4:15

After a long summer afternoon’s football practice, I excitedly plopped onto the faded grey couch in the living room and elevated my sore knee upon our lumpy, homemade, potato sack pillow.  Although the training session had ended almost a half an hour prior, I continued to feel my body bracing itself for another round of sprints, my muscles expanding and contracting with every slow, painful breath. 

Coach expected much more from me than from the other boys on the team.  Since I joined the varsity squad freshman year, he dedicated the whole of his career to molding me into a player qualified enough to impress a college scout.  Monetarily, I evidently stood out as the weakest link on the team.  However, Jesus blessed me with an arm equal to that of Unitas in his prime.  When Coach elected me starting quarterback three years ago at the meek, awkward age of fourteen, I resolved then and there to channel every last iota of strength and fervor to the game—the game I desperately needed to save me.

 Just as my eyes began to droop into a well-deserved rest, a slimy, frigid plastic bag filled with ice chips landed square on my throbbing kneecap.  I glanced up with a start only to find a black-eyed, angry-looking Coach staring me down. 

“Twenty minutes on, twenty minutes off.  You know the drill.”

I nodded my head and sighed.  The cold only seemed to worsen the pain.  I slowly shifted the bag as I stifled a moan. 

Coach slapped me hard and quick on the cheek with a swift, surreal motion of his palm. 

“If I had wanted a daughter, we would have adopted,” he growled. “Get yourself together or I’ll have you replaced in the blink of an eye.”

“Yes, sir,” I mumbled feebly. 

We agreed at the beginning of my first season on his high school team that during the football season, our relationship remained strictly professional at all times.  He only issued affection and praise after a well-executed play on the field.  At school, at home, on the field, I only knew him as Coach.  None of my teammates even knew that he had once played a major role in my conception.  For all they knew, I grew up fatherless. 

Mamma creaked open the screen door to the kitchen with a shallow pail of milk in one hand and two eggs in the other.  The animals on our farm acted especially peculiar that summer, only producing a meager amount daily, which hardly served to benefit our farm’s overall production.  Perhaps they failed to yield sufficient amounts of product that season due to the excessive heat known only to those of us here in the great state of Texas—a climate so stifling it caused the average man to lose enough sweat to fill an ocean.

Or, perhaps our farm animals just simply could not overcome the pressure we forced upon them to perform.  Perhaps an inverse correlation existed between my family’s desire to harvest and supply and the barn’s lack of success.

I looked long and hard at mamma.  Her wrinkled, beige apron was streaked with the dust and dirt of the fields.  She seemed dazed and disoriented, troubled and disturbed.

It’s amazing what the heat can do to people.

The next day, I fastened the chin strap on my helmet as I mentally prepared myself for the next and arguably most significant forty-eight minutes of my life.  Fans from all over town lined up around the block to witness our first game of the season, and as their applause reached a crescendo, I knew the time left to ponder in the locker room was ticking down at a rapid pace.  College scouts from Burleson University, UT, Austin, and Rice waited for my big debut somewhere in the stands.  My hands shook uncontrollably as I double-knotted the ties to my cleats.

Suddenly, Coach and his assistants appeared and commanded the team to rise for a brief prayer. 

“Our Father who art in Heaven,” he began as he placed his cap over his heart, “we ask that you give us the strength and focus needed to leave the stadium with a win tonight.  We also request that you watch over us and guide us into a game won not only with smart plays, but also with integrity and fairness.  Amen.”

“Amen,” we replied in unison.  And with that, we huddled for one last team cheer and headed into the illuminated, jam-packed stadium. 

The instant my cleats touched the familiar turf of the field I knew the opportunity of my wildest fantasies had arrived, staring me square in the face.  For three straight quarters I threw impeccable inside and outside run passes, meticulously executed screens, and even successfully implemented two separate quarterback sneaks.  The adrenaline pulsed through my veins with as much force as a deadly hurricane.  Every cell of my being generated energy, every ligament and organ committed to the purpose.  As our score continued to surge, I stole a few glances at Coach, waiting for a signal to pull back on the reins.  With a thirty-seven point lead, Coach could have even afforded to send in the second string offensive line. 

At the five minute mark in the fourth quarter, I looked around as fans from the other teams descended the steps of the bleachers and exited the arena.  I shot Coach a look from the field, urging him to send in the substitutes for the last few minutes.  Without a word, without a signal, without any recollection of the prayers he offered with mindfulness of integrity and fairness, Coach responded with a wide, cock-eyed, ear-to-ear grin. 

For the first time all summer, with 4:15 left on the clock, my father smiled in my direction. 

As the magnitude of his reply reached its peak in my mind, I stopped dead in my tracks.  I finally realized, in the boiling summer night’s heat, that I hated him.  I hated the game that meant everything to me, because he had single-handedly sucked all its joy away like the world’s most effective vacuum. 

With four minutes and fifteen seconds to go, as I received the snap, I ignored the routes established by the running back, the wide receivers, the safety.  I motioned to the opposing team’s linebacker and threw him a gentle underhand pass. 

“Run,” I heard myself say kindly. 

As the linebacker plummeted through the offense, I slowly unclipped my helmet and watched it fall to the ground.  I turned my back on the screams from the sidelines and anxiously scanned the puzzled crowd for a pair of large, lovely, lonely brown eyes. 

Mamma.

For the first time all summer, as I stepped off the field for the last time, Mamma smiled.