“You’re not impressed.” His browns knit together.
“It takes more than a guy catching a ball to impress me,” I say with a little too much flirtation in my voice. I clear my throat. “I’m glad you listened. Now go work on making it a habit.”
“Yes, doc.”
“I’m not a doctor, yet. Just consider me another coach that’s on your side.”
This earns me a wide, charming smile with dimples on full display. He picks his helmet from the ground and runs to the receiver’s line.
As I continue to observe, I notice progress. Small, but it’s there. He appears lighter on the field, except when he misses the catch. Then he glances at his coaches to see if they saw the miss. The way he feels pressure building in his coaches' body language and in their eyes.
By the time practice winds down, one thing is painfully clear—the problem isn’t mechanics.
It could be fear. But I think it’s expectation. Or both.
He’s not afraid of the ball. He’s afraid of failing in front of people who he believes expect him to be perfect. And maybe they do. It will take many more sessions to figure it out.
That kind of pressure doesn’t exist in your hands. It lives in your mind. Which means the real work hasn’t even started.
As Parker walks off the field, his head coach, J.D, wrapsa long arm around his shoulder and ruffles his hair. “Keep working. You’ll beat this.”
I make a note on my phone regarding our next session.
When I’m finished, I glance around just in time to catch him looking at me.
And I wonder how many sessions it will take. Will he let me continue to help him or is he one dropped pass away from scratching me off his schedule.
SEVEN
PARKER
Game days always used to feel simple.
Wake up.
Eat the same high-protein, high-carb breakfast.
Stretch.
Lace up.
Catch the damn ball.
Now, nothing feels simple.
Heat rises off the turf even though it’s only noon. Sometimes I think I should have stayed in Michigan where there are all four seasons. But it wasn’t meant to be. Football may not be either. Maybe my mom is trying to tell me something from up above.
I stand alone on the sideline with a ball in my hands.
Kickoff is only minutes away. Coaches are huddled up. Teammates giving me space. No one mentions the dropped passes but I know what I would be thinking... what can’t he catch the damn ball?
The ball feels normal in my hand. Same leather. Same weight. Same grip.
But my brain whispers to me…you’re going to drop it.
I squeeze my eyes shut and Annika’s voice drifts into my head whether I want it to or not.
Your brain thinks you’re in danger.