I walked onto the field. The noise vanished. I looked at Derek, who was standing on the sideline, helmet off, hands on his hips. He gave me a single nod.
I stood up, looked him in the eye, and said, “I think about that snap every single second of my life. If I miss, the holder gets killed. If I miss, you’re not on the field to win the game. I have to be perfect when no one is watching.” Sidelined- The QB and Me
The roar of the Friday night lights is a specific kind of drug. It’s the smell of damp grass and cheap concession hot dogs, the bite of October air, and the seismic thrum of two hundred teenagers stomping their feet in unison. In that cathedral of chaos, there is only one position that matters: Quarterback. He is the conductor, the prince, the kid whose face is on the banners draped over the gymnasium railings. I was not that kid. I walked onto the field
Derek had the arm. The cannon. The ability to throw a laser beam into a window the size of a pizza box. I had the precision of a jeweler; if I snapped the ball a half-inch too high or too low, the punter’s laces wouldn't turn, and the kick would sail wide right. Derek got the glory of the touchdown pass; I got the anxiety of the extra point snap. If I failed, the scoreboard didn’t change. If Derek failed, we lost the game. That was the conventional wisdom, anyway. He gave me a single nod
From the sidelines, I had the best seat in the house. And from that seat, I learned that Derek and I were not so different. We were both architects of a strange, violent ballet, just on opposite ends of the scale.
He blinked. For the first time in three years, Derek saw me. Not the jersey number. Not the equipment manager. He saw the pressure.
But the sidelines taught me the lie of that wisdom.