The Locker Room

All around there is chaos.  Some pace and back and forth in the bathroom, clad from head to toe in navy and white.  Few stop by the mirror, fixing their jerseys, drawing black lines under their eyes, and bouncing to the music playing through their earphones.  Coaches stand on the opposite end of the room, and walk through the locker room, whispering to some and smacking the pads of others.  Some sit quietly while others scream and holler.  Music blares through a CD player on a locker just behind my head.  Lockers ring loudly as helmets crash into metal.  The air smells of sweat, but the sense of anticipation is overpowering.  All around me there is chaos.  All around me, men prepare for battle.

10 minutes.

I sit alone, at the back of the room, on a light blue bench in front of my locker.  Sweat beads across my brow like morning dew on a blade of grass.  The air is heavy, thick with humidity on this early September night.  My shirt, tattered and torn from five years of violence, clings to my body.  My blue pants with an embroidered devil head on my left quad are already soaked with sweat, but they feel comfortable, allowing my body to move naturally.  I lean forward and pick up my shoulder pads; a navy jersey with the number 63 draped over them.  I slide them over my head, the buckles clanking against my back.  I reach behind and begin connecting each buckle to the front of my pads, the equipment slowly pressing in on my chest as each strap locks into place.  I pull my jersey down over my abdomen, exposing “FDU” and “63” across my chest.

5 minutes.

Music blares loudly in my ears, but I hear nothing, bobbing and moving naturally to the beat.  My cleats tap the concrete floor in rhythm.  The tape on my hands struggles to hold together, already drenched in sweat and blood.  My heart thumps; pounding against my chest from the inside so hard I swear it will burst.  I force myself to breathe deeply, trying to control the rush of blood that pumps through my veins as the minutes pass.  I place my iPod next to me on the bench, and reach forward into my locker.  I lift the scarlet helmet from the hook in the left corner of the locker and hold it in my hands in front of my face.  I stare into it, a portal to the skeletons in my closet, and the inspiration that has brought me here.

I play for my family.

I play for my friends.

I play for my school.

I play for everyone who has believed in me and for those who have doubted me.

I play for the brothers that line up next to me everyday.

I play for me.

I put the helmet down between my feet and slowly pulled the buds from my ears.  The controlled chaos of my little world gives way to the anticipation and excitement around me.  I stand, sliding my helmet down over my head, the straps hanging to the sides as I adjust the headgear. 

To the last whistle.

I walk to the door; my senses numb, and exit through the double doors into the balmy fall evening.  A cool breeze hits me as I’m released from the locker room.  The locker room was my cage, my prison, now I am free.  I push past my teammates to the front of the line, a place I’ve earned through years of perseverance and dedication.  I look down upon the stadium, the sun perched just above the home stands.  Streaks of fire split the clouds as the sun sets.  Great streaks of crimson, orange, yellow, purple and pink illuminate the darkening sky.  The stadium lights look down upon the field, blanketing it in white light.

To the last whistle.

My stomach turns.  This moment is the culmination of thousands of hours in the gym, hundreds of practices, and years of pain, injury, and persistence.  It all comes down to this, and the pressure builds with each step that I take towards the field.  I look back at my teammates, the sun reflecting off the sea of scarlet helmets behind me.  I look into their eyes; focused, determined, hungry.  In that moment I allow myself to believe that the night is ours.

For the man next to you…to the last whistle.

I bounce back and forth, ringing my arms out, not for the purpose of warming up, but simply to alleviate the mounting pressure.  I take my place in line next to my brother, and we lock hands as the rest of the team does behind us, two-by-two.  We begin the walk down the hill, across the street, over the parking lot, and through the gates of Robert T. Shields Field.  It’s a walk that I’ve made everyday for five years.  It’s a walk that’s all too familiar to me, but on this night it’s different.  It feels like an eternity, as we pass parents, friends, and family who clap and shout encouragement.  I hear their voices, but I can’t make out what they’re saying or who’s saying it.  My eyes are locked on the field as it comes closer and closer, and all I hear is the click clack of our cleats.

Click clack.  Click clack.  For the man next to you…to the last whistle.

The hill begins to steepen, and for a brief moment we break our ranks and move in pairs to the right of the pathway.  I reach out and touch the boulder.  A great rock sits in a bed of soil, surrounded by small stones.  On the face of the great boulder, a bronze plaque is bolted in honor and memory of Robert T. Shields.  My fingers brush across the rock, cool and smooth.  Quickly, I change directions and skip back to the center of the path as each of my teammates takes their turn to engage in the FDU tradition.  At the end of the hill, the gates to the field open to a vast sea of green turf, facing the home stands, which glow red with plastic devil horns as the public address announcer booms over the loudspeakers.

 

Click Clack.  Click Clack.  For the man next to you…to the last whistle.

My walk grows to a slow trot, and I release my teammate’s hand.  The nerves are gone and my mind no longer races.  The fear that tormented me all day leading up to this moment is gone, the coaching points I’ve been going over and over in my head forgotten as instincts take control.  I break into a full sprint as my cleats pierce the turf…

It’s game time.