, I want your jersey.”
He lets out a surprised chuckle as he bobs his head up and down. “Yeah. I’ll get you one. Thank you.”
When he leaves, I pull a white T-shirt with the Knights logo over my head and stand before grabbing my notebook from the seat beside me.
Today was grueling, but it’s not over yet. I have some notes I want to go over before calling it a day. I’ve been so conditioned to operate like this from such a young age, it’s just second nature now to spend extra time studying plays. It’s pretty much the one thing my father made sure of.
Growing up with a two-time league MVP and Super Bowl-winning father wasn’t the dream most people think it would be.
There are only a few people outside of my brother who know the ins and outs of my childhood. I never talk about my father. Even in interviews when I’m asked about him, I keep it as brief as I possibly can and keep the narrative going—that he’s a great guy.
Landyn Evans Sr. is a name that’s famous no matter which team you root for. People don’t forget the quarterback who had back-to-back Super Bowl wins. The guy who threw for over three hundred yards in a game with two feet of snow. The guy who had comeback after comeback, proving he was resilient on the field.
Everyone knows that version of my father. I’m not here to tarnish the image people have of him. To them, as a player, he was great.
Unfortunately, as a father, he wasn’t.
I grew up with the guy who pushed his eight-year-old son to play a flag football game in the dead of summer when he had the stomach flu. I puked between almost every play. I begged to go home. Begged him to let me sit out this one game.
“Don’t embarrass me,” he said. And so I played.
Away games meant I didn’t have to see him for at least twenty-four hours. God, I fucking lived for those away games. How my sweet mother ever married him, I’ll never understand. But at the end of the day, she knew how hard he was on me and rarely got involved to ask him to stop. I try not to ever blame her—I think in a lot of ways he was doing the same thing to her as he was to me. Belittling her, making her feel like without him she’d be nothing. Turning a blind eye was her way of surviving, and while it wasn’t right, I try not to dwell on her decisions.
Sometimes, I think he tried to be fatherly, but it was always short-lived. There’s one thing that has stuck with me, though.
He always reminded me how rare big opportunities are. Second chances are so few and far between, so you have tomake the most out of your first. Study. Stay late. Wake up early. Become obsessed with greatness.
It’s what has always pushed me to work as hard as I do.
Truthfully, there are quarterbacks who are more talented than I am. They’re bigger, they’re faster, they might have a stronger arm, but talent like that only gets you so far. You have to take it to the next level to be successful.
So I became consistent. I became resilient. I don’t take my time on the field for granted, and Idon’tlike to lose.
NINE MONTHS AGO
The manilla folder on this coffee table has been staring at me for the last hour. It’s a thin folder, only a few papers inside the clasp, yet it carries so much weight.
