Squeezing my arm, she boasts, “You’ve got this. Love you big.” She presses on her toes, and I bend down a little, knowing what’s coming. She kisses my cheek. “Remember tobreathe. And positive thoughts,” she screams as she bounces away wrangling her kids from the rest of the family.
Greyson and J.D. come over next, clapping me on the shoulder. The stadium noise builds as fans pack in. It’s game time.
The sun is merciless as the heat bears down on the back of my neck. We take the field after kickoff and the crowd roars so loud the field vibrates.
Greyson hands it off to the running back, Brown. He gets four yards. Now we have a perfect passing down. I line up wide left again. This time when the ball snaps, I run eight yards, shake my defender and turn. The pass comes like a bullet from my brother, right in between the numbers. Eight-Zero. Right where it should be.
My hands rise. I’ve got this.
And the ball hits off my fingertips, thudding into the turf.
Even through my helmet, I hear the crowd groan.
They’re tired of me dropping passes.
I go back in the huddle, and several guys give me sympathetic glances. Greyson puts his hands over the holes in his helmet listening to the incoming play. “Same play. Jaylen, Parker be ready. It’s coming fast to whoever is more open.”
My teammates take a deep breath. They like me but they want to win more.
Lining up in the same place, I force myself to breathe and say the cue word,trust,in my head.
Another target. Another drop.
This one was worse because I was wide open. The kind of pass that ends up on highlight reels if you catch it because you’re taking it to the house. An easy touchdown.
Or on sports talk radio if you drop it. I know who’ll be talking about me all week.
By the end of the first quarter, the offense stops looking my way. Jaylen is on fire today with three receptions already. The crowd chants his name after he scores on a touchdown pass over his outside shoulder.
Good. He deserves all the praise. Tremendous athlete and an even better person.
At the end of the second quarter, Greyson, Matt or J.D. give me another chance. An opportunity to erase the rest of the game, but I drop it again.
It’s not like the balls are thrown poorly. They’re not.
Greyson’s retiring after this year at forty. He’s a three-time champion, eleven-time Pro Bowler and five-time MVP of the league. Usually, he puts the ball where his receivers can catch it.
We jog toward the tunnel under a wall of noise. I rip my helmet off and slam into the concrete wall. Anger burns through my chest.
Greyson steps in front of me before I can retrieve the helmet or enter the locker room. “Hey.”
Matt joins him. Greyson nods toward the field. “Bro, I have to throw it to the hot hand.”
“I know. Jaylen’s money today.”
Matt adds, “Soon they’ll start double teaming him or inching their coverage in his direction.”
Greyson nods. “And when that happens, you’re going to be wide open.”
More pressure. Perfect.
“Got it?” Greyson asks. His voice is calm and steady.
I nod, but inside the pressure keeps building.
Don’t drop the ball.
Don’t drop the ball especially when you’re wide open.
