Total pages in book: 122
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 117872 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 589(@200wpm)___ 471(@250wpm)___ 393(@300wpm)
When my lips touch his precious feline fur, he rears back, then instantly licks his front paw to rub his head. Of course. Must scrub the evidence of human affection off his coat. “Excuse me, your royal cat-ness,” I say. He’s ditched all his kitten sweetness and has gone full cat.
But hey, I landed the smooch, so it counts in the Opposite Day Tally.
Then, I hop into my car and head for my dad’s place in Russian Hill.
Because the one ritual I won’t mess with is picking up my dad on the way to the stadium. He’s been to every home game of mine since I was a kid.
I make good time and manage to snag a prime parking spot on the hilly street right outside his home, then jog up the steps, right when he swings open the door. He hobbles out onto the landing on his crutches.
“You beat me to it,” he grumbles, tucking a book and his tablet tighter under his arm. “I was going to show you what I could do and wait for you on the sidewalk.”
I laugh. “You’ve got to wake up early to get the jump on me, Pops.” I wiggle my fingers at the book and tablet. Begrudgingly, he hands them to me. Then, I reach for his crutches, too, and offer my arm. Don’t want him to take any chances going down the steps. I feel bad enough that he broke his leg mountain biking in Costa Rica earlier this summer—on a trip I sent him on. Talk about a dream vacay turned into a nightmare.
After I help him into the car, I pull into Sunday mid-morning traffic, drumming my fingers on the steering wheel in an upbeat rhythm. “What’s cooking this morning?”
But Dad doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he peers at me like he’s not buying what I’m selling. “You okay?” he finally asks.
I keep my brave face on because I’ll need it when I arrive at the stadium, where Coach will be prowling around. “Yep. Had a good night’s sleep at the team hotel before I hit the gym this morning for a great workout,” I say, as cheery as can be, transformed by the mango smoothie, my veins flowing with pep.
But it feels false.
Especially when I slow at the light and give him my best it’s all good grin—a smile that would fool anyone but Dad or my brother.
Dad doesn’t smile back. Yup. He can see through me. Always has. He squeezes my arm in a most dad-like way. “Jason, it’s okay to breathe. And it’s okay if you’re not sunshine and roses every second of the day before a game.”
But is it okay if the team knows I’m massively fucking worried we’re going to suck it again this year? Is it cool if Coach knows he’s stressing us out? The fans certainly don’t need to know the pressure I feel from the clipped tone Coach Killfoyle has taken lately with the team or the speculation in the media about changes for the Hawks. “I’m not nervous, per se,” I point out, dodging his statement.
“Didn’t say you were nervous,” he says calmly as the light changes. “I know that’s not your issue. But you’ve got a ton of manic energy, and I think I know why.”
I grip the wheel tighter as I drive. “Why is that?”
“I know you want to turn things around this season. But you’re taking that all on yourself when this is a team sport. And the great thing is football starts over every year. You don’t have to carry the bad seasons with you.”
It’s good advice.
Truly, it is.
But it’s not so easy with the media breathing down our necks. A local sports talk host named Pigskin Jimbo said our D-line couldn’t stop turtles from crawling.
On the flip side, our local rivals are kings. The Renegades won the Super Bowl last year on the shoulders of their retiring Hall of Fame quarterback, Cooper Armstrong. The Hawks didn’t come within spitting distance of the past postseason or the one before. Doesn’t matter that we went to the playoffs twice in my first five years on the team. Football is a “what have you done for me lately” sport.
When we arrive a few hours before kickoff, I pull behind the stadium, park in the players’ lot, then walk Dad to his regular section by the fifty-yard line.
Seeing him in the same seat he’s had for every game I’ve played here does settle the jittery feeling inside me. “Thanks, Dad. For coming today. And for the pep talk. I needed it.”
“I know, kid.” He gives a warm smile that feels like a calm hand on the ship’s rudder. “Remember, every game is a fresh start.”
I hold on to that thought when I hit the field later.
It’s every nightmare I’ve had since training camp.