If you ask me what I love most, the answer would be football. Hands down. Not the whole game—the running, blocking, and tackling parts. Those things are all right. I’m talking about playing quarterback. Calling the play in the huddle and then leading a team up to the line of scrimmage. It feels like the entire world is hanging on my voice. And when “Hut, hut” springs from my vocal cords, twenty-two football players start flying in every direction. Sometimes the play’s moving in fast-forward, difficult to see. Other times, when I’m in the zone, the game moves in slow motion. That’s when everything comes easy and natural.
Don’t get me wrong. There’s pressure in playing quarterback too. Lots of it. Pressure to read the defense for a dozen disguised blitzes, to find the hot receiver, and to deliver a tight-spiral pass into the smallest of windows. Never mind the pressure to win—whether that comes from inside myself or from other people.
The center snaps me the ball, and I feel for the leather laces, getting the best grip possible. Then I take my three-step drop, with a protective pocket of offensive linemen forming around me. Sometimes I don’t see an open receiver. A clock ticks down inside my head. It’s a warning that I can’t hold onto the football forever, not without getting sacked. As the defense closes in and the pocket begins to collapse, I feel myself getting smaller, shrinking inside my shoulder pads. But I scramble for a seam or hole to escape through, to keep that precious play alive. Even when a defensive lineman—as big as a house—blocks out the sun in front of me, I wouldn’t trade playing my position for anything. Because after I take that hit, as long as I get back on my feet, I’m still the quarterback.