I’ve been very fortunate in my life to have experienced something very few people get to experience—the adrenaline thrill of performing my job in front of thousands of screaming people in a stadium and millions more watching on television, almost all of whom would die happy if they could live my life for one day. What does it feel like? Nervousness, confidence, elation, despair, humility, pride—a thousand conflicting feelings coursing torrentially through my body and mind.
What does it feel like? A small candlelit bubble of self drifting in a dark and terrible sea.
Standing on the sideline is where it starts. I can feel a tight knot begin to form in my stomach, the onset of nerves, but that’s normal, and I push it to the side. There’s no way not to get nervous, and anyone who tells you otherwise is lying to you or to himself. The trick is to ignore it, because if you can’t, you’ll never make it at this level. Sure, all eyes are on you, and everyone will know if you make a mistake, but that can’t be your focus. You have to be locked in on one thing, and one thing only—doing your job to the utmost of your ability. And if you don’t, you’re going to get fired. Try not to think about that either, if you can help it.
Breathe! That’s the rookie mistake most people make. When your body engages in the primal fight-or-flight response, you draw shorter, faster breaths, which is a problem, since you need all the oxygen you can get when it’s time to perform. I find that several deep inhalations calm the adrenaline tremors twitching my limbs and help me relax into the routine of playing. A day job that’s unlike any other day job in the world. Fourth down inevitably rolls around, and it’s time to get to work.
I jog out onto the field, and the shouts of the crowd surrounding me fade away into a dull roar, an ocean of sound I float atop. Some days the tide is angry, all-consuming—torrents of white noise crashing over and through me like foaming breakers in the midst of storm-racked skies. Other days are calm and still, the scattered cries of individual fans piercing the air like the shrill cries of birds squabbling over a fish. Through it all, I remain focused on one thing: catching the football and executing the best punt I can, expecting, hoping for, success.
Check the ball placement, toes lined up thirteen and a half yards away, left foot staggered slightly in front of right, weight balanced evenly near the balls of my feet in case I need to adjust to a snap. Wipe hands on pants to ensure best catching surface; raise and loosely extend them to give my long-snapper a target to aim at. Focus on the tip of the ball as the snapper adjusts it in his pre-snap routine, block out everything else as best as I’m able; players blur into barely felt presences on the edges of my peripheral vision.
A sudden intake of breath, ball spinning back, violent explosions of motion off in the far distance as titans grapple and twist.
Time slows down to molasses, syrupy thick and clinging.
Watch the ball in for the catch, every tactile surface immediately feeling for laces as a reference point, hands twisting and turning to adjust it into the proper drop plane, middle finger supporting the bottom seam while palm and thumb complete the pyramid base, left hand guiding and stabilizing oh so briefly before rising up to balance the whiplash strike of kicking that seems so far away; now ball lightly weighing down my right hand as I bring it to waist level; now right foot lands and left foot begins its balanced stride forward, not too short, not too long; now right arm gradually extends (keeping a slight bend in the elbow, to prevent the drop from crossing inside) and then falls away, letting the ball float freely for the barest instant as my left foot locks into the ground and all the muscles on my right lower side contract and then explode up through an expelled grunt of air, left arm fully outstretched to the sky, eyes never leaving the gold Wilson engraved on the side, though they’re not quick enough to actually see the moment of impact, and now I’m following through and time returns to normal again, an eternity of 1.2 seconds later.
Bodies rush and whir past like frenzied tops, and it’s time to start running downfield, legs churning and arms pumping, scanning for the returner, for possible seams to fill, for potential blockers to avoid (I’ve been blindsided a couple times, and it never feels good). Time starts moving faster at this point, too much chaotic motion for me to focus on any one thing; frozen instants are all that register.
There—a gunner makes a diving grab as the returner twists and eels free.
There—a wing gets pushed to the side by an opponent, daylight momentarily flashing as the returner sprints for a rapidly closing gap.
There—I step around a blocker and find myself within arm’s reach of the returner, both of us moving in the same plane of vectors for the briefest of moments.
There—I stick an arm out and latch on, spinning-tumbling-bouncing through the air and off the ground, a whirlwind kaleidoscope blurring around me until we slide to a halt and the whistles blow.
I pick myself up off the ground and jog back over to the sideline. Barely twenty seconds have elapsed since I walked onto the field, but it feels like twenty minutes. If it was a bad kick, I mentally beat myself up in a fit of pure rage and then make it melt away like summer snow—time to focus on the next kick. If it was a good kick, I allow myself a fiery moment of exultation and triumph before I tamp it down to gently glowing coals—time to focus on the next kick.
The rush of crowd noise, drifting and dying away.
The rush of adrenaline, sacrificial fuel offered and consumed.
The rush of bodies, avoided and ignored.
The rush of time, accepted and embraced.
The rush of the waves, in, out, in—bubbles drifting serenely off into the distance.
A thin reed, a rush, but one that weathers all storms.