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BLAST FROM THE PAST

Luke

I’m surrounded by bright lights and cameras. The buzz of electricity thrums in my bones, and my stomach twists with anticipation. I’m ready to run out on the field and fuck shit up.

Unfortunately, my body doesn’t know the difference between standing in the tunnel, waiting to play a home game at Twin Peaks Stadium and sitting behind a desk while a producer with wire-frame glasses counts down to live time on his fingers.

All this pent up energy inside me is going to be wasted on a podcast, and I’ll have to burn it off on the treadmill later.

“Free agency season is upon us. It was only a few weeks ago that we were watching the Philadelphia Bullies crush Seattle in the Big Game. Luke, it feels like the offseason never slows down.”

“You’re right about that, Reuben. In fact, calling it an offseason is almost a misnomer.

The NFL is relentless in their ability to turn everything into an event and make the season last all year.

As a player, you expect the game to be on your mind 24/7, but the league really wedges itself into the culture in such a way that it is always at the forefront for the fans, too.

You get through free agency and then the draft rolls around.

After the draft, the schedule comes out, and that’s a big to-do.

Then you’ve got all eyes on OTA’s–organized team activities–and before you know it, you’re at training camp. It really is nonstop.”

I’ve only been here at the Bay Sports Broadcast Network for a few weeks, but I think I’m already finding my groove as a sports commentator. The Game Plan Podcast uploads new episodes every other day, but we record content daily.

I don’t know that it will ever feel normal to be the guy behind the desk talking about football instead of out there playing it, but I’ve had to make my peace with saying goodbye to the sport I love.

When I was injured two seasons ago, I was pissed.

I spent my year on the injury reserve list lashing out, resenting the new guys on the team for taking my place, and generally being a dick to anyone I came in contact with.

By the time my fate settled in and I knew I’d have to retire, I was still pissed, but I could stomach the reality of my situation.

I’d have to give up football, and that would hurt.

But in return, I’d be protecting my future self.

The guy who wanted to be a dad who could walk without a limp, chase his kids around the house and coach their teams someday.

Then, when Gigi died, I didn’t have it in me to grieve football anymore. Not when I’ve been too busy grieving my sister.

That being said, being here in the broadcast room a few times a week, talking about football–and occasionally, baseball, hockey, and basketball–with my co-host, Reuben is already helping to fill the hole in my chest left there by the loss of my professional career.

I don’t know how I’ll feel when the preseason starts and I’m in a suit and tie instead of a uniform and pads, but for now I’m happy.

Well. Happy-ish.

“So true, Luke. Now let’s talk about the Redwoods shocking decision to trade their star wide receiver to Washington,” Reuben continues, nodding for me to give my opinion. I like this back-and-forth we’ve established. Reuben tees me up, removing the pressure for me to get the conversation going.

“It was a shocking decision for sure, but I think it’s just one of many out-of-norm moves we’re going to see under James Adler’s leadership.

This is only the second time the league has a team owner who is also serving as the general manager.

It hasn’t worked well for Dallas over the years, but I think Adler’s youth and passion for the people–not just the sport–is already working in the team’s favor.

The decision to bring Giovanni Mancini on as the new head coach is certainly bound to shake things up for the better, as well. ”

We spend the next hour discussing trades, roster changes, and changes to the coaching staff.

After filming for the broadcast wraps up, Reuben and I head into another studio on the other side of the building to film another one of the Network’s podcasts—The Flea Flickers.

It’s a question-and-answer style show, where sports fans can send in their thoughts and opinions to be discussed.

We’re filming the segment with the two hosts of The Flea Flickers Podcast, Howie and Cam.

This set is much more casual, styled like a man-cave of sorts with San Francisco sports memorabilia on the walls and large couches for us to sit in, so I’ve changed out of my suit and tie and into a pair of jeans and a Redwoods fleece quarter-zip.

I can tell right off the bat that this segment is going to be one that I look forward to.

Since it’s less formal, it feels more like four dudes shooting the shit about sports while answering fan questions and pontificating on the outcomes of past and upcoming seasons.

We film for much longer than the allotted hour, but at no point do the producers queue us to hurry or wrap up.

Whatever usable content they can derive from our chatting will be edited into something digestible for the viewers before it goes live later in the week.

When we finish, Reuben, Howie, Cam and I stand around on set for a while longer while members of the production team help us remove our mic packs and break down the lighting.

“So how’s it going here so far, Cannon? You like all the chit-chat, or are you itching to suit back up already?

” Howie asks. He’s a former baseball player who pitched for the San Francisco Sharks until he retired ten years ago.

He’s a local legend who never pays for a beer at any bar in the Bay Area and is someone I’ve looked up to for years.

When we met a few weeks ago, I had to actively try not to scream from excitement.

“It’s going well. Still getting used to being on this side of the field, but I like that I can be biased towards our Bay Area teams here. I’ve already been practicing my indifferent faces and voices for when the national broadcasts start in August,” I say with a smirk, and the guys laugh .

“Hey, if that ego-maniac from New England can name drop and favor his former team every Monday during the season, I think America can forgive you for throwing a little extra love towards the Redwoods,” Howie says with a chuckle.

“Yeah,” Cam–a former Redwoods tight end who retired during my rookie year–agrees. “It’s not like you’re officiating. As long as you’re just commenting on the calls and not making them, who cares which team you like better?”

“Uh, probably a lot of people. You’d know that if you were on social media, Cam. NFL fans are brutal online,” I tease. No matter what they say, I plan to be as neutral as possible come preseason.

My phone dings in my pocket and I fish it out, swiping the screen to find an email from my former team owner that I will be ignoring, just like the millions of others he’s sent in the last year.

I go to pocket my phone when it dings again, this time showing a picture message from Dean.

Lemmie and Mellie are only in part-time preschool, so Dean has been taking the girls on adventures around the city while I work.

It's a high angle selfie that captures Ollie on his chest and the twins at his feet. Looks like they’re down at the wharf today.

Lemmie and Mellie have pint-sized pink fishing poles at their feet, each holding up a tiny anchovy like a prize ring and beaming toothy smiles up at the camera.

Dean

The girls caught dinner! Hope you’re hungry ;)

His message makes me laugh out loud, and I tap out a quick reply.

Luke

I’m starving. Look at the size of those things. We’ll be eating leftovers for days!

“What’s got you smiling like that?” Reuben asks, and I hold my phone up to show off the picture.

Pride thrums in my chest when the guys give a collective ‘aww’ at my girls on the screen.

Cam says something about his daughters and how much they love fishing on the bay and buying buckets of Dungeness crabs from fishermen on the wharf.

“Oh yeah, it is crab season, isn’t it? It’s probably too late now, but maybe Dean or me can head down on Saturday morning and pick up a few pounds.

I think Lem and Mel will dig eating crab legs with their hands and getting all messy,” I say, swiping back to my message thread with Dean to let him in on that thought .

“Right, you’re living with Dean McKenna from Knoxville now, aren’t you?

How’s that going?” Howie asks. I mentioned Dean on my first day here when someone asked me where the kids were, and I guess word has gotten around.

It doesn’t surprise me that people are curious about my bestie.

He’s an incredible athlete with the kind of career accomplishments most of us can only dream of achieving.

Tack on the fact that Dean got to head up a franchise that once belonged to his dad, the legendary Knoxville Crushers quarterback Jay McKenna, and that family is the thing athletic wet dreams are made of.

“It’s going well. I wasn’t on my own for too long before he moved in, but still, it’s a relief having backup when it comes to the kids. His sister lives next door, and she’s been a big help, but just having another adult in the house is a game changer.”

“I bet. The wife and I just have one kid, and he was a nightmare until we got him into school. Even with McKenna in the house, you guys are outnumbered. I don’t know how you do it.”

I shrug at Reuben’s comment. I understand the sentiment, but the answer is simple. I do it because Gigi asked me to. I do it because I love Lemmie, Mellie and Ollie with my entire heart.

Dean, on the other hand? I’m still not one hundred percent sure why he has voluntarily subjected himself to my circus. I think he might be crazy, but I’m so grateful to have him.

An unfamiliar man approaches our circle, and I lift my arms, assuming it’s a production assistant here to retrieve the last of the wires taped under my shirt. But when he speaks, my stomach drops.

“Levi Connelly?”

I feel the blood rush out of my face. My knees buckle as anxiety thrums through my veins.

The chatter around me sounds distant, like I’m trapped in a bubble, unable to hear what’s going on around me.

Some part of my brain registers a hand on my arm, and I realize that I’m swaying, and Reuben is holding me up.

“Levi Connelly?” The man asks again, and my throat goes dry. Connelly hasn’t been my name for years. Not since I was thirteen.

No one has called me Connelly since Gigi saved me from our parent’s house. The house where we endured years of indoctrination, abuse and being told that who we are is a sin and we need to pay for it.

We changed our surname. We went from Levi and Genesis to Luke and Gigi. No one knows that I was once Levi Connelly, not Luke Cannon. If this guy is calling me Levi…

“Why did my parents send you?” I ask, my mouth feeling like it’s full of cotton. I don’t recognize him, but he has to be from Idaho, right? He’s got to be from the church. The Connelly’s don’t talk to people outside of church. There is no world outside of Salem, Idaho.

He holds out a manilla envelope between us, and I scoff at it, taking a dramatic step backwards.

I don’t want anything from this guy. I don’t want anything from anyone who knew me then.

But the man doesn’t relent. He waves the envelope between us and then eventually shoves it into my chest, forcing me to grab it.

“Levi Connelly, you’ve been served. Have a great day.”