concrete fills the space. I inhale and get a nose full of the scents of game day—body odor, fresh laundry, and testosterone. Goosebumps chase pinpricks of anticipation over my skin. The atmosphere buzzes and pops like static electricity on a cold winter morning.
I wonder if Tiger can feel it too. This is my world, and I want to share it with her. I want her to understand why football is so important to me, and why I’d do anything to keep my place on this team.
Guthrie yells, “Let’s kick some ass today, boys!” And the rest of the team roars their agreement. The team stops at the entrance of the passageway, but nobody moves to enter the stadium. They’re waiting on their cue.
A remix of AC/DC’s “Thunderstruck” fills the arena. For several minutes it’s just the lone sound of a lead guitar, then the pounding beat of the drums is added, a video on the jumbotron flares to life, and the crowd loses their collective minds. The fans stomp their feet and yell “Thun-der, Thun-der, Thun-der” along with the band. Tiger’s eyes are as big as her smile, and she covers her ears to protect them from the noise. I don’t blame her, the sound in the tunnel is deafening.
On the lyrics “you’ve been thunderstruck,” pyrotechnics on either side of the tunnel opening explode, and the team bursts onto the field like a herd of pissed off bulls who’ve been penned up far too long.
The song’s still playing when Tiger and I make it onto the field. Forty thousand screaming people are on their feet, and everyone turns their attention to the video on the jumbotron. In between slow-motion clips of the team dominating our opponents, the faces of the team’s star players are shown. Mine is the first image, and pride and adrenaline are like rocket fuel in my veins. It’s always a freakin’ head rush. But the high is quickly squashed when McKay’s pretty face flashes onto the screen after mine. That’s new. He wasn’t on the video at the last home game. What does it mean?
Panic claws at my throat, but I do my best to beat it back.
Tiger’s grip on my hand tightens. “Oh, my gosh. This is overwhelming.” She has to lean close to my ear because the song is still playing.
I laugh, remembering my first few pro games. I put my lips to her ear and the intoxicating smell of happiness fills my head. For a minute I forget what I was going to say. That hesitation is enough for the song to end, and I can speak normally. “It can be. My first few games, the stadium personnel kept a bucket next to the tunnel exit so I could puke before I ran onto the field.” Nostalgia hits me in the chest, and I can’t help the wistfulness in my voice. “The best and worst feeling in the world.” Those were the good ol’ days, before all the injuries, team politics, and media scrutiny.
“You’re kidding,” she laughs.
I chuckle. “I wish. The whole offensive line taped barf bags to my locker with messages on them, things like don’t screw this up, rookie and remember you’re replaceable.”
“That’s so mean.”
I squeeze her hand. “I appreciate your indignation on my behalf, but it was the best possible way to motivate me. It reminded me that I could lose all of this if I didn’t get over my nerves and do my job.”
“I guess it is a job. I think most people just think of it as being a game.”
“Oh, it’s a job all right. There are millions and millions of dollars involved, and the owners are serious about wringing every dime out of you while you’re on their payroll. So you do your job or you don’t get paid.”
“Don’t you guys have contracts?”
“Yes, but there’s a portion of our salaries that we don’t get if we don’t play. That’s in the contracts too. So guys play hurt because they don’t want to lose any money.”
“That’s terrible.”
I follow the progress of the captains as they move to the middle of the field for the coin toss. That should be me. “A lot of these athletes come from nothing, and the money they make isn’t just supporting them, but their extended families as well. It’s a lot of pressure.”
“Do you include yourself in that group?”
“Hell, yeah. We didn’t have a pot to piss in or a window to throw it out of, so yeah.” We stop in a piece