crowd, Frank. You don't get a lot of JDs
and MBAs and PhD's at a high school football game, except at the Academy, and
what those boys do doesn't qualify as football. This is your working class.
NFL is built on the working class and Latinos. Shit, you been to a Texans
game?"
The
Texans were Houston's pro football team.
"No."
William
followed the Cowboys, so he had not pressured Frank to take him to the Texans'
games.
"Like
going to a bullfight in Juarez, everyone speaking Spanish. And in the
high-dollar seats. They don't have health insurance, but they'll pay brokers a
thousand bucks to watch a pro football game. For the lower class, football's
an escape from their fucked-up lives."
"You're
a psychologist now?"
Sam
shrugged. "Part of being a scout, figuring people out, what makes them
tick. You see a boy, he's got all the physical tools, but you've got to figure
his mind out, does he have ice in his veins, does he burn with the competitive
desire, does he want to win more than live, does he have the confidence to be
the man."
William's
new team was big, strong, and fast. Big, strong white boys and fast black
boys. They ran a pro offense. William had thrown thirty-two passes in the
first half and completed twenty-seven for two hundred seventy-five yards and
four touchdowns. He had also run for another seventy-five yards and a
touchdown. Eight games into his sophomore season, William Tucker was the top
college prospect in the nation. He was sixteen years old.
"You
did the right thing, Frank."
"Did
I?"
They
had gone all in on William Tucker's career. A big public school with a
pro-style offense and an indoor practice arena. A personal trainer and a
nutritionist. An ex-Olympian speed coach. Quarterback school. Seven-on-seven
passing tournaments. Tens of thousands of dollars. Frank Tucker had nurtured
his son's gift, no expense spared. It had seemed so … American. To spend
whatever it took—whether Ivy League tuition or speed training by a gold medal
winner—to buy your children success. A better life. Their dreams. But,
despite his misgivings, Frank had to confess that it had worked. William's
improvement over the last two years was nothing less than remarkable. His
skills soared. His size, his strength, and his speed increased dramatically.
His footwork and throwing motion were now textbook. His vision of the
field—twenty-one other players who seemed to be running around chaotically—was
both omniscient and laser focused. His recognition of the pass coverage and
thus which of his receivers would be open on the play was instant and unerring.
"He's
a hell of a quarterback," Sam said.
Perhaps
his son was born to play football just as Mozart was born to write symphonies
and Bobby Fischer to play chess. Perhaps we are who we were meant to be.
Pushing a boy to be a football player when he wasn't born for it, that's
wrong. But allowing a boy to be what he was born to be—how can that be wrong?
Some people were born to be doctors and scientists and perhaps even lawyers?
Why not athletes? Why not football players?
"I've
kept tabs on William," Sam said. "Saw him at the quarterback
schools."
From
his expression, Frank could tell that Sam was about to offer more career advice
for his son. He gestured to the field where the teams were returning for the
second half. The boys pounded their chests and held their arms out to the fans
like victorious gladiators. Sam shook his head.
"People
on TV talk about kids having no self-esteem. Complete bullshit. Kids today
got self-esteems the size of fucking Wyoming. Self-esteem oozes from every
pore on their bodies. They been told they're special since the day they popped
out of mama and a hundred times a day since. They believe it. They haven't
done a goddamn thing in their lives, but they know they're special. So when
they fail at sports or school or life, it's not because they didn't work hard
enough or they're just not smart enough or good enough. No, they're special,
so it's
and MBAs and PhD's at a high school football game, except at the Academy, and
what those boys do doesn't qualify as football. This is your working class.
NFL is built on the working class and Latinos. Shit, you been to a Texans
game?"
The
Texans were Houston's pro football team.
"No."
William
followed the Cowboys, so he had not pressured Frank to take him to the Texans'
games.
"Like
going to a bullfight in Juarez, everyone speaking Spanish. And in the
high-dollar seats. They don't have health insurance, but they'll pay brokers a
thousand bucks to watch a pro football game. For the lower class, football's
an escape from their fucked-up lives."
"You're
a psychologist now?"
Sam
shrugged. "Part of being a scout, figuring people out, what makes them
tick. You see a boy, he's got all the physical tools, but you've got to figure
his mind out, does he have ice in his veins, does he burn with the competitive
desire, does he want to win more than live, does he have the confidence to be
the man."
William's
new team was big, strong, and fast. Big, strong white boys and fast black
boys. They ran a pro offense. William had thrown thirty-two passes in the
first half and completed twenty-seven for two hundred seventy-five yards and
four touchdowns. He had also run for another seventy-five yards and a
touchdown. Eight games into his sophomore season, William Tucker was the top
college prospect in the nation. He was sixteen years old.
"You
did the right thing, Frank."
"Did
I?"
They
had gone all in on William Tucker's career. A big public school with a
pro-style offense and an indoor practice arena. A personal trainer and a
nutritionist. An ex-Olympian speed coach. Quarterback school. Seven-on-seven
passing tournaments. Tens of thousands of dollars. Frank Tucker had nurtured
his son's gift, no expense spared. It had seemed so … American. To spend
whatever it took—whether Ivy League tuition or speed training by a gold medal
winner—to buy your children success. A better life. Their dreams. But,
despite his misgivings, Frank had to confess that it had worked. William's
improvement over the last two years was nothing less than remarkable. His
skills soared. His size, his strength, and his speed increased dramatically.
His footwork and throwing motion were now textbook. His vision of the
field—twenty-one other players who seemed to be running around chaotically—was
both omniscient and laser focused. His recognition of the pass coverage and
thus which of his receivers would be open on the play was instant and unerring.
"He's
a hell of a quarterback," Sam said.
Perhaps
his son was born to play football just as Mozart was born to write symphonies
and Bobby Fischer to play chess. Perhaps we are who we were meant to be.
Pushing a boy to be a football player when he wasn't born for it, that's
wrong. But allowing a boy to be what he was born to be—how can that be wrong?
Some people were born to be doctors and scientists and perhaps even lawyers?
Why not athletes? Why not football players?
"I've
kept tabs on William," Sam said. "Saw him at the quarterback
schools."
From
his expression, Frank could tell that Sam was about to offer more career advice
for his son. He gestured to the field where the teams were returning for the
second half. The boys pounded their chests and held their arms out to the fans
like victorious gladiators. Sam shook his head.
"People
on TV talk about kids having no self-esteem. Complete bullshit. Kids today
got self-esteems the size of fucking Wyoming. Self-esteem oozes from every
pore on their bodies. They been told they're special since the day they popped
out of mama and a hundred times a day since. They believe it. They haven't
done a goddamn thing in their lives, but they know they're special. So when
they fail at sports or school or life, it's not because they didn't work hard
enough or they're just not smart enough or good enough. No, they're special,
so it's
Similar Books
