"That's it, Brick! That's what I'm talkin' about, baby, nice play!" Wasrabi slapped the helmet of his teammate in congratulations for the tackle-for-a-loss he'd just made. When the defensive huddle broke, all he could hear was the heavy breaths that rose and fell in his chest. He squared himself up to the line of scrimmage and begun to stare down the Seawolves QB, Suleiman Ramza. He'd been having his way with the Ducks defense for most of the game, remaining poised and efficient as the 4th quarter was running down. Sweat dripped down from his forehead and into his eyes; it stung, but he did his best to blink his eyes clear before the ball was snapped.
As soon as the center snapped the ball, Gleel noticed the tight end, Ragnar Krashwagen, running a slant route over the middle. The eyes of the QB locked onto the streaking target.
"I have to get there, I have to undercut that route!" Gleel was already moving before he could finish his thought. He watched the QB begin his throwing motion, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if he would make it in time. As the ball flew out of Ramza's hand like a dart, Wasrabi outstretched his right hand in front of the target.
"Got it!" He told himself as the ball smacked into his gloved palm before he cradled it close to his body. He never lost a step as he continued to run past the line of scrimmage. The endzone was right there. The thumping of his pounding heart matched the rhythm of his quick feet step-for-step as he raced untouched for 21 yards for his first DSFL pick-six. For the first time since the opening quarter, the Norfolk crowd was silenced as Gleel became mobbed by his teammates congratulating him and urging him to do a touchdown dance. He hadn't prepared one. He'd never gotten many touchdowns in his football career, and thus he drew a blank for a moment. Finally after a beat passed, he began to use the football as a pantomime spatula on an imaginary grill, pretending to serve up some tasty steaks to his defensive cohorts.
I stayed behind in the locker room after the game. I was embittered from the defeat, but I knew that such feelings were fleeting and soon the regular season would be upon us and new thoughts, concerns, doubts, fears, and dreams would percolate anew from the promise of real professional football. The locker room was empty, and I sat pensively as I rubbed my palms together as I always did to prepare mentally for a game, and to digest and internalize the result after. This simple gesture grounded me in such a way that I could remember every time I suited up, from pee-wee, to junior ball, high school varsity, to college at Dartmouth, to the Landshark Prospect Bowl run, to right now--this moment here should be the last time I doubt myself. The next time I rub these hands together, I knew it would be before a real DSFL game.
I made it. Just a small-town kid from Vermont, now a millionaire; a professional.
Then why is it I still feel this feeling? Like this whole thing has been a fantasy? Some sort of cosmic joke that allows me a breath, "A little scene to monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks. . . "
Was this about the loss tonight? No. Hadn't I given it my all these past four games? Most people in my position would count their lucky stars to have played my game: Four games, 38 tackles, 4 sacks, and an interception returned for a touchdown--a Defensive Player of the Game award. Why was this not enough?
"Never get complacent: good enough isn't good enough." I smiled as I repeated the mantra my father Donnie Gleel used to tell me. Man, I used to hate him when he said things like that. I chuckle audibly, and the noise feels out of place and alien in the silence of the empty locker room. He even said that to me when I caught my first and only touchdown pass on offense, after an injury slid me into the number-two Tight End position in high school. I fired back at him asking how many TD's he'd gotten when he played.
But it's often like that with fathers and sons, isn't it? The father's failures and shortcomings are loaded onto the back of their son to help shoulder the burden of an unfulfilled life; an unrecognized dream, or a promise unattainable. It never mattered before if I was any good, so why should it matter now if I'm good enough to compete in this league? If I slip up now and fall into a void of complacency, then there is no higher peak--This moment, this league would be the top of the mountain, and frankly, good enough isn't good enough.
We lost the game. We gave up too many points. I should have done more.
I tilted by head back to rest it against the cold locker behind me. I was sweating still, and I could feel the drops dripping off my body and onto the floor by my feet. I gazed vacantly at the fluorescent lights above me, closing my eyes and attempting to drown out these thoughts. The chip on my shoulder all these years has manifested into an inadequacy complex that is a bear-trap for my ego--I can't let myself willfully step into it.
*bzzzzzZZZZZZZttttt bzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZtttt*
My phone was vibrating next to me on the wooden bench loudly, so I picked it up and looked to see who was calling. It was Mama. I picked up.
"Hey Mama, how're you doing? Did you see the game? We lost pretty bad, but we'll get them next ti-"
"You did so well, Rabi! I climbed up on the couch and started screaming when I saw you were gonna score! The family is all here, say hello!"
I immediately recognized the voices of my uncles and aunts, my brother Glen and his wife, my niece Ally, and host of other friends I grew up with as a youth. They were shouting over each other so loudly that I realized the scene there must be pandemonium. That made me smile for a moment before adding: "Alright, alright, I hear y'all! Thank you so much, I can't wait to tell you all everything about being in the DSFL. It's been a whirlwind. Sorry we couldn't pull out a win tonight for you all, though."
"Oh hush, baby, we're all so proud of you, and . . . I know your father would be proud too."
Another drop hit the floor, followed by another.
(1118 words)
As soon as the center snapped the ball, Gleel noticed the tight end, Ragnar Krashwagen, running a slant route over the middle. The eyes of the QB locked onto the streaking target.
"I have to get there, I have to undercut that route!" Gleel was already moving before he could finish his thought. He watched the QB begin his throwing motion, and for a moment, he wasn't sure if he would make it in time. As the ball flew out of Ramza's hand like a dart, Wasrabi outstretched his right hand in front of the target.
"Got it!" He told himself as the ball smacked into his gloved palm before he cradled it close to his body. He never lost a step as he continued to run past the line of scrimmage. The endzone was right there. The thumping of his pounding heart matched the rhythm of his quick feet step-for-step as he raced untouched for 21 yards for his first DSFL pick-six. For the first time since the opening quarter, the Norfolk crowd was silenced as Gleel became mobbed by his teammates congratulating him and urging him to do a touchdown dance. He hadn't prepared one. He'd never gotten many touchdowns in his football career, and thus he drew a blank for a moment. Finally after a beat passed, he began to use the football as a pantomime spatula on an imaginary grill, pretending to serve up some tasty steaks to his defensive cohorts.
I stayed behind in the locker room after the game. I was embittered from the defeat, but I knew that such feelings were fleeting and soon the regular season would be upon us and new thoughts, concerns, doubts, fears, and dreams would percolate anew from the promise of real professional football. The locker room was empty, and I sat pensively as I rubbed my palms together as I always did to prepare mentally for a game, and to digest and internalize the result after. This simple gesture grounded me in such a way that I could remember every time I suited up, from pee-wee, to junior ball, high school varsity, to college at Dartmouth, to the Landshark Prospect Bowl run, to right now--this moment here should be the last time I doubt myself. The next time I rub these hands together, I knew it would be before a real DSFL game.
I made it. Just a small-town kid from Vermont, now a millionaire; a professional.
Then why is it I still feel this feeling? Like this whole thing has been a fantasy? Some sort of cosmic joke that allows me a breath, "A little scene to monarchize, be feared, and kill with looks. . . "
Was this about the loss tonight? No. Hadn't I given it my all these past four games? Most people in my position would count their lucky stars to have played my game: Four games, 38 tackles, 4 sacks, and an interception returned for a touchdown--a Defensive Player of the Game award. Why was this not enough?
"Never get complacent: good enough isn't good enough." I smiled as I repeated the mantra my father Donnie Gleel used to tell me. Man, I used to hate him when he said things like that. I chuckle audibly, and the noise feels out of place and alien in the silence of the empty locker room. He even said that to me when I caught my first and only touchdown pass on offense, after an injury slid me into the number-two Tight End position in high school. I fired back at him asking how many TD's he'd gotten when he played.
But it's often like that with fathers and sons, isn't it? The father's failures and shortcomings are loaded onto the back of their son to help shoulder the burden of an unfulfilled life; an unrecognized dream, or a promise unattainable. It never mattered before if I was any good, so why should it matter now if I'm good enough to compete in this league? If I slip up now and fall into a void of complacency, then there is no higher peak--This moment, this league would be the top of the mountain, and frankly, good enough isn't good enough.
We lost the game. We gave up too many points. I should have done more.
I tilted by head back to rest it against the cold locker behind me. I was sweating still, and I could feel the drops dripping off my body and onto the floor by my feet. I gazed vacantly at the fluorescent lights above me, closing my eyes and attempting to drown out these thoughts. The chip on my shoulder all these years has manifested into an inadequacy complex that is a bear-trap for my ego--I can't let myself willfully step into it.
*bzzzzzZZZZZZZttttt bzzzzzzZZZZZZZZZtttt*
My phone was vibrating next to me on the wooden bench loudly, so I picked it up and looked to see who was calling. It was Mama. I picked up.
"Hey Mama, how're you doing? Did you see the game? We lost pretty bad, but we'll get them next ti-"
"You did so well, Rabi! I climbed up on the couch and started screaming when I saw you were gonna score! The family is all here, say hello!"
I immediately recognized the voices of my uncles and aunts, my brother Glen and his wife, my niece Ally, and host of other friends I grew up with as a youth. They were shouting over each other so loudly that I realized the scene there must be pandemonium. That made me smile for a moment before adding: "Alright, alright, I hear y'all! Thank you so much, I can't wait to tell you all everything about being in the DSFL. It's been a whirlwind. Sorry we couldn't pull out a win tonight for you all, though."
"Oh hush, baby, we're all so proud of you, and . . . I know your father would be proud too."
Another drop hit the floor, followed by another.
(1118 words)
![[Image: 016p.png]](https://i.postimg.cc/TPx2k2wr/016p.png)
