The Roster

It started with Combine. The Durango, vintage 2009—scratched, dented, back seats folded down like a makeshift end zone. The Durango was the field. I was the owner, the coach, the GM, and I was building my roster with purpose. The season needed to count. 

It began with my quarterback—a fire, a storm, ready to play. Red wine spilled across the back seat, a permanent stain to mark the heat, the sweat, the plays we ran on that field. He texted. I said yes. Grabbed the bottle, two plastic cups—pre-game fuel—and hurried to the stadium he claimed as his own.

That season was ours. Too many plays to count, too many touchdowns to remember. He was my quarterback, my starter, my wild card — the one who could call audibles and throw me into positions I didn’t know I could handle. He lit me up, showed me what my body was capable of. Everyone else on the roster was secondary when the season began; they were practice squad, wide receivers waiting for a pass, safeties covering spaces that weren’t mine to occupy.

He was my quarterback. I knew it from the moment I saw him. Cocky. Strong. Unhinged but steady. He knew the game. He was the game. But he carried shadows that sometimes caused him to drop the ball, get sacked, or throw a pass that got intercepted—moments when desire slipped just out of reach, and I was caught by someone else’s hands. And even then, I couldn’t help but watch, thrill running through me, knowing the game was always worth it. My quarterback was the summer. Touchdown after touchdown—every pass, every play driving me to the edge until I spilled over, a victory etched in my body. I owned the field, but he ran the game. We rotated drives—Durango to the locker room and back—always chasing more space, more time, more heat. That season didn’t just scorch; it wrote itself into my muscles, my skin, my words.

Then he benched himself—said he needed a break, started letting other scouts circle. I had to redirect my focus, even though he’d been the one guiding the season. Strong, dedicated to performance, he proved himself in every move—leaving my body marked with battle wounds I couldn’t forget, not for a while, not until they faded. 

That’s when I turned my attention to another player, someone from the practice squad. He was intriguing, tempting even… but I never fully trusted he was game ready. I invested anyway, testing him near my field—we never made it to the back of the Durango—his car, the practice field. Lips pressed as we leaned into the grill, heat rising between us. First down, but he wasn’t ready. He crumbled under pressure. His insecurities bled into every snap, fumbling the potential I thought he had. And as the owner, the head coach, the one who commanded the roster, I had to call it. My field was sacred. And I couldn’t let someone unprepared take it over.

That’s when the others started calling for my attention. My wide receiver. My safety. A veteran left tackle. One after the other, they showed up in my office, back to back, wanting to know when—or if—I’d give them play time.

My safety was first. Cool, calculated, but green. A rookie with raw potential. His flaw was simple—he got ahead of himself, trying to own the game before he’d really played it. Still, I saw the spark. I wanted him to be a starter. He had the passion, the drive, the stamina. He wanted to prove himself. He was ready to tackle, to protect, to claim his spot on the field. But safeties win by patience, by waiting at the far end of the field, reading the play before it breaks. And that was what I needed to know—if he could hold his ground long enough to save me when the game broke wide open. Even on defense, he still managed a gain, a strategic first move that reminded me he knew how to read the game. So I benched him, gave him a minute to cool while I sized up my wide receiver and left tackle.

It was clear my left tackle didn’t have the game in his heart. No aggression, no fire, no pulse in the way he moved. Barely showed up for kick off. He leaned on his veteran knowledge, trying to tell me how the game should be played, never realizing the rules had shifted, the field had changed. He looked steady, disciplined, polished—but there was no passion behind it. And without passion, the play dies before the snap. Needless to say, he’d be benched indefinitely.

Then I opened my office doors to my wide receiver. Not a rookie, still, early in his prime. He wore his equipment with confidence and knew how to catch with accuracy. He pulled it in clean, no fumble—just intention, control, and the kind of grip that left me spilling over the lines. Starter material, but he’d still have to prove himself. Like my quarterback, he was being scouted by other teams, and I felt the weight of that—knowing his talent wasn’t mine alone, that others were watching, waiting to call him onto their field. Still, when he made that first down, I felt it. Second down, he was proving himself—his precision, his hunger—not just playing the game, but driving hard, already tasting the touchdown, unaware that my safety had him covered.

My safety showed back up, unapologetically. Hungry for play time. He wasn’t built for first downs—he was the one who stopped them. The way he closed the distance on me felt like he’d stolen the ball, flipped the field, and claimed the yardage he could—but he knew, as I did, that the game was still mine to manage. He could try to have it all, but I was running the roster, calling the plays, and no single player got my whole field.

We took it from the Durango straight into the Superbowl. Walking through the tunnel, the air thick with anticipation, cameras tracking our every move, the energy of the crowd palpable even before we stepped onto a field that demanded more than skill. The lights higher, the stakes bigger, an audience waiting for every move. My safety stayed close, reading the field, matching my pace, every touch and glance, a play we executed together. The heat surged, pressure mounting with every heavy breath—every eye on us measuring, every gasp, a reminder that the game demanded everything. Desire was compulsory; every move had to count. We drove forward, in sync, relentless, knowing that surrendering fully—letting go, giving it our all—was the only way to win under this kind of spotlight. He guarded me with precision, anticipating every shift, letting me give in, letting me ride the momentum. And when it was over, when the final whistle blew, we’d won.

And when the lights went out and the crowd cleared, I sat with each of them. Not perfect words, but honest ones. My quarterback—he knew what he brought to the game: the fire, the leadership, the way he carried the season. He understood his impact and, though unspoken, he knew the role he’d played all along. To the practice squad—nothing but respect. They took the reps, bore the weight, more than they may have realized. My wide receiver—steady, reliable, always moving the chains. My safety—he knew the assignment and locked it down at every snap. Sadly, the veteran faded into the shadows; the game proved too much for him. Still, each got their moment, their recognition, their close. It wasn’t about promises; it was about respect for the game we played. 

And with that, the season ended.

We went our separate ways. Some players, back to families who’d been watching from the sidelines all along. Others, chasing new prospects, new opportunities to showcase their talent. Me? I knew this season came with an expiration date—because every season does. From Combine to the Super Bowl, my roster got me exactly where I wanted to go.

The Durango, vintage 2009—scratched, dented, back seats folded down into a makeshift end zone. That was the field. I was the owner, the coach, the GM, calling every play, building my roster with purpose.

That purpose?

To create my Hot. Soul. Summer.

And I did.