The Hard Count(16)

“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 before folding his arms over is chest.

My father is watching, too. Sasha is the first player to walk over and take a spot several yards to Nico’s right. They nod to one another, but still nobody says a word. The arguing seems to have stopped though, and slowly, one by one, the players on his squad walk toward him, filling in the gaps on the line, taking their positions.

“We’re ready, Coach,” Nico says, standing behind the guy playing center. That’s Colton Wimsby, and he’s one of my dad’s favorite players. He’s always the first to arrive and the last to leave. He’s large, weighing about two-eighty, but nimble on his feet and quick with his hands. He’s been my dad’s starting center since his freshman year, and the fact that he gave him to Nico is telling. Colton twists back and says something to Nico, who nods, and they both pound their fists together.

The other team is lined up for defense, and Brandon is waiting on the sidelines, standing at attention. He’s confident in a different kind of way. His feet are steady, and he doesn’t even seem to be interested in the play about to happen on the field. It’s as if this is all just a routine for him that he expects to fail, so he can get on with doing the real work.

My gut starts to twitch with my heartbeat, and the dose of adrenaline surprises me.

I’m rooting for Nico.

Colton sets up on the ball, crouching with his head down, until Nico shouts something that sounds like “Blue!” He says this a few more times, and Colton’s head snaps up just as Sasha darts to the far right, almost out of bounds, and then…

It’s beautiful. As if it’s rehearsed. But there’s no way. I know there isn’t. My father knows there isn’t. The other coaches doubt, I’m sure, and the team on defense is left trying to play catch up. They fail.

On the hard count, Nico switches the play, lining Sasha up against the other squad’s weakest defender, sending him sprinting until he’s almost twenty-five yards away. Nico gives him time, trusting Colton and his line, who hold the pocket as long as they can until Nico’s feet take over, smooth and in charge. While he gains ground to the left, the defenders scramble to grab any piece of him their fingers can find. He slips out of every attempt, and just as Sasha hits the center of the field, Nico rockets the ball to him, hitting his hands while his feet are in full stride. His best friend’s speed does the rest, and just like that—Nico’s team is up by six.

Brandon no longer looks relaxed, his weight shifting from side-to-side, the cool and calm from before has now been jacked up to full-on anxious. He’s so wired that he drops the ball when Sasha walks by and tosses it to him for his squad’s turn to try to score.

I laugh, but cover my mouth with my fist, hiding the sound and expression.

Unlike Brandon’s squad, Nico’s is a man short, the rest of the defense, made up of the players that see less time, is at the other end of the field running drills. My dad notices and begins to pull his radio from his pocket to let the coach with them know he needs one more player, when Nico steps in and takes a position at corner.

“What the hell do you think you’re doing? I’ll get someone to step in there, go sit your ass down,” my dad says, his typical tell-it-like-it-is tone he uses on the field.

Nico is unfazed by it, and just as my dad has the radio to his mouth, he sees his quarterback hopeful line up ready to sprint. Brandon doesn’t waste any time, and the ball is snapped before my dad can step in and stop the play. My eyes work to take it all in—my father reaching for his whistle around his neck, Brandon sliding away from the safety of his offensive line, Nico seeing opportunity, tracking the receiver, until the ball leaves Brandon’s hands and somehow ends up in his own.