DAK
The stadium turf smells especially pungent under the falling rain, and the air is thick with a raw energy you only feel when you’re playing a longtime division rival and the crowd despises you.
“Do you hear those people out there?” Our defensive captain, Dutch Williams (fondly known as Cap), says in his usual animated tone, spit flying out of his mouth, pacing angrily alongside the bench. “They may call you every name in the book and they may say shit about your mama, but we’re going to use that spiteful energy to crush those scrubs!”
We’re playing our division rivals on their home field in Philadelphia. A few players from their team have been talking crap about us in the media all week, and even though Coach advises us to ignore trash talk in the media, Cap is super pissed about it.
We all are.
But we’re also nervous or maybe the word is anxious.
Because we hate playing here.
“They called us soft! They say we’re only good on paper and not on the actual football field. Our families read all that shit they said about us. Are they right?” he asks our entire defensive line as we circle around him.
“No, Cap,” we all answer in unison, with my teammate Reynolds sounding the loudest.
“Are. We. Fucking. Soft.” Cap looks every one of us in the eyes, waiting for a better response.
“Hell no, Cap!” we say again, my heart thumping loudly inside my chest, ready to declare war on our opponents.
“Then let’s do what we do best. I want a sack and I want it fast. Who’s going to give me one in the first quarter? Will you?” Cap points to each of us, asking the simple question over and over. “Or you?”
Our defensive captain stops directly in front of me with clear intent. His eyes searching for the same sort of competitive hunger from mine. There’s a method to his madness in singling me out. Cap is probably the only man on the team who knows my terrible secret.
I’m one of the top ten defensive players in the entire league and last year’s defensive player of the year.
But by ball player standards, I’m broke.
You’ve heard the story before. Like many young ballplayers who aren’t accustomed to managing large amounts of money, I trusted my finances with an unscrupulous accountant who invested most of my money into the harebrained schemes of some of his other clients and lost it all.
Am I homeless?
No.
Do I have more money than the average American?
Yes.
But I have a lot of bills, people I’m responsible for, and my savings account balance is slowly dwindling.
Football is not a forever career. If you’re lucky, you might squeeze out a ten good years and then you retire. You move onto something else. But hopefully, you’ve amassed enough cash and invested it well, so you’ll never have to work another day in your life if you don’t want to. Unfortunately, at least as of right now, that’s not the trajectory I’m on.
But if I have a good season and hit all of my personal incentive goals, I should be in a good position to renegotiate my contract for a huge payday and ensure that I have a nice multi-million dollar nest egg, not just for me, but for my entire reason for breathing.
My daughter Bella.
“What about you, Dirty Dak?” Cap questions fiercely. “Are you going out there to sack the quarterback, or are you feeling buttery soft today?”
“I’ve never been soft a day in my life!” I respond with a scowl on my face. “I’ve been nothing but muscle, grit, and attitude since the moment I left my mama’s belly.”
“Hell, yeah!” Our veteran captain applauds my answer. “Then let’s give the great City of New York the win they deserve in Philly’s own backyard.”
“Yeah!” The mood has shifted and we all clap louder than we were.
“One, two, three–” Cap leads us in the simple two-word chant we always say before and after every game.
“Go Hawks!”
***
I’m an elite athlete and one of the best defensive players in the National Football League. I’ve been a self-motivated player my whole life, but there’s something about Cap’s energy that unifies our defense and gets us super excited to seek and destroy our opponents’ offense.
I narrow in on my target.
His name is Hunt McCall, and he’s the new wonder kid quarterback for Philly’s team. He’s a big guy for a quarterback, with an insanely accurate arm, and the unique ability to wiggle his way out of the pocket when he needs to make a play. He’s an offensive player’s wet dream and a defense’s nightmare. But today…he’s going to get shut down by the toughest defense in the league.
Ours.
I get in position on the field and when the play starts; I keep my eyes focused on the kid. I’ve been in the league for five years now and have seen a lot of players come and go. This guy is good, but needs to be brought down a peg or two because he’s full of himself. Before he even played one snap in an NFL game, he received three major endorsement deals from billion-dollar brands, and he makes sure everyone knows it. I remember him sitting at NFL draft day already dripping in diamond jewelry. That shit annoyed me.
I’m going to get the sack.
I’m going to bring McCall down to the ground like they have taught me to do ever since I played pee wee ball as a boy.
Go for the kill.
Sack the quarterback.
Philly’s offense tries a typical fake move with the ball, but I see right away that McCall hasn’t passed the ball to his favorite running back.
He still has it in his possession.
And the cocky asswipe is going to try to run it himself to get the first down. Quarterbacks who think they can run against our defense instead of throwing the ball irritate the hell out of me.
Now I’m mad.
I’m determined to bring him down and dig my cleats firmly into the earth as I propel myself toward him like an angry bull in a ring.
In just another second, I’ll reach him.
Focus on his legs, Dak.
Focus on his legs.
The world calls me Dirty Dak because they have branded me as one of the league’s dirtiest players, but with all the new NFL rules basically treating quarterbacks like newborn babies, it’s harder than ever to be an effective defensive player.
What the hell do they expect?
It’s football, not badminton.
I have to be careful not to do anything that will give my team a penalty and get the play called back. Been there, done that, and it isn’t a good feeling to let your team down.
I can’t pull on his face mask.
I can’t hit him head on with my helmet.
I can’t tackle him with all of my weight and just lay on his ass.
This has to be a clean hit.
Low and swift.
Stop him and keep moving.
But of course, that shit is a lot harder to do than you would think it is.
The crowd roars for their quarterback as he gets closer to making the first down. He’s trying to outrun Reynolds, but doesn’t see me coming from his left side. I can feel it in my bones that this is going to happen.
I’m so close.
Not only will this start the game off in the right way, but a sack will be great for my stats and move me closer to my performance bonus. And while getting my finances in order is very important, I’m also highly motivated to impress one person and one person only.
Bella.
I’m running at the maximum speed that my mammoth body will allow when I reach him. I dive low to grab his legs and bring him down, much like a cowboy roping a steer.
I have tunnel vision.
On our way down to the ground, and before McCall’s knee touches the turf, the football pops out of his hands and my teammates scramble for the ball to attempt a game turnover.
“We got it!” I hear one of my teammates say.
“It’s ours!” somebody on the opposite team shouts.
I stand up to see who actually has control of the ball and am excited to find that Reynolds is under a pile of players but with full possession of the ball.
The referee calls it.
Nighthawks recovered the ball.
It’s in our possession now.
“Fuck, yeah!” I cheer.
And then I pause.
My jubilation is stilted by an odd look from one of the staff on the sidelines, and that’s when I notice an unusual hush from the crowd. This is not the usual reaction when a quarterback is sacked; not in this town. They are usually booing or cursing someone out at this point.
No, this is different.
This feels solemn.
A foreboding feeling envelops me. Something tells me to turn behind me. When I do, I see McCall is still on the ground and he’s eerily still. I was so wrapped up in wondering which one of us got the ball that I didn’t even notice how he hadn’t gotten up from my tackle.
Philadelphia coaches and medical staff are running from the sidelines as I also walk closer toward him. There’s an odd expression on his face when they slowly pull his helmet off to check his breathing. It isn’t one of pain, like when you break a leg or something. It’s ten times more frightening than that.
There’s a vacant look in his eyes.
And then they close.
“Hunt! Wake up, Hunt!” a coach pleads, but he’s either passed out or dead, and for a moment I feel as if my own heart has just stopped.
Oh, my god.
Did I just kill a man?
