First & Long

by Jesse Jordan

  Feminine weaknesses... Dad's way of saying he wished I was born with a penis and the ability to run a 4.5 40-yard dash. I've heard it so often that I just let is roll off my back. Besides, this is sort of an opportunity. If I'm to ever prove myself as an executive, this is a chance to do it. Let Red and his coaches handle the on-field action... I can be the one woman back office who makes sure all the other balls stay in the air. “Understood.”

  “Good... then get your bags packed,” Dad says. “I'm flying out to spend some summer vacation with Meisha, Troy, and George in the Virgin Islands... and summer camp starts next week. You need to get up to the campus before then.”

  I nod, not saying anything. A month of training camp... a month away from the hassle of the city, and being back in the pure nature of football.

  It almost makes up for the heartbreak I'm feeling, and knowing I'll have to deal with Joe Crenshaw's ass the whole time.

  Dad sees my face, and nods. “Then get out of here. I'll inform Red you'll be the ownership representative for training camp. And Sam?”

  “Yes, Dad?”

  “Good luck.”

  Chapter 2

  Lincoln

  The heat of summer bakes through my shirt, and the sun is high in the sky as I walk out onto the field, looking around at the wide swath of green grass that's in front of me. There's no paint yet, no lines, just well maintained bluegrass that stretches out for a hundred and fifty yards in every direction. The only thing that interrupts the visage is a set of bleachers on one side, two sets of field goal posts where they're supposed to be, and a line of old oak trees behind the posts at the far end of the field. It reminds me of the old days, and I inhale deeply, loving the smell and the view.

  This is what's pure about the game, I think, setting down the sports bag I've got over my shoulder. Inside I've got a towel and a jug of water to counter the ninety degree heat, nothing else to make things complicated. No wonder I've always loved this sport.

  Kneeling down, I check the knots on my shoes before walking up and down the field, swinging my arms and stretching out. Camp starts in two days, and I'm going to use this opportunity to get one last personal workout in before everything starts.

  As I do, I start running over my mental checklist. Simply put, this could be my final camp. Coming out of college, I was a first round draft pick, a reach based off of my playing stats. I heard the comments, that I got bumped up because I'm a workout warrior, a practice field gladiator who can't quite deliver on all that potential during games, but if I could, I'd be the best player in the league.

  A lot of teams thought they could harness that, so it helped. That, and my lineage. When your father and your mother's brother are both Hall of Famers, and your mother was a former NCAA swimming champ, people know you've got the genetics to be the sort of freaky athlete that can dominate the field. And Dad was a 'late bloomer,' coming out of college as an unrestricted free agent before 'clicking' as a pro.

  But I haven't. Coming in with a bunch of hype, I've played decent but not spectacular ball. Last season, I even struggled to maintain my starting spot in Chicago. The fans booed me consistently, calling me a waste of a draft pick, especially since the guy drafted right after me has had three All-Pro seasons for Carolina. That and getting a reputation for being a locker room pain in the ass led to Chicago being more than happy to release me at the end of the season.

  Unfortunately, there weren't a lot of options out there for me, since I want to have a chance to prove myself as a starting player. Only the Knights, one of the basement teams with a defense that's a laughing stock, were willing to give me that shot. So I signed a veteran's minimum contract, packed up my bags and listed my house in Chicago for sale. The signing even made the sports pages, mostly as a joke. The last headline I read stated Watson Decides To Commit Career Suicide, Signs With Knights.

  It's not as bad as some people would think, though. The defensive coordinator for the Knights, Steve Petersen, is a protege of my college coach and plays the same base defense that I played in college. And I know that it's not his scheme that's let him down, it's the players the team's signed. I've talked with plenty of people, and it's a clear trend with the Knights. They spend money on offense, and pinch pennies until they scream on defense. But, if I'm going to be able to turn my career around... this is the only place.

  Lining up next to one of the goalposts, I start my first exercise, hundred and twenty yard sprints, goalpost to goalpost at three quarters effort. As I run, I go over my checklist of what I need to do after this workout is over. First, I need to get back to the dorm room I've been assigned and go over my defensive scheme book again. While Petersen runs a defense that's similar to what I ran in college, it has been changed to adapt to the pro game, and it's been four years since I played in it. More importantly though... I need to review my mental exercises.

  What nobody... well, almost nobody, understands is that my crappy performance in games isn't because I don't know what to do. Hell, I grew up in this game, Mom has pictures of me in a onesie with Dad's number on it. It isn't because I don't have the strength, speed, or skills. I can outrun a lot of running backs, and once in a non-contact practice in Chicago I chased down one of our wide receivers. Not bad for a guy six foot six, two hundred and eighty five pounds.

  My problem is inside my head. I call it my Monster. I've felt it my entire life, that primal side to me that wants to tear apart everything in its path. As a kid, it wasn't a problem, because Dad had me play an age group or more up in Pop Warner. At six years old, I played against eight year olds, stuff like that. That age difference allowed me to be kept in check by the bigger, older players.

  Even going through my first three years of high school, I didn't have a problem letting the Monster out on the field. Nobody got hurt, and I didn't really grow into my full height until my junior year. Then came the one hit in high school... and I was reminded just how dangerous I could be. It wasn't too bad, just a broken arm. Still, it was a warning, and I started to worry about hurting people.

  Going to college, it took me a little while to fill out from a lanky two twenty five to the two eighty five I am now. Most of my freshman year I spent second stringing behind a couple of older guys. I relaxed, and I thought that with the step-up in competition, that meant everyone could handle the ferocity that I can bring to the field.

  Then, my senior year... it happened again. This time the results were more extreme, and a young man's life was changed forever. Since then, I've been unable to pull the trigger, I've kept my Monster in its cage, unwilling to unleash it again. Not after what happened.

  The sweat's pouring down my body as I finish my first eight sprints, and I strip off my t-shirt, tossing it next to my sports bag. As I do, I glance up into the bleachers that have been set up for any fans who want to come see the Knights training camp, and I see a woman. She's stunning, in a tight fitting tailored skirt and button down blouse, long brown hair that hangs down her back in soft waves, and a body that... well, that skirt might cover a few flaws, but I don't think there's all that many. She's too far away for me to see the color of her eyes, but it doesn't really matter, she's beautiful.

  “Must be a college professor... good reason to come here to study whatever she's teaching,” I mutter to myself as I toss a small wave. The college we're using is in summer session, so there's still a lot of staff around, and she's got that sort of professional air to her, somehow. I bet if I asked her what her measurements are, she'd tell me her IQ score, and it'd smack the hell out of mine. “Brains and beauty, all in one package. Sweet.”

  She gives a small wave back, and I consider stopping what I'm doing to go over and talk to her. I take a step in her direction, but before I can even get a second in she reaches down to her hip and takes out a phone. Not a good time, and besides, regardless of how beautiful the woman is, I've got a workout to do. I turn my attention back to the field, reaching into my bag to get the four bright orange markers that I use for my other drills. I
'm a defensive end, not an Olympic sprinter, so most of my work is short distance, changing directions, cutting and applying force at odd angles. I've spent a lot of time this off season just working on my speed and agility, and I'm faster than I've ever been. Here, where there's nothing to hurt but four cheap markers, I unleash my Monster, letting it out for a while while I run hard, my muscles straining and my heart hammering in my chest. Sweat trickles down over the ridges of my abs to soak into the cotton waistband of my shorts, and my medium length hair is dripping by the time I'm done, hands on my knees while I gather my breath before I start my last exercise, bear crawling down the entire field before crawling back, all my muscles aching by the time I touch the goal post for the last time and climb to my feet.

  Wiping the sweat out of my eyes, I look up to the stands, but the beautiful woman is gone. “Too bad,” I murmur to myself, grabbing my shirt and wiping out my eyes before picking up my water bottle and draining another quarter of it. There isn't much left, just enough for me to sip while I walk back to the dorms. “If she'd stuck around, I would have introduced myself.”

  My Monster chuckles, and I stop, admonishing myself for my stupid foolishness. It's not just on the football field I need to remember to keep myself under control. I finish my stretching out, a twenty minute routine I picked up from my father that he swears let him play the last five years of his career. Grabbing my bag and stuff, I walk back to the dorms, where I've got my phone plugged in and charging. Wiping down my torso with a hand towel, I pick it up, and see I've got a call.

  What the hell, my shower can wait ten minutes. Hitting speed dial, I wait for my sports psychologist to pick up. As soon as he does, he's greeting me. “Hey Lincoln, how's the first day of camp?”

  “Not until Monday,” I reply with a chuckle. “As you well know. How's it going, Doc?”

  “Not too bad. I saw a story about camps starting soon, and your name was mentioned yesterday. I thought you might have seen it.”

  “Nope,” I reply with a shake of my head. “I'm turning all that stuff off for now, just like you recommended. I've got what I need: my playbook, my phone, and a couple of good books.”

  “Sounds healthier for you,” Doc replies. “So you reported in early.”

  “Yeah,” I reply, sitting on the edge of the footlocker that the university's letting us use for camp. I don't want to get my sheets damp. “After unpacking my stuff, I headed down to the practice field, like you recommended. Walked around, then did an agility workout on it. It was a good sweat.”

  “You connected with it,” Doc summarizes for me. “Did you find what you were hoping for?”

  “Somewhat, but we both know it's not going to really start happening until I start hitting people,” I reply. “But I'm hopeful.”

  “Me too. You made a lot of progress this past winter. Listen, I know you told me that you'll be in a contact blackout for most of camp, so good luck. I hope to hear that you're doing well.”

  “Thanks, Doc. Who knows, maybe I've found what I needed today. In any case, I'll give you a call after camp, one way or the other.”

  Chapter 3

  Samantha

  Even with SPF 30 cream smeared over every exposed inch of my skin, I've already started to pick up a tan. I watch the fifth day of training camp for the Knights as they begin their afternoon defensive session, and I’m hopeful. Everything's still non-contact, but it's the defensive players getting the focus, and I'm seeing a lot of rather physical 'non-contact' going on down there.

  “Hey, Coach Cooper?” I ask, catching the attention of the team's running backs coach and offensive coordinator, even though it's really Red who runs the show. He's in his late thirties, a nice guy who I know feels uncomfortable with me this past week... it's time we buried the hatchet.

  “How can I help you Miss Porter?” he asks, coming over. “Questions about this morning's practice?”

  “No, things looked good this morning,” I reply, wanting to move on. While I've made myself watch as much of every practice that I can, the simple fact is I can't stand to watch Joe Crenshaw out on the field for more than a few minutes before wanting to throw up. In the week since I threw him out of my office, he's tried to play Mr. Joe Chill with everything, like nothing's the matter at all. I've even heard a little scuttlebutt that he's claiming amongst the players that he was the one who dumped me.

  While I really don't care who thinks who dumped who, I'm mature enough to move beyond that stupid high school level bullshit, I still can barely stand the man. “Actually Coach, I wanted your opinion on something defensive,” I say, looking out on the field. “Anyone out there you'd be worried to scheme against?”

  Cooper looks out, humming before answering. “Well, if I'm just going off what I've seen the past few days, there's only one. I'm sorry to say the cap really screwed the defense.”

  “Again,” I reply, and Coop swallows before nodding. He's here to learn how to be a head coach, and I don't think he likes the Knights' situation either. He played for five years before moving into coaching, and he's got a player's heart still. “Relax Coach, I don't have any say on who the team signs. I just want your evaluation.”

  Cooper sighs, and takes off his large 'boonie' hat, something he's well known for since his skin burns at the merest hint of sunlight. “You want my honest opinion, half the guys out there right now should be thanking their lucky stars they've even got an invite to a pro camp this year. The linebacker corps is over the hill and slow, the d-backs are all rejects off of other teams that are missing something... there's only one guy right now showing me anything, even though I know he's going to fizzle out later.”

  “Who's that?” I ask.

  “Lincoln Watson, number ninety one,” Cooper replies. “See him out there working with the defensive linemen?”

  I know exactly who Coach Cooper's talking about. Ever since seeing him running alone, his chiseled body glistening in the sun and all of his muscles moving in sinewy waves, I've become a quick study of Lincoln Watson. Any woman with a pulse would... even if he is just another football player, just like Joe Crenshaw. “I've noticed. I looked him up, he came in on a veteran's minimum contract, no signing bonus even. Seems like a steal for a guy who was a first rounder four years ago.”

  “Sure... and there's a reason for it,” Cooper says. “Whenever the hits start flying, something happens to Lincoln. He goes soft, somehow. I don't know why, some people say he's afraid to hit or maybe to get hit, but I don't think that's it. I saw that tackle he did his senior year when he ended one guy's career. It was a killer, and it was totally clean too. No... there's something else wrong with him. He's a total beast right now, and when the playing is not super-intense he's one of the best you'll ever see. But when it comes crunch time, and you gotta get down and get pissed off, impose your will on the guy across from you... Lincoln just fades somehow. It's like, some guys don't have that extra gear when it’s on the line... but Lincoln, he seems to almost downshift in those situations.”

  “You think he'll make it through camp?” I ask, curiously concerned.

  “For sure. He's a physical freak,” Cooper replies. “You know, I played against his old man? It was his dad's last year, and my rookie year. I thought I was prepared for handling pro players, I mean I'd gone through camp taking on our linebackers and not having a problem. First regular season game, I line up in the slot, go into the flat to catch a swing pass... Landon Watson hit me so damned hard I thought I was going to die right there on the thirty two yard line. Robbie Vincent was our tight end, he comes over and helps me up with this big smirk on his face. I asked him what was so funny, and you know what he told me?”

  “What?”

  “He said that now I knew the difference between playing a pro, and playing a Hall of Fame pro. His last year, a so-called old man who'd lost a step or two... and I wasn't sure after that play if I still wanted to be a professional football player or not he hit me so hard. Lincoln's got all that his dad had, but he's bigger. He's
faster, he's stronger... and nobody's afraid of playing him. Still... right now, if I had to say scheming just off of pure ability and what I've seen so far... yeah, I'd worry about Lincoln Watson. Hope he stays fired up too, or else it's going to be another long, long year for the defense.”

  “Miss Porter?” Kimberly, one of the office assistants says, coming up to me. “Coach Hallifax would like a word with you.”

  “Sure, be right there,” I reply, giving Coach Cooper a wave. “Thanks, Coop. And just call me Sam, please?”

  “Not likely, Miss Porter. Southern style, you know,” Cooper says, tipping his hat. He turns back to the practice, and I follow the assistant over to the other side of the field, where Red's standing with a clipboard.

  “What can I do for you, Coach?” I ask, trying to maintain my professionalism. I hate that he caved to Joe Crenshaw's act so easily, but he's still both the head coach and general manager. I don't want to be disrespectful in front of the players.

  “Got two cuts for you,” Coach Hallifax says, handing me the names. “Kimberly and the other office staff will have the paperwork ready, but it'll need your signature before I can give them the bad news.”

  “Little early, isn't it Red?” I ask, raising an eyebrow. “Team doesn't have to cut down to fifty three until the end of August.”

  “True, but these two... they just don't have it,” Red says. “One showed up so out of shape he's been puking his guts out halfway through every practice, the other one's about two years past his retirement date. I''d rather use the time to evaluate some undrafted rookies, see if there's any warm bodies out there who can fill roles for us. These two would just be tackling dummies until the end of camp.”