I blink.Once.Twice.
A memory slips in—Friday nights under the lights, pads cracking, Tyler cursing when drills went long.He called me an asshole every time I laid him out in practice.
“Okay,” I say finally.“Sucks for him.”
It comes out flat.Detached.
Marcus shifts his weight.“We’re short.Coach wanted to know if you’d be interested in coming back.”
I almost laugh.
“Not happening.”
Jace straightens beside me.“Why not?”
“Because I quit.”
“Yeah,” Jace says easily, shrugging.“Doesn’t mean you sucked.”
“That’s not why I quit.”
Marcus watches me carefully now.Not pressuring, just observing.Examining me as if he might notice the flaw if he looks long enough.
“You were good, man,” he says.“Better than good.Coach still talks about you.”
“Coach talks about anyone who doesn’t fuck up drills,” I snort.
Jace shakes his head.“Bullshit.You were solid.You only stopped because your dad made it his thing.”
The words land and stick.For a second, I say nothing.Because it’s the fucking truth.I quit only because of him.
At first, I thought my dad was proud of me.
I really did.
The first season I played, he actually showed up.He sat in the stands, watched the field, and asked questions on the drive home.I remember thinking, this was it.This finally mattered enough to make him see me.Not just the kid who always fucked things up.
Football was the bridge.That’s what I believed.
It turns out it was never about me.
It was all about winning.
The more I played, the less he talked about anything else.School didn’t matter.Friends didn’t matter.I didn’t either.Just stats, plays, and the things I did wrong.Every missed tackle or bad read.Every second I was half a step too slow.
He never said, "Good job."
Not even once.
If we won, it was because the team pulled it together.If we lost, it was my fault.I should have held the line better.I should have seen it coming, or I should have wanted it more.
He pushed me harder each week.
More drills.More lectures.Winning meant everything to him, and losing felt personal, as if I had just embarrassed him by simply existing.
I stopped being his son somewhere along the way and became just a position.I remember sitting in the car after a game.We had lost by three points.He wouldn’t look at me, only stared straight ahead and told me, “You cost us that.”
Us.
