Page 51 of A Play For The Heart
“Don’t let it shake you.” He says, knocking my arm as he continues past me to line up for the play. First the compliment at the game, now this. I’m not sure what's going on with Declan or the recent change in behavior towards me, but I'm not in the headspace to do a deep dive on that.
I don’t drop passes often. It was one of the things that allowed me to be drafted as high as I was. We run a few different plays, then the coaches call the practice.
Finally.
I drag myself off the field towards the locker room when a booming yell stops me in my tracks.
“Parker, my office.”
I drop my head, knowing exactly where this is going. Instead of heading left from the practice field, I take a right heading towards Coach Barrett’s office. I drag my feet down the hallway towards his door, take a deep breath, and knock.
“Come in,” Coach Barrett responds on the other side of the door.
I walk into his office and take a seat on the other side of his desk. The space is covered with accolades and achievements and the massive oak desk is a massive barrier between him and I. I know exactly what he wants to talk to me about. All the passes I dropped in practice. I’m sure he wants an explanation. I would love to give him one, except I have no idea why it happened. In the past, I’ve dropped passes from anxiety or if my dad got into my head, but none of that’s happened. I’m the happiest I’ve been in a while.
“What’s up, Coach?”
“Cut the shit. You and I both know why I called you in here. What happened out there today? Three dropped passes in a row? That isn’t like you, Henry.”
I sigh because he’s right. “I know. I’m not sure what happened. But it won’t happen again.”
He looks at me, almost like he’s trying to see into my mind. “It better not. I don’t want to have to, Henry, but if it keeps happening, I’m going to have to play someone else. We can’t afford dropped passes in a game, especially so close to the playoffs.”
My stomach immediately drops, and I feel sick. He can’t bench me, especially not this close to the playoffs. I’ll just have to focus harder. Today was a blip. It won’t happen again. I keep telling myself that to prevent the anxiety from rising.
“I understand. It won’t happen again.”
Coach Barrett nods, accepting my answer. “I don’t expect perfection, Henry. I know that we’re all human, but I will not tolerate consistent mistakes.”
With that, he dismisses me, and I head back to the locker room. In a span of a few hours, I went from on top of the world to feeling like utter shit. I’ve never done well with tough love when it comes to coaching. My dad tried it when I was young and all it did was force me to get caught up in my head. I could never shake the feeling of dread that I was going to mess up. And because I hyper-fixated on trying not to mess up, I became more likely to do it. It was a vicious cycle. It took me a long time to realize that was just the way some people coached. At Notre Dame, the wide receivers coach took a different approach. One of constructive criticism with a healthy dose of compliments. He would correct us if we made a mistake, but he would also acknowledge our accomplishments. It worked for me. I can take criticism and coaching, but with my anxiety, tough love tends to put negative thoughts into my head. Which is exactly what’s happening in my brain currently, thanks to Coach Barrett’s lovely speech.
I change out of my sweaty workout gear and head into the shower. I stand in the water for what seems like a lifetime, and after drying off, I change into joggers and a Mavericks t-shirt. Not saying a word to any of the guys left in the locker room, I grab my bag and head towards my car. The last thing I want to do is to talk to anyone, especially after that conversation with Coach Barrett.
Apparently, my father has different plans. I sit down in the driver’s seat of my car when he calls me. I debate not answering, but if I don’t, he’ll just keep on calling. Which I don’t want. Resigned to my fate, I answer the call.
“Hi, Dad,” I say, as monotone as possible.
“Hello, Henry. How are you?”
He usually jumps straight into telling me what he wants or critiquing me, so the pleasantries catch me off guard.
“Good, just got out of practice. How are you and mom?” I respond skeptically.
“Your mother and I are fine. She’s excited to see you during the playoffs. Says she hasn’t talked to you in a while.”
I immediately feel bad because he isn’t wrong. I’ve been meaning to call her, but I get busy and forget. Which isn’t fair to her. I make a mental note to call her.
“I know. I’ll call her soon. Promise.”
Part of me hopes that was the reason that he called, but there’s no chance I’m that lucky.
“Speaking of the playoffs, are you ready? These are important games, especially for a rookie. Can make or break your future career. A good playoff run can set you up for a great career like mine.”
Very subtle.
I couldn’t tell you if it was the bad practice, the talk with Coach Barrett or just having to speak to my dad on the phone, but the change of conversation sparks anger inside of me.
“It’s funny”, I say. “You only seem to call or text me about football. Never about my life.”
