The Qb And Me — Sidelined-

Years later, I don’t play football. Derek is selling insurance in the suburbs. But every time I watch a game on TV and see a long snapper jog onto the field, unnoticed and unthanked, I smile. The crowd is screaming for the quarterback. But the quarterback, if he is smart, is whispering a prayer for the guy holding the tee.

The season ended, as seasons do, in the playoffs. We were down by two points. Four seconds on the clock. A forty-seven-yard field goal to win. Derek had driven us to the edge of glory, but he couldn’t finish it. Only I could.

From the sidelines, I had the best seat in the house. And from that seat, I learned that Derek and I were not so different. We were both architects of a strange, violent ballet, just on opposite ends of the scale. Sidelined- The QB and Me

I was the guy holding the kicking tee.

I was sidelined no more. Not because I became the starter, but because I realized that the sidelines are not a place of exile. They are a place of perspective. The QB carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. I carried the weight of the snap. We were both alone in our moments of crisis, but we were never truly alone. Years later, I don’t play football

One rainy Thursday practice, Derek was having a meltdown. He threw three interceptions in a row. He slammed his helmet. He screamed at a receiver who ran the wrong route. The coach benched him for the rest of the drill. As he stalked to the edge of the field, I was there, holding the tee for the kicker. He looked at me, sweat and mud mixing on his face, and said something I’ll never forget: “Must be nice not to have to think.”

He didn’t mean it as an insult. He meant it as an expression of envy. He thought my job was easy. He thought the silence of the sideline was peace. The crowd is screaming for the quarterback

I walked onto the field. The noise vanished. I looked at Derek, who was standing on the sideline, helmet off, hands on his hips. He gave me a single nod.