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Right as the clock ran out.
And… the crowd went wild.
Everything was a blur after that.
The shaking hands with the other team, the congrats, the condolences, the pep talk in the locker room. It was all the usual shit, all normal parts of the game, except for some reason this time I just couldn’t seem to hit the acceptance state as easily.
Maybe because we were so close, which was where things got tricky with playing good teams. If we’d just been getting our asses handed to us for the whole game, it would be easy to accept the loss. If we were just completely outclassed, outworked, just outdone, period.
But when it was close like that you couldn’t help assessing everything, going over every little moment in your head, trying to figure out if there was something you could have done differently, or better.
Or, what was almost worse, seeing exactly where your teammates had dropped the ball.
Especially when that was literally what happened.
Yeah, there was the teasing about oiled gloves, butterfingers, whatever, whatever, when the ball slipped out of somebody’s hand.
But underneath that, there was just that underlying feeling of… bro, what the fuck?
Handling the ball was never my job. I was on the field to make space for the people who excelled at that. But shit, even I knew to tuck the fucking ball.
Not that it mattered anymore at this point.
That loss marked the official end of the season, and our coaches were already making their plans for the next one.
This was it.
It was done.
Well, not quite, we had to sit down for the interviews, a part I hated.
Win or lose, honestly.
Oftentimes, the reporters were fucking vultures—not even interested in getting a real story, delving into the plays, our mindset, whatever.
For too many, it was about getting the most salacious soundbite, getting the emotional misspeaks on film. It was sick to me, and I only showed up because I was contractually obligated to.
So when I sat down behind those mics as one of the chosen representatives for the offense—one who played one of the best games of my career, even though it still hadn’t been enough to secure the win—my energy, or lack thereof, wasn’t because of the loss at all.
It was because I simply had no desire to be there.
“Tatum, Wil Cunningham from On The Sidelines.”
I followed the sound of the voice in the crowd, a smile instantly hitting me when I found the familiar face.
“This formal introduction? Really?” I teased, and she laughed.
“Just cause you know, doesn’t mean everybody does. Don’t start no sh— don’t start with me,” Wil said, quickly correcting her language.
She was one of my absolute favorite sports reporters, always coming with thoughtful, respectful questions. And… there was also the fact that she was married to Ramsey Bishop.
Something people claimed caused her to be biased in her reporting, but shit… she was one of our toughest critics. And being friends with Ramsey, our most reliable running back, meant I could find myself on the end of one of her grillings or critiques at any time.
One of the reasons I always looked forward to her questions in the press room. They were always actually about football.
“Can I ask my question?” she asked with a smirk, and I chuckled.
“Go ahead, Ms. Cunningham.”