The Hard Count(30)

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!”