That was the turning point.
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. Sidelined- The QB and Me
In the locker room, Derek was mobbed by reporters. They asked him about the drive, the pressure, the final throw that got us into field goal range. He pointed across the room to where I was sitting on a bench, unlacing my cleats. “Ask him,” Derek said. “He’s the one who didn’t blink.” That was the turning point
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. The ability to throw a laser beam into
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.
No one did. They thought he was being humble. But I knew what he meant.