The field feels different under my feet.
Not unfamiliar—never that—but sharper somehow. Like I’m more aware of every step, every breath, every inch of space between me and the players I’m coaching. I keep my distance, careful, deliberate, except for the quarterbacks. Greyson. The backups. And J.D., who hovers close enough to check my face every few minutes like he’s waiting for me to vanish again.
I hold the tablet up, drawing lines with my finger. “They’re going to blitz. Over and over. They think they can rattle you early. You see this?” I tap the screen. “That linebacker cheats left every time.”
Greyson nods. “So, we burn them?”
“We punish them,” I say. “Quick release. Trust the read.”
The public address announcer cuts in. “Fans, please direct your attention to the video board as we celebrate one of our own?—”
I keep talking. “If they bring pressure on third?—”
“Matt,” Greyson says.
“Are you listening?” I snap, eyes still on the tablet.
He jerks his chin upward. “Areyou? We’re supposed to be looking at the Jumbotron.”
I look up.
And the world tilts.
My face fills the screen—older, thinner than I remember, but unmistakably me. Then Noelle’s voice carries through the stadium, calm and strong and steady in that way she gets when she’s telling a story that matters.
“Matt is probably going to be upset about this,” she says, smiling softly at the camera. “But my career is about finding stories. Reporting on stories.”
My chest tightens.
“This one will be airing in its entirety on the Sports Network this Tuesday at nine p.m. But since my brother coaches this team, my sister-in-law is the general manager, my brother is the quarterback, and my fiancé is the quarterbacks coach… I thought it was important that you see first what Coach Matt Stricker has gone through—and survived.”
Images flash.
Me on dialysis.
Me hunched over a tablet, working when I shouldn’t have been.
Zoom calls from my living room. Hospital rooms. IV lines.
“This game gave him something when his body was failing him,” Noelle continues. “A distraction. A purpose. Something to hold onto during weeks in the hospital and months of recovery.”
Noelle’s cheeks have rounded now that she’s in the thirdtrimester, her hair is thicker, and she really is glowing. She’s been my rock. Never giving up on me. Never.
The screen shifts.
The proposal.
The embrace.
Her face when I collapsed.
The terror in her eyes—I have to look away for a second.
Then surgery. Recovery. Pictures with the O’Ryan clan. My sister. My mom. Noelle laughing again.
“All of you,” she says, her voice breaking just slightly, “your messages, your letters, your support—it gave me the strength to help him fight. And I hope seeing his story reminds you that whatever you’re facing… you can make it. You can beat it.” She chokes up.
Silence crashes over the stadium.
