I’m waiting.
Riley
Oh my god, do we have to?
Ethan
Seriously, Dad, We’re not babies anymore. This seems unnecessary.
Me
It is completely necessary because I say it is, and I’m totally the boss of both of you.
Riley
Fine, but let it be known that I’m doing this under duress. I don’t think it’s healthy for us to encourage your weird superstitions. And you better not show it to anyone.
Me
I promise nothing. Now send it over.
Riley
[Selfie of Riley and Ethan with their eyes crossed and tongues out]
Me
Your contribution to the cause is noted and appreciated.
Riley
The cause being letting you think that you can only win a football game if we send you a weird selfie before you go out for warm-ups?
Me
One hundred percent correct.
Love you.
Ethan
You already said that.
Me
Well now I’m saying it again.
Opening up the picture Riley sent, I smile down at my kids’ silly faces before saving and adding it to the album where I keep the evidence of the one and only superstition I have when it comes to my game. After thirteen years in the NFL, I’ve amassed a lot of these pictures. There’s one for almost every away game I’ve ever played, going all the way back to the time when Lainey was pregnant with Riley and she was going to come to my away game since it was just a quick trip to Cleveland. But the Friday before, the doctor vetoed travel, so she had to stay behind.
Never one to sit still when she could move, she sent me a crazy-faced selfie before the game to show me exactly how she felt about being forced to stay home. I played the best game of my career that day, and she kept up the tradition, adding Riley into the picture once she was born seven weeks later. After Lainey died, my mom took over, and now that Riley has a phone, my kids do it themselves.
I’ve played good games and bad games over the last thirteen years, but this little touchstone to home, and its tie to Lainey and the life we had together, has helped ground me before every single one of them.
“Hey, they nailed the crossed eyes, tongue out look this time!” Tyler turns from the locker he’s using in the Tampa visitors’ locker room and claps me on the shoulder, plucking my phone out of my hands to get a closer look. He glances down at the picture and laughs. “I think this is one of their best yet.”
“Did we get the picture?” My best friend and our wide receiver, Drew Ellicott, saunters over and grabs my phone from Tyler, laughing when he sees my kids’ faces.
“I mean,Igot the picture,” I say, bending to tie my cleats. “I think maybe you all need a tradition of your own.”
