What I Talk About When I Talk About Football

I get a call out of the blue on a regular old night from a familiar number. My brother is in town for the long weekend. He sells lights for FPL. Talk about an easy lead. He lives a few hours away, so whenever he’s in town we try to go out to the local watering hole. We sit at the bar with Thursday Night Football in the background and drink, solving the world’s problems one beer at a time.

We’re deep in conversation when I suddenly feel a light chokehold and hear a four-syllable obscenity hurled at me. My brother looks back at the kid, confused. That’s par for the course on my end. I turn around and recognize my former player immediately. He’s no longer a kid but a grown man with a home, a full-time job, and a baby on the way. We catch up. I congratulate him, show him how my own kid is growing, and assure him we’ll stay in touch. It’s why I do what I do.

My brother tells me that must get annoying, running into former students and players all the time. Sometimes. But I try to remind myself that’s what it’s all about. My fiancée and I have an ongoing bet: each time we leave the house, the over/under for how many students I’ll run into is three.

Not long after, a bartender starts her shift and shrieks when she sees me. She calls her boyfriend, another former player, and tells me they’re back together. I talk to him on the phone for a minute before wishing him well. She gets me another drink right after. A shot comes with it on the house.

For the life of me, I can’t remember what my brother and I were talking about. I tell him as much. He laughs and says it doesn’t matter. We start discussing plans for the three-day weekend when another shot appears. I look across to see another old player raising a glass. He’s with his high school sweetheart. I bring the shot over to them. We clink and drink and talk for a moment before I thank them and leave.

I’m starting to feel warm and fuzzy from all the drinks. I tell my brother about the guy who just bought me a shot. He was a hell of a football player, but he quit the spring before his senior year. It happens, kids fall out of love with the sport, so I don’t think much of it. It’s not until the summer that I hear he was depressed and bedridden. He was talking about dropping out of school.

I tell my brother this was during Covid. One summer day, I stop by the kid’s house and tell him he’s not dropping out of school. He’s stunned, still in pajamas, while his coach is barking orders at him. I tell him I’ve already enrolled him in summer school and that I don’t care if he plays football or not. He’s going to graduate.

My brother tells me that was a real stand-up thing to do. I tell him that’s what it’s all about. We call the team a brotherhood for a reason, and it doesn’t end when they graduate. It’s for life. I care about them.

It’s getting late, and we both have families to get back to. We walk outside when he asks if I want a ride home. I tell him no. It’s breezy, and I don’t mind the short walk. I wave goodbye to him when I hear a honk and someone yell out of a passing car: “Coach Brito!”

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