We got so fucking close last year.
But close doesn’t get you a championship.
Close might not get you a first-round draft pick.
And I’ll do anything to take my team to the top. No sacrifice is too big. No workout too hard. No pain too great.
I didn’t come this far to place second.
I must not be the only one with victory on the brain because there’s an electricity in the air we haven’t had in previous years.
“We’re seniors! Can I get a ‘woot, woot?’” The guys echo Tank’s rally call as he does a round of high-fives and some hysterical dance moves that no man his size should be able to pull off. “We gonna kick some ass and get those alums to cough up the cash so we can level up and y’all baby Broncs can finally have some nice digs.”
The team shouts in agreement.
I glance around, taking in the drab paint and the fading Lone Star State logo on the back wall. Our bucking bronco Buckee has definitely seen better days.
Not only does our college name sound like a sappy country song, until a few years ago, our football team never got a lot of national recognition. The locals may love the sport, but that never brought in the dough. Hometown fame gets us free or discounted meals at local dives and back slaps at the Mini-Mart, not multi-million-dollar investments in our locker room, like the amenities at UT or A&M.
But the bells and whistles are not what brought me here.
When Coach Sullivan looked me in the eye when I was a high school player, he didn’t see the kid from the wrong side of the tracks who barely got the grades to play. He didn’t see my threadbare jeans or the holes in my faded t-shirts. Coach saw my potential. He said if I kept my focus on the game, he could make me one of the best college players in the country.
My answer was simple: Hell yes, I wanted to play D1 football for him.
After I got to start freshman year when our QB got injured and his backup got redshirted, Coach Sully never wavered. No, he doubled down. On a punk ass like me. I’d basically give my left nut sack for the man.
Hopefully it never comes to that. I’m kinda fond of my nuts.
One of the assistant coaches sticks his head in the locker room and yells, “Conference room in ten, gentlemen!”
Hell yeah. Let’s get this started.
I’m tucking my phone into my locker, feeling like I can conquer the world one touchdown at a time, when it buzzes.
Got a few bucks to spare? Short on rent.
My father’s text drops the smile right off my face.
Fuck.
I close my eyes.
He swore up and down he’d use that money to pay his landlord.
Motherfucking fuck.
Jaw clenched tight, I remind myself I need my hands. I can’t put my fist through the wall if I hope to throw any touchdowns this year.
I get four disbursements from my scholarship per semester, and my father already blew through a chunk of the first one single-handedly. What the hell am I supposed to eat for the next month if I give him any more cash? At least athletes from marquee sports can grab one meal a day on campus, so I guess I won’t starve, but that still requires juggling my schedule so I can get to the cafeteria before it closes.
The game begins. The one where I try to shuffle around my father’s debt and my meager income so we don’t both end up on the street.
He was doing better this summer when I was home, laying off the sauce long enough to do some odd jobs. I hoped and prayed he’d keep it together my senior year. Because this will all be for naught if I can’t make it to the draft. And I’ll be damned if I spent high school and college busting my balls to come up short on the fourth down.
Suddenly, I’m so damn tired I’m not sure how I’ll tie my cleats, much less run my offense.
If my father had his way, I’d give him every last cent and be stuck selling my fucking plasma to buy ramen.
