Canton, Ohio – August 4, 2032
Jamal sat on a bench and bowed his head. A light buzz filled the air around him, but he sat alone in a room for what was going to be his last moment of quiet for a little while. He inhaled for a five-count, held his breath and then exhaled for five counts.
These long, slow breaths were the best he could do to silence the world around him. Soon it wouldn’t matter, but for now, he held on tight. A sound interrupted his moment of zen, “knock knock”.
“Come in”, he answered.
An official came in, “Hey, Jamal, how are you doing?” He extended his hand for a handshake. “What a day, huh? I’m Roger McMahon.”
Jamal opened his eyes and smiled, “Yessir. Quite a day. Excited to be here, finally.”
The man nodded slowly, “Are you ready to go?”
Jamal took a sip of water and nodded. He scratched the back of his clean-shaven scalp, “How are they out there?”
The man raised a hand to beckon Jamal forth, “They’re good. Good crowd. Good fans.”
Jamal smiled. He took another long sip of water. He pushed up the sleeve on his gold jacket and used his forearm to wipe his mouth. He rose slowly and strode behind the man.
His mind veered off and began walking down a path to the right. Jamal leaned his head back and squinted. Highlight reels rushed through his mind. This was a long time coming. Both his time on the field and the campaign off of it. His breathing tempered. There was a swelling in his chest. His throat began to ache.
“There he is…”, said a voice. Jamal looked up. A hallway of golden jackets awaited him. The chatter picked up. Jamal shook hands with Reggie Bryant and Hannibal Willis. Other large, meaty hands patted him on the back. “Are you ready?” “Welcome back!” “What a day!”
Jamal continued shaking hands until he got to Tom Joseph. His throat began to quiver as he became enveloped in the arms of a polar bear, “Good to see you, brother!” Jamal reciprocated the embrace and began to sob, “Can’t believe it. I can’t believe we’re finally here.” A mob of gold gathered around the two of them.
“Mr Scott!”, yelled McMahon. “It’s time, sir.”
“You got this, Jamal”, yelled a former player.
Jamal wiped his eyes and walked up beside McMahon. He reached into his chest pocket and pulled out a crisply folded yellow paper. He put his hand on McMahon’s back. McMahon turned, “You hear ’em out there? That’s all for you, and what you did.” Jamal nodded. Specific words faded in and out of his ears. His mind was overtaken by white noise. Breathe in, breathe out.
McMahon, “Alright, it’s time!” He pulled back the curtain. Jamal strode through. The first thing to hit him was the light. He’d forgotten it was daytime. He looked out past the stage. The crowd was speckled in color, with many clad in their home team’s colors. Jamal looked straight ahead at a blur of blue and orange and brown.
The noise escalated as he approached the podium. He put his hand up as he looked out at the crowd. He clenched his jaw and throat. Breaths shuddered out. Finally he felt the drops roll down his face. A shaky exhale. He looked around at the grand stands and raised his hand again. Jamal choked out a “Thank you”.
He tried to moderate his breath. “Thank you very much!”, he said. “Ohhh man. Phew”, he exhaled. “We love you Jamal!”, shouted a fan. Jamal forced a smile.
Jamal, “Look, I, um…I wanna try and keep it together, but on the real, I’m probably gonna cry up here. I was crying backstage, I’m crying now. But hopefully I get through it without losing’ it. It’s a long time coming, us being here right now…” Jamal’s eyes filled with tears again. He put his fist up by his mouth.
The noise picked up. “We love you, Jamal!” He nodded with his hand over his mouth.
Jamal put his hand down and unfolded the yellow paper he had carried. Chicken scratch only he could read. Jamal continued, “You know, I see a lot of people, just now and then and all, and, always…sometimes it’s the first thing they say, sometimes it’s number four or five, but no matter what, people always ask me about the Bogeyman.
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