Page 3 of Fair Catch
It was a different kind of nervous than my first day on campus in May. That day was filled with nerves I imagined any college freshman might experience — the thrill of being on my own, the terror of figuring out what that meant, the pressure of figuring out what I wanted to do with the rest of my life.
May meant the start of summer term, of getting two of my tougher courses out of the way before fall — and thus, football — came. Summer meant hot conditioning workouts in the sun with my new coaches, lifting weights, and “voluntary” kicking drills. It was hard work, but it was just practice, just something to do while we waited for this day.
For fall camp.
Today kicked off the real season. Today, I’d work with my coaches on the game, get my install packet, and start competing for my spot on the field.
Clouds spread across the sky in lazy, cotton-like waves, the sun’s glow peering through them. A million shades of blue and gold danced in a way that made me think of one of my favorite artists — Charles Harold Davis.
How strange that just two years ago, that was all I could think about, all I was consumed with. Outside of soccer, my life consisted of planning my next museum trip, curating my own little assortment of art, dreaming about an internship that would lead to a career where I was in charge of a museum’s entire collection.
One pinky promise had shifted my priorities, had steered me in a new direction.
And though it wasn’t the same, I was surprised to find how much football lit me up in the same way, how much passion I had for the sport that always felt off-limits to me.
Now that I had it, I’d do everything to fight to keep it.
Anticipation buzzed through me like an ever-present electric shock as I scanned my badge at the stadium and disappeared into the hallway, sneakers already carrying me toward the locker room like it was second nature. My muscles were larger than when I entered this facility the first time, my head clearer, my heart steadier.
The past couple of months — no, the past couple of years — had prepared me for this.
I was ready.
When I pushed through the locker room door, I was pleased to find I was one of the earliest to show up. I nodded at Holden Moore, a redshirt freshman whom I wagered would be our QB1. He was wrapping his ankle, and he gave me a nod that told me he was half impressed, half suspicious. He didn’t trust me yet, which was fine.
I didn’t trust anyone, either.
A few other guys were in the locker room, too — a defensive end I recognized from the weight room, a receiver known for his impressive work on the team last year, and of course, the coaches and athletic training staff.
Their eyes followed me as I made my way over to the temporary locker assigned to me, one I would have to work hard over the next month to keep for the season. I’d been offered a scholarship, sure — but that didn’t mean my spot on the team was guaranteed.
As I got situated, some of them watched carefully, their eyes drifting up to me before quickly snapping back to whatever they were doing before. Others stared blatantly, something between confusion and a sneer marking their features. I seemed to get more and more of those as boys filed in, but I ignored them, focusing on getting myself ready for my first shot in front of Coach Sanders.
When you’re the only girl on the football team, you get used to the stares.
You have to.
Fortunately, I had plenty of practice in high school.
It didn’t take long for me to have not only the stares of my teammates, but of every student, teacher, administrator, and parent alike at Hollis High. Add on the story of what happened to my brother, and it was a media frenzy at that first game I played — one that never died down.
It wasn’t all negative. In fact, a lot of the news outlets praised Coach for having a female kicker, like it was him who earned the right to be out there in those pads. The better ones highlighted my talent — regardless of my sex — and asked respectful questions in the interviews Coach set up for me week after week. And of course, there were girls at school who thought it was awesome, who praised me for fighting the patriarchy and made t-shirts with my number and wore them every Friday night.
Still, I knew the difference between those who were genuine and those who surveyed me with that look — the one that told me they were secretly hoping I failed.
