Page 3 of Fumble Into the End Zone
Staring at my daughter, I lifted one brow, and a smile spread across her face. She loved my funny facial expression. Moments later, my phone rang. My agent couldn’t contain himself on the other end. We both knew the contract was going to be higher than we expected. After we hung up, I received another unknown caller.
“Marcus,” I answered
“This is Bryce. Welcome to the team. I need you on the East Coast by Friday. I got your housing and everything you need covered,” he said.
It was odd for the quarterback to call you before rookie minicamp, but it was a win-win for me. I needed to prove myselfto the veterans to secure the wide receiver two position. Any advantage he offered, I’d take.
“You’re the commander in chief. Let me get my daughter and grandmother settled and I’m on the next thing with wings.”
“See you in a few days,” he said.
I found my grandmother smiling with pride after I hung up the phone. The expression on her face was lighter than before, as if she had shed an invisible weight. I leaned over to her, and we touched our foreheads.
“Your grandfather would be proud,” she said.
“Daddy, do I have to go to bed? We should be celebrating,” my daughter said after she yawned.
I stood next to her as she wrapped her hair. Granny had Harley trained to be in bed by eight. Staying up for her meant she was out by nine.
“We can still celebrate when you wake up in the morning. Let’s say our prayers.”
She gave me sad eyes before we both kneeled by her bed, with our elbows pinned down on the mattress. I bumped into her, and she giggled. It was her turn to lead the prayer.
“Dear God, we thank you for Daddy getting a drafted football job. We thank you for healing Grandma’s arthritis in her knee. God, give me the strength to make new friends in Texas. When we get to Texas, bring Daddy a wife and me a mother. Watch over us through the night and keep us safe and protect us from that ole devil. Amen,” she said.
“Amen,” I voiced and shook my head.
My grandmother had turned my daughter into a sixty-year-old woman in a seven-year-old body. I often reminded her it was okay to be a kid, and that kids didn’t sayyonder.
I tucked her in and kissed her forehead.
“Do you have our bedtime story?” I asked, and she twisted her face.
“No, I still need a little more time.”
I smiled. “Okay, but it’s been two days. The quarterback and the princess are waiting on the line of scrimmage,” I reminded.
Growing up poor in the country as a single father, I couldn’t always afford books. Once she grew out of the baby and princess stories, we created our own. They were wild and ridiculous, but it was something we did together. We alternated nights. Wherever I left off, she picked up and expanded.
Harley covered her eyes again. Something my grandfather taught her to do when she was embarrassed. “It’s okay, Daddy. I’m coming up with a good play. Goodnight.”
I chuckled as I reached over and turned off the pink lamp.
Walking down the hall, I listened to my coaches talking to the camera crew for b roll. USPN pitched an idea for the behind-the-scenes footage of draft day. Harley volunteered to go first, answering questions, and the camera loved my daughter. They gathered a few shots of us together before moving to my grandmother.
“And it’s a wrap. Thank you for allowing us into your home. We may call you in for more. Our home base is Houston, Texas. Let’s go, Armadillos,” the producer, Steve, said.
His assistant gave me those eyes again, but I ignored her and turned my focus on my coaches.
“Congratulations, I knew you were a star and a stand-up guy. Giving up the streets was worth it, Marcus. And listen, you stay away from Arkansas. Those knuckleheads are still hanging inBreckenridge apartments, doing nothing. You have a target on your back with this contract,” my coach, Noah Sims, said.
We shook hands and as much as I didn’t want to admit it, I knew he was telling the truth. I couldn’t go back to Jonesboro and hang with my old friends. Many of them were serving jail time or would take any opportunity to get ahead. Since becoming a father and taking football seriously, my outlook on life changed. I had people to live for and support.
“You better preach it,” my grandmother co-signed from the couch with her cane resting beside her leg.
“Coach, I have too much to lose to go back,” I said.
He patted me on the shoulder before kissing my grandmother’s cheek. Coach Sims had made my grandparents a promise to guide me, which meant to keep me out of trouble. Despite the years that had passed, he kept his word. Every week, he was at my dinner table for Mrs. Eddy’s cornbread, giving updates.
