Get in the Game - Part 3 of 3
Jeff Foley
Thursday October 26, 2000
My fan club takes up their cheer again with about one minute left in the game. We’re leading, 65-27 – Carolina has scored just seven points in the second half – and my friends and family are imploring Coach Dailey to send me in for another play. I ignore them and hope the coach does the same. Hearing my name called out in the Pepsi Arena is one of the best feelings I’ve ever had, but I wish they’d stop. I don’t want to go back in. The game is too fast and frightening right now. I’m comfortable on the bench.
“Are those your people, Foley?” asks backup quarterback Raymond Philyaw, nudging me in the shoulder and looking up toward section 114.
“Yup.”
“That’s cool,” Philyaw says, grinning. “Sounds like they want to see you play some more.”
“I wish they’d shut up.”
I keep my head low and avoid eye contact with Coach Dailey. When the horn sounds and the game ends without me having to play again, I breathe a sigh of relief. We win, 65-27, behind Jeff Loots and Philyaw. Loots throws for 179 yards and two touchdowns, and runs for another score. Philyaw contributes 119 yards and two touchdown passes. Neither throws an interception.
“Ladies and gentleman, stick around and meet your Albany Firebirds,” says the announcer. “The players will be signing autographs down on the field.”
I step onto the turf as the Albany and Carolina players converge, shaking hands and hugging. Several Carolina players approach and wrap me in a hug, telling me I played a good game. Apparently this part of the game is like a Mary Kay meeting, full of good feelings. As long as you belong to the club – in this case, your membership in the football fraternity is proven a uniform – you’re told you did a good job.
“Make sure you sign autographs with the rest of the guys,” says assistant coach Paul Booth.
I nod and jog toward section 114, where my friends and family are at the edge of the field, yelling out my name. My head is hung low as I walk. The penalty weighs heavy on my mind.
“What’s wrong with you?” lineman Mark Valvo says as I slouch past him. “Are you still bothered by that offsides call? Big deal, man. You gotta be tougher than that. We need players who can forget about their mistakes – everybody’s gonna make them – and go out and run the next play. You’ve gotta have a short memory in this game ... Get over it, man.”
Seeing my wife, Tina, helps. Her smile is huge. I give her a hug and kiss, sign a few autographs for friends, more in jest than anything else, and tell them I’ll meet them at the postgame party as soon as I change. As I walk toward the locker room, somebody on the opposite side of the field shouts my last name. Figuring it’s somebody I know, I go over to where Albany fullback/linebacker Anthony Jenkins is signing autographs for a group of children.
“Well, well, Foley,” he says, reaching out with a hug.
I look for the person who called out my name. To my surprise, he’s an older man, maybe forty, whom I’ve never seen. He’s holding a disposable camera.
“Mind if I take your picture, Jeff?”
Why would anyone want a photograph of me? I mean, I’m barely a player. But I oblige and pose with my helmet at my side. The man snaps his picture, blinding me with the flash, and says thanks.
“I’m John,” he adds. “From ArenaFan.”
Now it makes sense. John’s a computer guru for the website I write for. That’s why he wants the picture, because we’re sort of coworkers, not because he’s a deranged stalker. I shake his hand and head for the locker room again, somewhat disappointed that John wasn’t an actual fan, somebody who had no connection to me, somebody who’d mistaken for a real football player.
“Hey, Foley, wait a minute! Can you sign this?”
I turn around again. A father is holding his little girl up to the boards. She’s clutching a piece of paper that’s covered with autographs. They want me to add my name to a list that includes Touchdown Eddie Brown and Derek Stingley. Now I feel like a football player.
I borrow a black marker from Jenkins and scribble my name. My signature is barely legible, but neither the girl nor her father seems to care. As I sign, a line of four more kids forms. I feel like a superstar, moving down the line, scribbling my last name and the number 80 on each piece of paper. The kids smile and the parents beam. When I get to the fourth kid in line though, a little girl, she looks away. I reach for her paper but she clutches it tight.
“Don’t you want him to sign it?” says her mother.
The girl, seven or eight years old, shakes her head no and pulls the paper even closer to herself.
That hurts. I hang my head again and run straight to the locker room.
***
The locker room is loud and filled with naked, sweaty men. Joe Jacobs doesn’t have a single piece of clothing on as he chews on a slice of pizza. There’s pizza, subs and soda in the center of the room. I grab a cup of soda as Coach Dailey enters.
“Anybody who’s ever played in this league before knows that’s not what we’re gonna face week in and week out,” he says. He looks much calmer than he did at halftime. “We needed to go against some live competition and it was good. I think some guys really played well and helped themselves. Alright? At two o’clock tomorrow we’re gonna watch the film. Let’s learn from our mistakes to get better. Let’s get a little more disciplined. Any questions?”
No questions.
“Let’s take a knee and get a prayer. Here we go. Thank you Lord for letting us be victorious. And help all the injured, particularly Terry.” Rookie wide receiver/defensive back Terry Guess twisted his knee during his one and only play, getting his foot stuck in the turf as he made a catch and was tackled. He needed help leaving the field, grimacing in pain as he limped off. “Let us exercise good judgement tonight. Help us Lord to continue to get better at what we do. Thank you Lord for everything you give us in Jesus’ name.”
“AMEN.”
“Good job, men. Make sure you use good judgement tonight,” says Coach Dailey with a laugh as the players break from the prayer huddle. “That means stay away from Eddie Brown.”
I change quickly, putting on jeans, a Firebirds T-shirt (in case I run into anybody other than my family and friends, so they’ll know I play for Albany) and sneakers. I then hurry toward the door, anxious to see Tina. That’s enough of the football world for one day.
Jeff Foley was a writer for ArenaFan Online from 2000 to 2001.
