Authors: Ginger Scott
I do it now—for my dad and for Nico.
The cheers are heavy again as I open my eyes to watch my father walk with the mic to stand in front of his team. His coaching staff sits in the first row just behind him—deep-blue shirts, whistles, low-slung hats, and khakis. I could flip through more than two decades of team photos and those men, though different people, would always look the same. Behind them, his team is silent. Their eyes on their coach, all of them waiting to know who to follow. Only a handful of them are truly prepared.
“With great adversity comes great opportunity,” my father begins as chatter subsides. He glances to his team, looking at them for several long seconds without speaking again. A few of the guys shift their weight under his scrutiny, but most of them hold their position—both feet flat on the floor, hands on their knees, eyes on their coach.
“Football is a dangerous sport. I’m not saying anything earthshattering or new to any of you. We all know the risks. We’ve all seen the injuries. Hell, this isn’t even the first bone football has broken on Noah’s body. I…” My father’s head falls forward as he chuckles. “I remember when he was eight, the first time he broke his wrist. My wife, Lauren—oh she was pissed. She was ready to pull him.”
The audience responds with a mix of laughter and “noooooo!” chants.
My dad holds up a hand.
“Clearly…I prevailed in that argument,” my dad says, and the laughter grows.
“Noah has broken his wrist twice. He’s lost a tooth—one permanently—had a few concussions, had some pretty deep bruises, including one that bulged out of his thigh for what…seven weeks?”
My brother shouts “eight!”
“Eight, yeah…right,” my dad says, his laughter quieter now. “He’s had more stitches than the clothes I’m wearing. And he’s just one of more than three dozen of our state’s finest gentlemen sitting up there who can point to countless body parts and spout off injury reports.”
“Yet they all come back. They show up every summer, for training. They show up for first practice…for second practice…for fiftieth practice. They show up under the hot lights, under our high expectations. And they perform!”
There’s a wave of cheers for this part, and my dad expected it, so he lets it die out. He’s never been one to take away from the praise his boys earn. But he does not milk it.
“They show up. And they respect. And they follow. They follow each other because inside of each of them is someone who can lead. These men are all leaders. And they are going to take what they learn out here on the field and bring it forward…into their lives. They are going to lead in life. Through commitment. Through promises they make to each other. Through the strength of their brotherhood.”
The quiet is back. I’m holding my breath, and I realize how much I’m probably moving so I turn my focus back to my camera, watching the next part play out through the screen.
“As a father, it breaks my heart to see my son have to miss experiencing this the way I know his heart truly wanted to. I’m devastated for him, but so proud to see him here today. I know Noah is a man of his word, and I know he will continue to do whatever he can to help his brothers be better…stronger. But as a coach, I need to make a decision that will help that spirit flourish out there on that field.”
My eyes glance from the camera view to real life and back again while my father’s neck muscles tense in preparation.
“Tigers…I’d like to introduce you to your new QB-One, who I know in my gut will take you to the end this season—who will get that banner, who will take Noah’s direction, who will guide and lead in a way you need right now, in a way you probably need more than ever. Please give me a
hoo-rah…
for Nicolas Medina.”
“Hoo-rah!”
The chant happens fast, because it’s programmed that way. My father requests it and it gets said, no matter if it’s heartfelt. And this time, it is not. The word is loud, but the quiet that follows is suffocating. There are not cheers. There is polite applause, and slow handclaps while elbows rest on knees of expensive slacks in the booster row.
My brother’s eyes are lasers on Nico as he works his way through the middle of the stands, his thumbs looped in the top of his pockets, his jersey number eleven, unworn since my father wore it years ago. My brother wanted to be his own man. He wanted to be number one, both literally and in life. Nico wants approval.
The exchange of the mic is slow, and my father says something in Nico’s ear, and I stare as he listens and nods. He grips the mic fully in his hand, his back to me as he watches my father move to the only open seat in the coach’s row. Nico knows the drill. He’s the last one to speak. His job is to set a tone—to make them believe.
His task feels impossible.
His wrist twists with the mic, tapping the live end along his thigh, making a few
pop
sounds through the speakers. He stops as soon as he realizes, but doesn’t lift the mic to his lips just yet. He takes in his audience, gazing down the row of linemen, many who are nodding, but several who refuse to look up, and then he sees his receivers, his offense, and Brandon, who many thought would be the one standing here in his place. He pivots slowly, eyes scanning over the crowd, a tight smile and nod to acknowledge boosters and the school’s faculty. His eyes never really seem to settle as they make their way to the student body, even when they pass over me several times.
I’ve never seen him lost. He’s always so sure, always right. If there was a task Nico was born to handle, this was it. But my heart isn’t sure this time, and it pounds so loudly that my ears dull.
“Noah,” he says finally, and I hold my breath. “Dude. You’re a really hard speech to follow.”
My lips twitch with hope, and there are a few giggles in the crowd. My brother offers a one-sided smile and shrug, and I let my shoulders drop from the tense hold I had on them.
“Thank you, Coach. Thank you, Tradition…guys. I know what kind of opportunity this is. It’s the kind that, as Coach just said, comes from adversity. And I know that means it’s not necessarily the kind everyone wanted…wants.”
His eyes fall forward to his feet, and he kicks at the free-throw line on the gym floor, his mouth raised on the side nearest to me, and I smile, too. I don’t know why, but seeing him do so just brings it out.
“For those of you who don’t know me, I prefer to be called
Nico
. It’s what my Nana called me when I was a little boy, and it’s what I answer to. I live eleven miles from here. Eleven miles south of here. In West End.”
His eyes are still down at the tip of his toe, where his shoe is digging at the embedded line as if one of these times it will actually move from his touch. He’s nervous, and I realize that he does this when we debate in class—he focuses somewhere else, almost as if his mind needs the distraction so doubt and fear won’t get in the way of his words.
His words. They are always so brilliant. Even when I hate them. I breathe deeper, and my muscles relax more. Nico…he’s got this.
“My boy Sasha,” Nico stops to look up as Sasha yells. He holds up a fist and Sasha does the same. “He’s crazy. Sorry about that. Sorry, Coach.”
My father holds up a hand and encourages him to go on. The students near me chuckle.
“Sasha and me grew up together, until he moved. He’s still West End though. You see our neighborhood, it’s a lot like this team. Tradition is such a good word for it, ya know? The first time I heard Coach say that at practice, it settled in my chest. Right here.”
Nico pats his chest. His eyes close when he does.
“I know a lot of you guys probably don’t drive around in West End. I get it,” he says through laughter. “Believe me. There are times
I
don’t drive through West End.”
The audience laughs with him this time. I laugh with him. He’s winning. He’s closing.
He has them.
“But…let me tell you about that world on the other side of the freeway. Where I come from, we don’t have a lot of extra anything. We’re short on things. Ha…we’re short on
everything!”
“Damn straight!” Sasha yells.
Nico turns to his friend and tilts his head, and Sasha sinks down slightly in his chair.
“Sorry,” Nico says, excusing his friend. Nobody seems to mind, though. People are listening. The boosters are even listening. Players heads that were seconds ago looking down are now looking up—eyes focused on their new leader. A few are holding out, but Nico will win them over. He’ll own them, too.
“There’s this great thing that happens, though, when you don’t have everything. You find something deeper. In the locker room…out here today…we call it brotherhood. I like that. Family—that’s what we call it at home. It doesn’t have to be blood. It’s my neighbors down the street. It’s the time Carlos Mendoza closed down his shop to drive me to school because someone stole my board. It’s how his wife went out and bought me a new one. It’s how my mother’s fridge was filled with food when we were hungry; how my brother’s daughter always has the prettiest dress for Sunday school; how my boy Sasha, even though he moved away when we were kids, remained and will always be the best friend I’ll ever have.”
“Family. Brotherhood.” Nico looks to his team, most of them meeting his eyes now as he says this. He turns enough to glance my way next; his eyes find me, this time stopping, his lip raising, his confidence building on itself so quickly before my eyes, I feel like this may be his superpower.
“Adversity. Opportunity.”
The room is silent, filled only with the sounds of the rushing air and crackling building again.
“I understand this. I take this job. I take this role. And I will be what you need because I know what it’s like to need…to need someone. To need to believe again. I believe…”
He swallows, his eyes still on me, the intensity so strong that I bend my head forward to peer at him through the lens. Even there, in black and white, he owns me in a way that makes my palms sweat and my nerve endings fire in anticipation. He’s made me want to act, to be better. In a little more than a minute, Nico Medina has made me believe—he’s made
most
of us believe.
“I
know
we are going to win tonight. I know it. I feel it. Right here,” he says, fist to his chest as he turns toward his team, taking steps forward until he’s close enough to reach their hands. “I feel it! Do you feel it?”
“Hoorah!” They yell, Colton standing and clapping, others following. My father stands and begins to clap with them, his mouth still a hard line, not ready to accept that any of this could be so simple, but relieved to see them willing to try, to go along with his crazy plan.
“Whose house is this?” Nico says, his voice strong, the words tinged with energy. He’s amped. His legs are steady, and his muscles are flexed.
“Our house!” They yell.
“Whose house is this?” His question comes out louder this time.
“Our house!”
The response matches.
“Whose. House. Is. This?”
It’s always done in threes. This is tradition. And they respond just as loud.
“Our house!”
Nico reaches forward grabbing Colton’s hand, their chests crushing together as he makes his way down the line, celebrating and fueling the mass adrenaline with fist bumps, hand embracing, and chants. He reaches Sasha, and they both roar, their smiles large and the worry that was almost dragging Nico into the claws of dread is nowhere to be seen.
My feet move automatically, and I film it all—my footage a messy scene of chaos, unbalanced shots and unsteady filming. I smile through it all. The scene is brilliant. The story is set. We have to win. Losing is not an option. We all believe.
I stop the moment my camera focuses on Nico and my brother. Nico’s hand held out, my brother looks around, his eyes working fast to see who is watching, and without a second thought, Noah pushes by Nico, moving his hand aside as he works his arm over his crutch and slings his body forward to catch up to Travis. The two of them walk out through the side door into the locker room, not once looking back, and never acknowledging the power of the celebration they left behind.
“It’s going to take time,” I say to Nico. He isn’t facing me, but I know he knows I was standing near him. He nods without speaking at first, smiling and shaking hands with more of the guys as they slowly exit the makeshift platform at the back of the gym. My dad is long gone, not one to press flesh with boosters who all have opinions. Nico knew his role, though, so he stayed. I stand with him, and I hold the camera up under the guise that all of this is for my film. I’m not even rolling by the end of it, though. I stayed because I didn’t want to leave.
I didn’t want to leave him.
Sasha and Colton are the last to head to the locker room, and Nico lingers behind.
“I’ll catch up,” he says. Colton smirks at him, and I flush at the way his eyes take me in, assuming I’m something more than I really am to Nico.
“Yeah, I gotcha,” Colton says.
I let my camera dangle in my hand, wanting to keep the focus on everything in the small space between Nico’s eyes and mine.
“How’d I do?” he asks, and I laugh on reflex.
“Have you ever lost a debate?”
Nico chuckles and his head dips down, pulling one side of his mouth in for a smile before leveling me with the gold in his eyes.
“Do you always answer questions with questions?” he says.
I smirk at him, tilting my head in response.
“Sorry. You just left me that opening,” he says, swinging his hand forward into mine. My free hand moves without my permission when he does, catching the tips of his fingers in my own, and the sudden touch forces a jolt of air from my lungs, my mouth parting, a sharp exhale audible to both of us.
Nico’s eyes haze as they focus on our flirting fingertips. He doesn’t dismiss me, but he doesn’t grasp my hand for certain, either. He lets our touch remain in this fleeting, awkward place where I completely submit and let him decide how hard we touch, how long and, most importantly, why.
I glance from our hands to his mouth, to his jaw—my breath held as I watch his muscles work, his teeth holding his tongue at the front of his lips as they fight against smiling, fight against speaking.