It’s simple to say, well, just stop falling for butt heads, but it’s not like they make these dudes wear signs. There’s no Brotherhood of Jerks membership jacket that all these homies wear (and if there is, I’m attracted to it). An interviewing process doesn’t occur, complete with a sweaty, wrinkled resume handed over by a shaking hand, so I don’t learn that it’s in this idiot’s track record to peace out before he even arrives…or after.
“Well think about it Kelsi, they’re football players,” tight end/defensive end Sean Brown said to me last night, “they run at 300-pound guys as hard and as fast as they can every night.” He said this to ask me if, when considering this, I still expect to be treated gently. Yes, actually, I do. He and I spent five hours on the phone last night (mainly this morning), covering all topics imaginable: memories from senior year, philosophical chat, people we’ve dated since, school and football, but we came around to my romantic life four or five times. And it was weird because I wasn’t concerned with sounding perfect to my ex—I was cozy in the conversation, cuddled up with that familiar but much matured voice of his I know so well, warm under the blanket of nostalgia. I didn’t really care what he thought of me, how he thought of me, or why. He was just my old friend in that time who knew me very well. This role was played off and on throughout our conversation.
While talking to Sean I realized that these fit, rough, goal-driven prospects always manage to get points and that while I do get to score, I never get a W on my schedule. Everything I pick up is an L. Even with the boxer. The football players. Soccer. Baseball. Save for Sean, whose innocence can only be attributed to the fact that I walked away with it, I have been treated the exact same way by each of these men and I think I have finally come to peace, terms, and understanding with it. “It’s the chase,” my senior year boyfriend said to me in the middle of the night as his California phone line stretched to Seattle, “you might surprise yourself.”
It is about the game. Of course it is. They don’t have to be wearing shoulder pads or a cup in order to want to feel in control. When he’s not wearing kneepads, the boxing gloves are still on in a way. “You’re so generous and giving—you’re everything,” so that when he wants to play for more, the clock’s already out. After all, football players will push through a snowstorm if they have to just to get the numbers on the board.
But it’s not this generalized stereotype that can reign true for all athletic men, or even for all athletes of a particular sport. I need to stop meeting prospects in classless arenas, such as clubs and through random mutual acquaintances. This is true. However what about those who I meet doing something I love or in class? What about these guys? What’s their excuse? They don’t have one. I’m the one who carries the big messenger bag of excuses. Sean even said it without knowing it—I’m so generous and giving. Too much so that he can never be wrong. He can never be sketchy. He can never be out of line (or out of bounds). Three strikes? Let’s try seven or eight. This here is the problem.
In practice if he runs the drill poorly, it’ll be known and it’ll be fixed. He’s taken out of the game if he gets too many penalties. He can only throw so many pitches before he’s jogging away from the mound to an honest or sympathetic applause. Injury, out. Altercation with a player, out. Not enough baskets, too many balks, fly ball. Out, out, out. There are seemingly more outs in sports, especially at the higher level, than there are ins and maybe, though I find it a bit harsh, it’s about time I start applying these no-guilt rules to my involvement with such players. It could be the age, my reliance, or my dumb open heart, but in my experience even if he’s not an athlete, he’s still a playa. However the clock is far from running out. Still little sweat. There’s barely a score. And it’s still the first quarter.
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