you’re doing,” he says, and I can hear what sounds like a slight note of… softness in his voice.
I know for a fact there’s nothing soft about Dante Mills.
“Stop hesitating. If you’ve got a shot, take it. As long as you aren’t fucking up the play, we’re cool. All right?”
I feel hope surge. We could be cool. We could actually play in the same formation, with the same goal, and not be rivals. As much as I want that starting position, I want that even more. Mills on the same side of the field as me, not stuck on the bench.
“Yeah, all right.”
He slaps my helmet, and it jostles against me for a second. It’s not a rough slap; it’s just something I’ve seen the other guys do with each other. My ears ring a little, but there’s still a smile on my face as I get back into position.
During the next drive, I don’t hold back. Neither does Mills. On our own, we each manage to stop a couple runs. The offense would’ve been forced to punt if this were a real game, but special teams is practicing elsewhere, so they keep up the drive, trying to score.
I can feel it deep in my bones when Mills gets a hit. It’s the crash of pads against pads, muscle against muscle. It’s such a satisfying sound, and it pumps through my blood, carried along by a burst of adrenaline. I’ve spent so much of my life learning how to fake things. Fake a smile, fake a compliment, fake attention. The contact on the field is real , and it’s addictive.
As the plays get more and more desperate on the offense’s part, something amazing starts to happen.
Mills and I start to work in sync.
I start to learn when he’s going to dart to one side, or when he’s going to throw all of his weight into the guy trying to keep him back. I start to see who’s going to try and block him, and who’s going to be successful at it. There aren’t a lot of guys who have any chance of stopping him, but when I see one of them not tangled up with a lineman, I keep him busy myself.
Mills gets a sack on that play, and it’s fucking beautiful.
With the blocker out of the way, he was able to fake to the side, pivot, and break past the line to chase down the QB. And after the play, I saw his eyes light with that same feeling I’ve been getting this whole time. That pumped up sense of invigoration.
He jumps, practically bouncing like his cleats are made of an even sturdier rubber.
“That’s the play, man,” he says, and his gloved hand slaps across mine.
I’m grinning like an idiot as we get into formation. The line’s learned to adapt to our shit, but before practice is over, we get off another good tag-team play. We’re lined up in formation, Mills on one side, me on the other.
Linebackers aren’t even supposed to have much of a purpose in this play beyond short and medium coverage; it’s the corners who have to be on their toes. But the man-to-man coverage makes it tough for the quarterback to find someone he can easily throw to.
He scrambles, holding onto the ball way too long. Mills rushes him, and I see the short screen right before the QB throws it. It’s not the most on-target throw ever, thanks to Mills’ pressure, and I manage to bat it out of the air for an incompletion.
“Hell yeah!” Mills says, and a couple of the other defensive players clap me on the pads.
I’m sweating through my mesh practice jersey. I’m breathing hard. My muscles already ache. But I feel absolutely amazing. This is what we needed. Just a way to get in the groove and work together instead of being at each other’s throats.
I’m not under any illusion that we’ll suddenly be best friends, but seeing Mills grin at me, feeling him clap me on the back, it’s definitely a lot better than the alternative.
* * *
O ver the next few weeks , Mills and I both have our ups and downs.
Some days, I’m just too tired after two hours’ worth of brutal conditioning drills. There’s only so many up-downs a guy can do before he just wants to stay
I know for a fact there’s nothing soft about Dante Mills.
“Stop hesitating. If you’ve got a shot, take it. As long as you aren’t fucking up the play, we’re cool. All right?”
I feel hope surge. We could be cool. We could actually play in the same formation, with the same goal, and not be rivals. As much as I want that starting position, I want that even more. Mills on the same side of the field as me, not stuck on the bench.
“Yeah, all right.”
He slaps my helmet, and it jostles against me for a second. It’s not a rough slap; it’s just something I’ve seen the other guys do with each other. My ears ring a little, but there’s still a smile on my face as I get back into position.
During the next drive, I don’t hold back. Neither does Mills. On our own, we each manage to stop a couple runs. The offense would’ve been forced to punt if this were a real game, but special teams is practicing elsewhere, so they keep up the drive, trying to score.
I can feel it deep in my bones when Mills gets a hit. It’s the crash of pads against pads, muscle against muscle. It’s such a satisfying sound, and it pumps through my blood, carried along by a burst of adrenaline. I’ve spent so much of my life learning how to fake things. Fake a smile, fake a compliment, fake attention. The contact on the field is real , and it’s addictive.
As the plays get more and more desperate on the offense’s part, something amazing starts to happen.
Mills and I start to work in sync.
I start to learn when he’s going to dart to one side, or when he’s going to throw all of his weight into the guy trying to keep him back. I start to see who’s going to try and block him, and who’s going to be successful at it. There aren’t a lot of guys who have any chance of stopping him, but when I see one of them not tangled up with a lineman, I keep him busy myself.
Mills gets a sack on that play, and it’s fucking beautiful.
With the blocker out of the way, he was able to fake to the side, pivot, and break past the line to chase down the QB. And after the play, I saw his eyes light with that same feeling I’ve been getting this whole time. That pumped up sense of invigoration.
He jumps, practically bouncing like his cleats are made of an even sturdier rubber.
“That’s the play, man,” he says, and his gloved hand slaps across mine.
I’m grinning like an idiot as we get into formation. The line’s learned to adapt to our shit, but before practice is over, we get off another good tag-team play. We’re lined up in formation, Mills on one side, me on the other.
Linebackers aren’t even supposed to have much of a purpose in this play beyond short and medium coverage; it’s the corners who have to be on their toes. But the man-to-man coverage makes it tough for the quarterback to find someone he can easily throw to.
He scrambles, holding onto the ball way too long. Mills rushes him, and I see the short screen right before the QB throws it. It’s not the most on-target throw ever, thanks to Mills’ pressure, and I manage to bat it out of the air for an incompletion.
“Hell yeah!” Mills says, and a couple of the other defensive players clap me on the pads.
I’m sweating through my mesh practice jersey. I’m breathing hard. My muscles already ache. But I feel absolutely amazing. This is what we needed. Just a way to get in the groove and work together instead of being at each other’s throats.
I’m not under any illusion that we’ll suddenly be best friends, but seeing Mills grin at me, feeling him clap me on the back, it’s definitely a lot better than the alternative.
* * *
O ver the next few weeks , Mills and I both have our ups and downs.
Some days, I’m just too tired after two hours’ worth of brutal conditioning drills. There’s only so many up-downs a guy can do before he just wants to stay
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