03-07-2020, 11:52 PM
(This post was last modified: 03-07-2020, 11:55 PM by ForSucksFake.)
He was smacking his lips. I couldn’t figure out why I found it so tantalizing. I had just walked out of the film room when I saw Butters in the hallway.
“You know if you keep watching film, you’re gonna drive yourself crazy.” I knew he was right. As a late-round draft pick, I had been dedicating myself to proving I belonged on the team. It was eating into my sleep schedule. I just couldn’t shut off.
“Come on, rook. Let’s hit the gym. I’ll give you the best workout of your life.” I was feeling hesitant about accepting the offer when he said, “Afterward we can grab some food. I’ll buy.”
“Are you sure? I don’t wanna be a mooch.”
“Are you serious, rook?,” Butters pressed. “Look, it’s no big deal. I consider you a friend and the league is barely paying you a livable wage.”
He made a good point. I put my tablet in my backpack and followed him to the weight room.
I flipped on the lights when Butters broke the silence. “Let’s do some curls. As a wideout, having a good stiff arm is an invaluable weapon.”
He unzipped his team hoodie and put it on an empty bench. I put my backpack down and approached the mirror. I heard him walk towards me as I reached for a dumbbell.
“Let’s start out with a quick warm up. Just give me fifteen curls. Shouldn’t be too strenuous.” I started pumping. One, two, three, four, five...
Before I brought the dumbbell to my chest, he put his hand on my back.
“Ah, man. Your technique is killing me.” I turned around, weight in hand.
“Hey, hey, watch where you’re pointing that thing,” he exclaimed. I apologized, and told him I was stressed out about my roster spot. He reassured me that every player experienced that kind of anxiety in their first minicamp, even the first-round picks.
“Daymond,” he said. “Let’s just focus on your form.” He reached out to guide my forearm. “Like I said before, we gotta work on your form.” He put his hands on my shoulders and ushered me to once again face the mirror.
“Alright. The key here is to keep your arm straight. Otherwise, you’re not getting the most out of the workout and you risk pulling something in your back. Can’t keep a roster spot long if you can’t stay on the field.
I resumed my workout, paying extra attention to maintaining a firm, straight incline and decline. That’s when he once again put his hand on my back.
“Oh, man. You’re tight,” he proclaimed. “That can’t feel good at all.”
“It’s fine,” I said. I’d been playing through on-and-off pain most of my life.
“I don’t think so, dude. We gotta get you on the massage table.”
“Butters, it’s fine really. Plus the training staff is gone for the night.”
That’s when he smiled and said, “Who said anything about the training staff?”
“You know if you keep watching film, you’re gonna drive yourself crazy.” I knew he was right. As a late-round draft pick, I had been dedicating myself to proving I belonged on the team. It was eating into my sleep schedule. I just couldn’t shut off.
“Come on, rook. Let’s hit the gym. I’ll give you the best workout of your life.” I was feeling hesitant about accepting the offer when he said, “Afterward we can grab some food. I’ll buy.”
“Are you sure? I don’t wanna be a mooch.”
“Are you serious, rook?,” Butters pressed. “Look, it’s no big deal. I consider you a friend and the league is barely paying you a livable wage.”
He made a good point. I put my tablet in my backpack and followed him to the weight room.
I flipped on the lights when Butters broke the silence. “Let’s do some curls. As a wideout, having a good stiff arm is an invaluable weapon.”
He unzipped his team hoodie and put it on an empty bench. I put my backpack down and approached the mirror. I heard him walk towards me as I reached for a dumbbell.
“Let’s start out with a quick warm up. Just give me fifteen curls. Shouldn’t be too strenuous.” I started pumping. One, two, three, four, five...
Before I brought the dumbbell to my chest, he put his hand on my back.
“Ah, man. Your technique is killing me.” I turned around, weight in hand.
“Hey, hey, watch where you’re pointing that thing,” he exclaimed. I apologized, and told him I was stressed out about my roster spot. He reassured me that every player experienced that kind of anxiety in their first minicamp, even the first-round picks.
“Daymond,” he said. “Let’s just focus on your form.” He reached out to guide my forearm. “Like I said before, we gotta work on your form.” He put his hands on my shoulders and ushered me to once again face the mirror.
“Alright. The key here is to keep your arm straight. Otherwise, you’re not getting the most out of the workout and you risk pulling something in your back. Can’t keep a roster spot long if you can’t stay on the field.
I resumed my workout, paying extra attention to maintaining a firm, straight incline and decline. That’s when he once again put his hand on my back.
“Oh, man. You’re tight,” he proclaimed. “That can’t feel good at all.”
“It’s fine,” I said. I’d been playing through on-and-off pain most of my life.
“I don’t think so, dude. We gotta get you on the massage table.”
“Butters, it’s fine really. Plus the training staff is gone for the night.”
That’s when he smiled and said, “Who said anything about the training staff?”
![[Image: l86IqoO.jpg]](https://i.imgur.com/l86IqoO.jpg)
![[Image: 61237_s.png]](https://signavatar.com/61237_s.png)
![[Image: TlcmoPk.gif]](https://i.imgur.com/TlcmoPk.gif)
