The Quarterbac

I wrote this piece some time ago but have struggled with whether to submit it or not for several reasons. First, it is a story about American football, and I know that many readers and writers on this site are not American. And I readily admit to the readers from outside the U.S. that what we call football is badly misnamed. If you think about the amount of time the ball is touched by a foot in American football, I am confident that it would come to less than five seconds.

Another reason I hesitated in submitting this story was my loss of respect for American football players. I used to be a huge football fan, but when the players started kneeling for the national anthem, that changed for me. I did, however, go back over this story and explain why I feel as I do.

And lastly, the story is long. And even though I know that many of you dislike chapter stories, I felt compelled to split this one into two parts. However, I am submitting both chapters at the same time.

I own any mistakes in this story as I edited it myself. Also, I readily admit that my knowledge of American football is limited by what I have seen on television. However, I do have a good working knowledge of the NFL draft as I followed it closely for several years.

The Quarterback - Chapter One

I felt my knee twist at an awkward angle, and then I heard the snap. I knew immediately that whatever happened was bad. Then the pain that radiated through my body was excruciating.

It was so surreal, laying there on the turf, in a stadium of sixty thousand people, and it was almost completely quiet. As I lay there in agony, my life began to flash through my mind. My name is Jason Saunders, and I thought how strange it was that I had become a professional football player. Okay, I had been a backup quarterback in the NFL for most of my career, but I still loved it. Yeah, there are times you get mauled by three-hundred-pound linemen, or popped by nasty linebackers, or blindsided by safeties or cornerbacks, and none of that is fun. And it absolutely sucked that a linebacker had nailed me with my leg planted funny. Now, it seemed certain that my football career was over.

It was a needless injury. I had been sent in just to run out the clock. There were less than two minutes left in the game, and we were up 38 - 17. It was second and four when I handed off the ball to Tony Jacobs, a reserve running back. He got hit immediately, and the ball popped out. I grabbed it on the second bounce and tried to run. That is when the linebacker launched into my leg. As I lay there in agony, my thoughts and my thoughts began to wander. They were only partially on the fact that my football career had probably ended. Even in as much pain as I was, the realization that my wife had left me for someone else hurt ten times worse.

I rocked slightly as the pain made me sweat and feel nauseous. The team doctor and the trainers seemed to be taking forever to decide what to do. I let my mind race back over the years to distract from the agony. And people would be scratching their heads if they could read my thoughts. I had been a backup quarterback most of my time playing football, and I thought it was the greatest job ever.

You see, I was content playing a supporting role. First, I knew my limitations; I was just an average player. I was not the optimum height for the ideal quarterback and only had average arm strength. Plus, my body was not built to sustain constant abuse. But the monetary rewards for doing very little were substantial.

When you are a backup quarterback, no one expects very much from you. People generally expect you to screw up, so they are not terribly upset if you do. But if you do well, they are amazed. Of course, you bust your ass before and during the season and get paid a lot of money comparatively speaking.

I will say one other thing about my abilities. Even though I only had average skills, I was able to maximize them when I got to play. Also, I seemed to thrive under pressure. The bigger the game, the better I seemed to play.

What I was paid paled compared to the annual income of starting quarterbacks. Still, I was satisfied with my pay because it was more than ninety-nine percent of the people make in a year. I just shake my head when I read about players turning down guaranteed hundred-million-dollar contracts.

As I reflect on my football career, I find it strange as being a pro football player was never one of my ambitions. I didn't want to play football, let alone make it a career. Over the years, I have known many who dreamed of making it to the NFL, and none of them ever came close. As for me, I just sort of fell into it and then kept trying to stretch it for one more year. And each year, I knew that my professional football career hung by a thread each new season, so I knew I would eventually have to get a real job.

As I lay on the turf in Lincoln Financial Field in Philadelphia, I realized that my football career had been much luckier than my love life. This was my seventh year in the NFL, or maybe my eighth. The pain made it hard to concentrate. It was ironic that my love life and football career would crater Simultaneously.

"Jason, do you hurt anywhere other than your left knee?" the team trainer asked me.

I shook my head with gritted teeth.

"Okay, I am going to roll you over to your back. Do not move too fast, and I will support your knee."

The doctor did a preliminary exam and then called for the cart. As the team cart carried me off the field, the fans began to cheer. If this were my last game, at least I would have those cheers to remember. I gave the thumbs-up sign, and the cheering got louder. The sound faded when we reached the tunnel, and I knew I was just an afterthought for the fans.

Eventually, I was transported to the hospital, where I was told that I had torn my ACL. They would operate in the morning. At the age of thirty, I was sure my time in the NFL had ended.

I lay in bed feeling depressed even though I knew I shouldn't complain. I had already lasted way longer than the average NFL player. Pro football careers are painfully short, averaging less than three years. And truthfully, you cannot blame the teams. If you are only a mediocre player, replacing you with a kid fresh out of college after two years is cheaper. That is why I never knew from year to year if a team would pick me up or not. Yet, somehow, I managed to wind up in the NFL and stick around until now. On the other hand, my love life seemed to move from one dumpster fire to another.

My journey to the NFL began because of my big mouth. Over the years, I could not help but wonder how my life would have turned out if I had chosen to remain silent that day.

I played very little organized sports as a kid but absolutely no football until I got to high school. And even when I started as a freshman, I had zero interest in playing high school football. However, then I opened my mouth and inserted my foot. I mean, I was a scrawny five foot six, hundred and fifty-pound weakling with no football experience. But I had foolishly run my mouth, and my pride would not allow me to back down.

We had been "trash-talking" the football team, who were the "gods" in our high school, Harrison High. I got caught up in the talk and casually said that I did not think they were all that tough. Before I could clarify my comment and say that I thought soccer players were tougher, everyone started to laugh at me. That made me mad, and before I knew it, they had goaded me into signing up for the football team.

Harrison High was one of the few busing success stories. About forty years ago, the regional school board had closed an old and failing high school that had been predominately black. The students were then transferred to Harrison, a predominately white school. The school history told of the racial tensions running high for the first year. But that year's principal, Mr. Winters, who was black, kept everything in check. Today, the student population is forty-five percent white, thirty-five percent black, and twenty percent Hispanic. And remarkably, everyone pretty much gets along. But with the forced integration, Harrison suddenly became a sports powerhouse. Harrison not only had a great football team, but we also had great basketball and soccer teams. And surprisingly, we had great tennis and golf teams.

Knowing Harrison High's traditions concerning sports, I felt my tenure with the football team would be short. But at least I could hold my head high with the knowledge that I had not backed down. The coaches started us out doing something called "suicides."

"Suicides" were nothing more than running at top speed for twenty yards, walking back to the starting line. Then you ran at top speed for thirty yards and walked back. Next was forty yards and then fifty. When you finished that, you started over again. Basically, "Suicides" were designed to thin the herd. There were two hundred and seventy-three of us trying out. It was a form of organized chaos. After my second circuit of suicides, I puked. But I was not totally embarrassed because many other guys had tossed their cookies before me.

The rest of that first day was split between "Suicides," tackling, blocking, and finished with a one-mile run. The run was the only part of the practice where I felt I performed well, as I finished in the upper third. Still, my body was beaten to shit at the end of the day. I considered quitting, but my buddies had been giving me the business all through practice, so there was no way I was packing it in.

By the start of the second day of practice, that number of students trying out was down to a hundred and sixty-two. The coaches only planned to keep ninety on the team. When the second day of practice repeated the first, I had an even stronger urge to quit. Yet, I would not because my buddies were all still in the stands giving me the business if I appeared to be slacking off.

Somehow, I lasted through the first week. I was so sore when the weekend came that I could hardly walk. By the second week of practice, I was still there, wishing I could find some way to quit and maintain my dignity. Yet, day after day, no opportunity presented itself. It was during that second week that I saw a glimmer of hope. The coaches were now trying to determine if any new players were worth keeping. Those that had made the team last year were segregated from the rest of us. During the next practice phase, I discovered I did not appear to have much to offer. Because of my lack of size and speed, being a lineman, linebacker, cornerback, safety, running back, or tight end were positions that I had no possibility of playing. Also, I could not kick a football worth shit.

As I was being told that I could not play one position after another, I began to think this torture might end soon. If I couldn't help the team, surely, I would be cut. And if I was cut, I could go back to my friends and still maintain that the football players were not that tough. I would tell them I did not make the team because I was neither big enough nor fast enough. However, that did not happen.

When I was sent to the quarterback coach, he looked at my hands and smiled. I didn't understand why. I had always had large hands and never thought anything of it. Then he asked me to throw the football a few times. I threw the ball forty-five yards down the field, and the coach's smile widened. When we started throwing to receivers, I also discovered I was accurate. My dreams of being cut from the team evaporated that day.

Over the next two weeks, the coaches decided to keep me around as a potential quarterback. I could not understand their reasoning at all. I mean, with my cleats on, maybe I was five foot seven and weighed maybe a hundred and sixty pounds. Yet, day after day, I continued to work out as a quarterback. When the final cuts were made, I was still on the team. I was pissed because I did not want to play football, but at least my friends stopped teasing me.

When my freshman season started, our quarterback was Danny Sullivan, with Akem Nelson and Brian Stoddard as the backups. And once the regular season was underway, the practices changed. The coaches were no longer trying to "kill" us. They worked more on timing and precision.

As the season progressed, I had to admit that being a backup quarterback was not a bad position. I only practiced with the third-team offense. Also, I got to wear a red jersey, which meant no one was supposed to hit me. Well, in high school, that was not strictly enforced. More than one linebacker or lineman planted my face in the dirt. The coaches would ream the offending player, but they always had a smirk when I would line up behind the center again.

One of the interesting things about my first season playing football was that only ten freshmen had tried out for the team, and I was the only one who made it. I would learn later that the coaches saw talent in me that I never knew was there. They planned to develop it so I would be the starting quarterback by my senior year. Of course, I only learned that years later.

I mostly sat on the bench for my first season. And I must admit, that was my favorite position. I did not have any responsibility and did not have to worry about being hurt. The coaches did not even ask me to play on the special teams.

One of the upsides of being on the football team was supposed to be the girls. That was one thing about attending a high school where sports were dominant. The girls loved athletes. Well, in theory, that was how it was supposed to work. However, you must consider that I was just a short, skinny freshman, putting me at the bottom of the athlete pecking order. If you also factor in that I was terrified of girls, you could see my problem. I was not getting the maximum benefit from being an athlete. In fact, at the end of the year, most people did not even realize I was on the football team. If they didn't believe me, I would pull out the yearbook and show them the team picture.

My lack of a girlfriend was no big deal. None of my friends had girlfriends, either. But then the Homecoming dance came up, and I was told by our team captain that every player was expected to be at the dance with a sports coat, tie, and a date. I had a sports coat and a tie, but I did not know where I was going to get a date. The only girl I knew well enough to ask was Melinda Samuels, the preacher's daughter.

Melinda was not fat or ugly, but she was no looker either. Melinda wore dowdy clothes that accented nothing and wore glasses and braces. Still, in my mind, it was Melinda or no one. It took me three days to get up the nerve to ask her. I was pleasantly surprised when she quickly said yes.

The dance was unremarkable except for the fact that Melinda looked good. Gone were the frumpy clothes, replaced by a pretty evening dress that showed that Melinda had a figure. She also left her glasses at home, saying she only needed them to read. After the dance, we had one or two dates, but that petered out quickly. Still, it gave me the courage to ask other girls out. Melinda, on the other hand, had a transformation at the Homecoming Dance that attracted the attention of quite a few other guys. She dated constantly.

Over the summer before my sophomore year, I decided I would not play football next season. And I probably would not have if the coach had not stopped me in the hall to ensure I would be at the first day of practice. By the time the season started, I was officially the third-string quarterback. Danny had graduated and accepted an academic scholarship and would play football at Duke. Oh, I suppose I should mention Danny was super smart and a great athlete.

As I said, I enjoyed sitting on the bench watching the game up close and personal. However, the coaches had decided I needed to get more involved, so they made me the placeholder for our kicker, Rollo Rodriguez. Rollo was a total prick who thought he was God's gift to women and that his shit did not stink. Being a placeholder is simple. You take the snap from the center, put the ball down with your finger on top, and get your other hand out of the way. Rollo thought it was funny to kick a little high in practice to catch my hand. I wanted to beat his ass, but he could kick a field goal fifty yards out. I didn't think the coaches would appreciate it if I crippled the dirtbag. As it turned out, Rollo went on to play football for Ohio State and played part of one season with the Denver Broncos. Still, he was a total prick.

The State Championship game was a turning point in my football career. We were down to Patterson High 27-24 with less than two minutes to go. Danny Sullivan had driven our team down to Patterson's twenty-five-yard line, but the drive stalled. With only eleven seconds left, the coach sent Rollo in to kick a field goal to tie the game. Then we would go into overtime. However, it didn't work out that way.

The snap came back great, and I got the ball down, but Rollo slipped on a piece of loose turf. His kick went low and was blocked. The ball bounced back to me, and I was running for my life. I thought they had me three times, but I slipped away. Then I saw Barry Blakley open in the endzone, so I fired a strike to him just as time ran out. Instead of overtime, we won 30-27. Our linemen were so happy that I thought they would pound me into the ground.

The entire team arrived at Julio's Pizza Kitchen to celebrate. Because of the crowd, they had to open the back room they rented out for special occasions. I was having a great time when Jimmy Washington arrived. Jimmy was a black wide receiver a year ahead of me in school. This night, he came in with Melinda draped all over him. It was obvious to me that they had both been drinking. For Jimmy to be blasted was not a surprise, but to see Melinda that way was a shock.

"Hey, white bread," Jimmy grinned at me. "Maybe you won the game, but I got your girl."

I suppose I should explain that Jimmy did not think too highly of me. I guess it was because I hung a nickname on him, "stone hands." Jimmy was a freakishly good athlete. He was by far the fastest kid on our team, and he was also a fabulous basketball player. As a wide receiver, however, Jimmy could get open most of the time. His problem was that he had trouble holding onto the ball.

Jimmy did not have the soft hands that a great receiver should have. I suppose I should not have called him "stone hands," but I was frustrated when he dropped the fourth pass I had thrown him during practice. Over the years, I learned that Jimmy never forgot and never forgave. He was a vindictive prick; over the years, I would learn just how big a scumbag he was.

I found Jimmy's comments amusing. Granted, Melinda had turned into a total fox after getting her braces off. However, I had only taken her to one dance and out on a few dates. Still, if he wanted everyone to think Melinda was my girl, I figured it would not hurt my reputation. Besides, I wanted to mess with Jimmy a little, which was not very smart in hindsight,

"First of all, I resent being called white bread," I said with a smirk. "I am more of a whole wheat kind of guy. Second, Melinda is not my girl, but I would not have to get her drunk to have her mess around with me."

Jimmy pushed me back down as I started to get up and move away. "Fuck you, white bread. She's my date."

"Stop being a dumbass," I said with a smile. "Melinda is not now, nor has she ever been my girlfriend."

"Are you trying to say I'm stupid?" Jimmy pushed me again.

By now, everyone in the pizza shop was staring at us. I was totally annoyed with Jimmy for making a big scene, but I did not want to get into a fight with him because he was much bigger than me. Still, my pride would not let me back down either. So, I decided to try humor, which was another bad decision.