I look down trying to map the family tree and failing. “So, if he struggles,” I say, drawing out a pause. “He’s not just letting down his team. He’s letting down his family.”
Her walkie talkie chirps and she sighs before saying, “Watch from here or go down on the field. It’s just down that stairwell. Signs point the way.”
“Thanks Sutton. For the tape, the family history. I’ll watch for a minute and see if I should go down. Nice meeting you.”
She smiles and gets right to work telling maintenance, “We can’t have a leak in the concession stand, the game is at noon tomorrow. Make sure it’s fixed… at least temporarily.”
Back on the field, Parker lines up first while Matt stands ten yards away with a laminated script tucked under his arm and a ball in the other hand.
Even from here I can tell that Parker and Matt are close. Matt says something. Parker nods and sets. His fingers curl like he’s ready to catch the ball.
Parker breaks.
A good push off his front foot.
He runs sharp and fast.
Eyes up.
“Trust,” I say under my breath. “Say it, Parker.”
The ball hits his hands.
And drops.
He stiffens.
His hands clench.
He’s not dramatic about it, but I see it. The flare of anger before he masks it. The way he glances at his coaches, his brothers, as if he’s looking for criticism and witnesses to his failures.
He takes another rep and this one he catches. Next one is a drop. This goes on for a while before a guy steps up beside me. He watches Parker drop and catch, tallying up his catches. He must be from the analytics dept.
Parker’s shoulder locks. “That’s the moment,” I say, proud of catching the moment in action.
The guy nods. “He expects perfection.”
Matt says something to Parker, not a harsh comment judging from his posture. It appears instructional rather than punitive. Parker nods but his chin lifts in that way that says he’s hearing criticism anyway. And from personal experience with Parker, he doesn’t want to be critiqued.
“Is the offensive coordinator too hard on him?” I ask.
The guy considers it. “No, but Parker has always kept his feelings hidden.”
“Always?”
“Brother.” He doesn’t offer more.
I watch another coach get into his personal space, miming the hand placement. Another ball comes and catches it clean, but then the next ball ricochets off his palms and skids across the turf like he’s thinking about his hands instead of trusting them.
Classic.
He rips off his helmet and slams it to the ground.
Hard.
His chest heaves and I see the flicker of embarrassment he’s trying to hide.
“I’m going down there,” I say.