Rushed(2)

"We're just getting started, Tyler. You light it up on the QB drills, and you'll be fine."

There's something in his eyes though that says differently, and I take a deep breath. "Cut the shit, Coach, you always did before. What's the deal?"

He rubs his day's worth of stubble, he never does shave on game days, I guess this fits too, and licks his lips. "They're not really asking a lot of questions about you, Tyler. A lot about Duncan, some of the teams are wondering what Joe Manfredi can do with his numbers, but the League thinks they've got their QB situation pretty well settled. Unless you can really light it up here, you may not get a call at all. I'm sorry, son."

I shake my head and check the knots on my cleats. "Guess the only thing to do then is go out and kick a little ass. All right, I'll get ready."



"And with pick number thirty-two of the seventh round, San Francisco selects . . . Adrian Granger, of the University of the Great Lakes."

The player's lounge inside the Adams Pavilion has been mostly empty for hours now, as Joe Manfredi gave up during round five. Duncan, who got selected yesterday with the big first round pick that I’m honestly happy he got, stopped by with his girlfriend Carrie about two hours ago to see how I was doing. I won't give up my seat though, and as the last pick is handed out to Mr. Irrelevant, I let my head drop. My eyes are burning, I haven't even blinked in what feels like twenty minutes, and I convince myself that the tears that are in my eyes are because of that. Yeah, that's it. I just need some Visine and I'll be good.

I hear someone coming up behind me, and I see Coach Bainridge bringing a drink over from the table. He hands it to me, and before I take a sip, the smell hits my nose. Scotch, and from the oaky aroma, not rotgut shit either. "This is against university rules,” I say, pretending that I care.

"You've broken a few in the past five years," Coach B says somberly, taking a seat on the couch next to me. "Besides, you're over twenty-one, and you aren't officially part of the team anymore. Drink up."

The scotch burns, but helps calm me down. When I'm finished, Coach sits back while I look for the words. It takes me longer than I thought it would, I'm normally a quick tongue. "So what now?"

He sips at his drink again and crosses his legs, leaning back and giving me an appraising look. "Depends on you. You've got four options, from my point of view."

"I'm listening."

"Well, first, you can give up football. I know your major isn't exactly great. You picked it based more on keeping your football eligibility than getting into a Master's program, but you've got the personality. You could make a good life doing sales or management using your game skills. You're a natural leader. You could do well."

I think about it, then shake my head. "No, Coach. I love the game too much to just walk away. I don't want to be that guy, twenty years from now at the class reunion who is balding, wearing a polo shirt that is too small, talking about those good old days with my gut pushing over my belt."

"Ouch, but too accurate," Coach chuckles, then sips at his drink again, polishing it off. "Option two is to go into coaching. You've got the brains to make a good coach, and I could get you a slot as a graduate assistant next year. It's not a lot of money at first, but you could work your way up.”

I think about it. Xs and Os . . . "No, but it's tempting. I'm not saying never to coaching, but . . . there's still a player in me. I can play pro ball."

"That's what I thought you'd say. Well, that brings me to your other two options. The first is the phone call I got about an hour ago. Toronto of the Canadian League wants to offer you a contract, contingent on you not being signed with a team in the States. The Canadian League had their draft day a little before the League's, and while nobody drafted you because they didn't want to waste a pick on a guy who had a shot at an American team, they did pick you up on their 'notice list,' which is like a supplementary draft that they have up there."

An offer? That sounds good. "What are the terms?"

"Not bad. They didn't give me a dollar amount, they want to talk with you personally, but they said upper range for a quarterback in their league. Of course, upper end for them and upper end in the USA are two very different numbers.”

“What do you think, Coach?"

He thinks for a moment, then shrugs. "It's got to be your choice, Tyler, but here's my thoughts. The League's stacked with quarterbacks right now, so unless someone goes down with an injury, your chances of getting more than a third string or a scout team slot are small. But, Canadian ball, the game's a bit different, the field's different. You're going to start with more money than a scout teamer or practice squadder, but there is a much lower limit up there.”

"But I wouldn't be banned from the League," I muse. "I mean, guys have gone from Canada back to the US before. Good ones, too." I think about it. "When does Toronto want to talk?"

"Quickly. The Canadian season starts in early July, and runs until the weekend after Thanksgiving when they run their championship game. They'll probably let you walk for graduation, but you're going to be going straight from graduation to training camp."

"That's not a problem. I'm not hurt, and with what Coach T's been putting me through, I'm in the best shape of my life. And like I said, it's not a prison sentence, it's just a season or two in Toronto. I can light up the field up there, and get an invite to a League team if everything goes right.”