Camryn Quinn is finally getting what she wants...sort of. Moving into a dorm and away from her not so supportive father is a good first step, but like everything with him, it comes with strings. She must attend the college of his choosing for at lea...
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FWEET! I take off fast, the spikes on my feet sinking deep into the soft earth with each step. Sprinting ten yards up and to the right, I turn on quick feet at the perfect moment to see it flying towards me. I feel the leather slide between my fingers, suctioning into my gloves.
FWEET! This time up and to the left, and then a quick one hundred eight degrees to the right around the opponent. Another fifteen yards northeast to the spot. He finds me once again. I catch the ball with such grace and precision, just like I have every single play.
One more sound of the whistle snags me from my daydream. I grab a water bottle from the caddy and find a player who needs it, squeezing and squirting the water into his mouth until he gives me the signal to stop.
These days all I'm good for is a glorified water boy, taking up space on the sidelines as I stand with my hands on my hips watching practice unfold drill after drill. The most action I get is when the team doctor and athletic trainers join us and allow me to run up and down the end zones in between their stretches and rehab exercises.
Coach blows the whistle once more and the drills repeat all over again. I walk to the other side of the field wanting to see the play from a new angle. Even though I have no chance of seeing contact today, I let my mouth guard hang out of my mouth anyway. I have a bad habit of chewing on it while I wait, it's a way to occupy my mind. It drives my mom crazy, but honestly I don't even realize I do it most of the time.
The minutes pass slowly, but Coach blows the whistle one last time. Three quick blows in a row is his signal that offense and defense are finished for the morning. Meaning it's time to hit the showers and prepare to watch film. Being the crippled tight end that I am, I don't move. Instead I watch special teams make their way to the field. I like to stay and watch, to know what the other positions are working on and how they fit into the game. I want to know how each scenario could play out.
I walk up into the metal bleachers of the practice field and plop down. Taking my t-shirt off I wipe the pool of sweat from my forehead. I'm used to the Texas heat and humidity, but Ohio is giving a damn good impression of the south today.
I do a panoramic search across the field to take it all in. Aside from the actual stadium, there is nothing quite like football training camp in the weeks leading up to the season. The entire training facility comes fully alive for the first time in months. All hours of the day you can walk into any room and find someone working through a play, working out, or simply letting it all sink in. I catch one of the freshman every time I enter the locker room just staring into their cubbyhole.
I remember the same feeling all too well. Seeing my name printed on the space, having a Nike jersey specifically made for me hanging next to my other team provided gear, and nothing but possibilities waiting for me.
