There are guys doing ladder drills, intimidating and tiring, but I like to think I’m quick enough on my feet that I could give most of them a run for their money. Not so with most of the other stuff I see. There’s one group of guys facing a set of hurdles, jumping over each one leapfrog style instead of using the form you see at track meets. There’s a group with guys crashing into one another whenever the coach says go, growling and trying to take their opponent down. Another set is doing monkey rolls, my favorite drill to watch because it’s just so damn impressive (and entertaining). Three guys all start out lying on their stomachs beside one another. In turns, they throw themselves up or roll across the grass, so it looks like they’re being juggled by large, invisible hands.
But I catch sight of Dad at the far end of the practice field. He has two lines of guys set up to form a narrow corridor, and while one player runs through carrying the ball, they all attempt to make him fumble.
Apparently Levi did just that, because I can hear Dad tearing him a new one from over here. “I don’t give a damn if you’re tired or bleeding or about to pass out on my field, Abrams. You don’t drop the damn ball. You’re the QB. You protect that ball like it’s the only one you have, because it just might be if I see it hit the ground one more time.”
I wince. Nothing like the threat of castration to brighten up your day.
“Again!”
Levi runs the gauntlet again, and the players are none too gentle as they try to strip the ball away, probably by Dad’s order. This time, Levi holds on to the ball. Dad sends him through a few more times, and when he’s satisfied, he moves on to the next player.
“McClain, you’re up!”
The guy on the end takes the ball from Levi, who fills his post as one of the last members of the gauntlet. The new guy tucks the ball close, keeps his shoulders hunched, and speeds through the middle, holding tight to the ball.
“Again. Faster.”
The guy had already appeared faster than Levi to my eyes, but maybe he’s a running back. It would make sense for him to be faster.
He turns around, runs back through the gauntlet, his feet even quicker this time.
Dad runs him again and again, pushing him harder each time, and the guy holds up.
Dad sounds angry, but he’s not. He wears this thoughtful expression on his face, and I can tell whatever he’s thinking . . . it’s big. He’s pleased.
I may not give a crap about football, but I know my dad well enough to know when he’s excited about something, when he’s inspired. I like to think it’s the same look I get on my face when I’m choreographing a routine, and my body seems to know instinctively what move should come next. I only wish he could see the correlation, see that dance does for me what football does for him.
Instead, he just sees a waste of time and money for a career he doesn’t think I’ll ever have. I know, logically, I know that he’s just worried about me, and this is how it manifests, but that doesn’t stop the part of me that hopes and dreams from hating him a little.
As I’m coming up closer to Dad, he asks, “Are you tired, McClain?”
“No, sir,” the guy barks back.
“You look tired.”
“No, sir.”
“Tired men drop the football. Tired men make mistakes. Are you tired?”
“No, sir!”
“Then do it again. Keep going until I say stop.”
Even I feel sorry for the dude. He’s done everything Dad asked, and done it well enough to actually impress my father (not an easy feat), and still he won’t let up. But that’s an aspect to my father’s personality with which I am intimately familiar.
“Geez, Dad. If this is how you like to spend your birthday, maybe we should skip dinner and you could just yell at people as they walk by. Maybe chase some mailmen. Chew on a bone or two.”
Dad whirls around, and he has his football expression on—eyebrows pulled low and close together, jaw clenched, eyes even beadier than normal. He looks at me for a few long moments before I see him begin to shake off his practice persona.
With a frown, he steps up beside me and places a kiss on my forehead that’s a not-so-distant cousin to a head butt.
“Am I running late?” he asks.
“Only a little.”
He nods and then blows the whistle, ending the players’ agony. I shoot his last punching bag, number twelve, a quick smile, and he drops the ball.
It just slips right out of his hand, bounces twice, and then rolls a few feet away.
Luckily, Dad’s attention is elsewhere, or his brain might actually implode due to anger. I raise my eyebrows and glance toward the ground, and number twelve picks the thing up so fast you’d think his life depended on it. Which, honestly, it kinda does.
I walk back and out of the way as the players jog over to circle around Dad. There are so many of them that I have to resist the urge to run to avoid getting swallowed up in the crowd. They take a knee, and I lean against the wall nearby.
I feel eyes on me, too many eyes, but it takes only a clearing of my Dad’s throat to redraw all of their focus. I fidget, crossing my legs and studying my toes.
Dad starts in on his wrap-up, his familiar rumbling voice carrying across the field with very little effort.
“You’re getting stronger,” he begins. “Quicker. Better.” I can see the team collectively straighten up under his praise. “But it’s not enough.”
Dad is inhumanly good at that—building you up just to knock you down a peg or two.
“How many games did you win last year?”