defensive by default.
My father’s frustrated, and they’ve faced off maybe a dozen times. Yet…neither has quit. My dad hasn’t sent him packing, and Nico hasn’t left. That’s the only reason I’m still sitting here with my tripod between my feet and my eyes shifting from the version of the action on the screen and the real field on the other side of the lens. I watch as more plays run out, and my father finally throws his clipboard down and whistles for a water break.
I push PAUSE and slide around the camera, careful not to disturb the perfect position I’ve got it in, and jog down the bleacher steps to catch up to my dad. He sees me coming, and holds up a hand as he gets to his water jug.
“Not now, Rea,” he says gruffly, twisting the lid from his jug and drinking down gulps.
“It just needs time, that’s all,” I say, ignoring his wishes. He rolls his eyes at me over the lid of his drink, then runs his arm over his chin as he tilts the thermos back and twists the lid in place.
“It just needs to be scrapped, I’m afraid. This…whatever I’ve spent the last hour doing—Reagan? This is a waste of time,” he sighs, letting his water fall with a clunk onto the metal bench.
I open my mouth to put up a fight, but stop when my dad pinches the bridge of his nose and lets his head fall forward. He wanted this to work, too. He still does. He just doesn’t know how.
“Scrimmage them,” I say.
My dad’s shoulders rise with his short chuckle.
“Why? So they can get slaughtered? So I can destroy that kid’s confidence? Not that I could…I mean, hell, Reagan, that’s half his damned problem! I don’t know how to coach that! He doesn’t hear a word I say. I keep telling him one thing, and he does exactly the opposite!”
My dad’s hand moves to his neck now, and he rubs it. I follow his gaze to see him watching his players all watch the two new guys, all of them whispering or laughing at jokes that are likely about Nico and Sasha, feeding my dad’s doubt more.
“You need to see him play his game,” I say, my eyes watching the two boys not walking back to the field slowly with the others, but who are already on the fifty-yard line, waiting for more.
My dad sees them, too. He might not think Nico’s listening, but a player doesn’t hustle to be first on the field for more abuse unless he really wants to be here—unless he has something to prove. My dad needs to let him prove it.
I don’t suggest it again, but I wait next to my father while he watches the rest of his team slowly amble back to the line of scrimmage along with his coaching staff. Nico’s bullheaded, but he respects my father...maybe more than the others. My father sees that—he has to.
My dad pulls the whistle to his lips and blows loudly, and I take the sign to return to my camera. When I get to my seat, I watch everything play out through the viewing screen. I can’t hear the words my dad is saying, but I can tell by the movements being made that he’s breaking them up into squads.
Without pause, I lift my camera from the tripod and climb down to the field level, moving close to the small bench and medical kit near the trainer’s table by the end zone. I don’t want to be distracting, but I also don’t want to miss any of this…in case my hunch is right.
It takes the squads a little time to figure out their positions, where everyone needs to be, and I notice Nico’s team is flailing more than the other side—players arguing, everyone jockeying to be the leader.
Nico takes a few slow steps away from the group, a ball clutched between both hands and the white practice jersey loose over his borrowed pads. The arguing continues, but eventually, when Nico is several steps away, some of the players look up and watch him. Once he has their attention, he steps onto the field, taking his place on offense. He tosses the ball in one hand a few times, then bends down and sets it on the line, backing up a few more steps
My father’s frustrated, and they’ve faced off maybe a dozen times. Yet…neither has quit. My dad hasn’t sent him packing, and Nico hasn’t left. That’s the only reason I’m still sitting here with my tripod between my feet and my eyes shifting from the version of the action on the screen and the real field on the other side of the lens. I watch as more plays run out, and my father finally throws his clipboard down and whistles for a water break.
I push PAUSE and slide around the camera, careful not to disturb the perfect position I’ve got it in, and jog down the bleacher steps to catch up to my dad. He sees me coming, and holds up a hand as he gets to his water jug.
“Not now, Rea,” he says gruffly, twisting the lid from his jug and drinking down gulps.
“It just needs time, that’s all,” I say, ignoring his wishes. He rolls his eyes at me over the lid of his drink, then runs his arm over his chin as he tilts the thermos back and twists the lid in place.
“It just needs to be scrapped, I’m afraid. This…whatever I’ve spent the last hour doing—Reagan? This is a waste of time,” he sighs, letting his water fall with a clunk onto the metal bench.
I open my mouth to put up a fight, but stop when my dad pinches the bridge of his nose and lets his head fall forward. He wanted this to work, too. He still does. He just doesn’t know how.
“Scrimmage them,” I say.
My dad’s shoulders rise with his short chuckle.
“Why? So they can get slaughtered? So I can destroy that kid’s confidence? Not that I could…I mean, hell, Reagan, that’s half his damned problem! I don’t know how to coach that! He doesn’t hear a word I say. I keep telling him one thing, and he does exactly the opposite!”
My dad’s hand moves to his neck now, and he rubs it. I follow his gaze to see him watching his players all watch the two new guys, all of them whispering or laughing at jokes that are likely about Nico and Sasha, feeding my dad’s doubt more.
“You need to see him play his game,” I say, my eyes watching the two boys not walking back to the field slowly with the others, but who are already on the fifty-yard line, waiting for more.
My dad sees them, too. He might not think Nico’s listening, but a player doesn’t hustle to be first on the field for more abuse unless he really wants to be here—unless he has something to prove. My dad needs to let him prove it.
I don’t suggest it again, but I wait next to my father while he watches the rest of his team slowly amble back to the line of scrimmage along with his coaching staff. Nico’s bullheaded, but he respects my father...maybe more than the others. My father sees that—he has to.
My dad pulls the whistle to his lips and blows loudly, and I take the sign to return to my camera. When I get to my seat, I watch everything play out through the viewing screen. I can’t hear the words my dad is saying, but I can tell by the movements being made that he’s breaking them up into squads.
Without pause, I lift my camera from the tripod and climb down to the field level, moving close to the small bench and medical kit near the trainer’s table by the end zone. I don’t want to be distracting, but I also don’t want to miss any of this…in case my hunch is right.
It takes the squads a little time to figure out their positions, where everyone needs to be, and I notice Nico’s team is flailing more than the other side—players arguing, everyone jockeying to be the leader.
Nico takes a few slow steps away from the group, a ball clutched between both hands and the white practice jersey loose over his borrowed pads. The arguing continues, but eventually, when Nico is several steps away, some of the players look up and watch him. Once he has their attention, he steps onto the field, taking his place on offense. He tosses the ball in one hand a few times, then bends down and sets it on the line, backing up a few more steps
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