I shifted in my seat and cracked my neck.
Playing dual positions as linebacker and tight end wasn’t as easy as it looked. They demanded two different sets of instincts and skills, and neither of them was rugby.
But I was getting there … I hoped so, at least.
Once we traipsed our merry little asses out of the bus and into the locker room, it was business as usual.
We filed out onto the field for early drills, helmets tucked under our arms and the sound of our cleats clacking on the ground filling the air. As soon as my foot hit the turf, Marcus knocked into my shoulder from behind.
“Fucking nepo baby,” he grumbled.
A bunch of his mates snorted but I grinned like I didn’t care. “Mate, if I was actually playing the nepotism card, I'd be on a beach right now.”
But it still stung. It always did.
They didn’t know I woke up at 5 A.M. every day watching tape, familiarizing myself with the rules. They didn’t know I stayed late to relearn the footwork those guys had learned as kids.
Warmups started smoothly enough with some shuffle steps, angle reads and contact bag hits.
I liked those. The bag didn’t care I was new. It didn’t call me Sunshine or Australia.
Coach blew the whistle. “Run it again! Whitaker, you’re tight on that drop. Too tight. Think bigger picture.”
“Bigger picture.” I huffed. “Right.”
Fuck if I knew what that was supposed to mean.
I backed up to position, adjusting my stance and squaring my shoulders, doing my best to keep my feet light.Try not to lunge like a rugby tackle. Redirect, don't collide.
I repeated it in my head like Tori had drilled it into me.
Redirect. Reroute. Hips, not brute force.
Another shrill whistle cut through the air. I moved, quick and fluid and finally — mercifully — at the correct angle.
When I chanced a quick glance his way, Coach let out something like a grunt of approval.
Holy shit.Maybe I wasn’t hopeless after all.
The game started quickly, much faster than it had appeared from the sidelines. But this time, the speed didn't overwhelm me.
Rugby had taught me field awareness.
MMA drills with Tori had taught me weight control.
Football was starting to fall into place.
I got into position, digging my cleats into the soft ground, and the muscles in my legs twitched nervously.
On my first defensive snap, the play bounced wide right. Usually, I would have been inclined to tackle the runner. But now, a new voice in my head — curiously enough, sounding just like Tori — told me to move, react and not overcommit.
I held my angle, tracking my opponent's hips, and stepped into the lane. The runner tried to cut, but my cut was sharper. My shoulder hit him just under the pads — a clean, perfect wrap — and we both fell to the ground.
In the background, I could faintly hear the roar of the crowd, and then my teammates swarmed around me, pulling me up and slapping my pads and helmet.
“That’s what I’m talking about!”
“Big man!”
