It wasn’t until I became an adult, got married to a Black man, and had Black children that I finally began to come to grips with my identity and process the way a lifetime of microaggressions had affected me. And it was painful. Painful to come to grips with the way the people I loved and who loved me had left a long-lasting impression. Painful to realize I had quieted and doubted my own feelings for others’ comfort.
As for Quinton, I really wanted to narrow his focus on the football league, their treatment of retired players, and racism within the organization. As more people are seeing the realities BIPOC face in this country, these are problems that are impossible to escape. I knew I couldn’t do the story justice unless I narrowed it down. As the wife of a former professional player, I’ve been hearing more and more about the mistreatment of former players, specifically players who retired before 1993. After hearing personal accounts from their spouses, listening to interviews, and then finding FAIR—Fairness for Athletes in Retirement, a nonprofit that lifts the voices of players who retired before 1993—I knew this was the story I was capable of telling in a meaningful and effective way.
This book, which I hoped would be full of laughs and fun, took on a much more personal and serious tone. Though I hope everyone still finishes this book with a smile on their face, my main hope is that you, the reader, will feel the love and heart I tried to insert in these pages. And I hope that if you started this book set in one perspective, you finish it more open to understanding the journeys of self-discovery and acceptance that so many of us are on.
Prologue Quinton
Game One
The crowd’s cheers echo in the tunnel. Screams of excitement bounce off the concrete floor and vibrate through my cleats and into my veins.
I live for this feeling. The anticipation of running onto the field. Never knowing what is coming or what might happen.
I’ve always kept my head down. I’ve listened to the coaches. Made the plays. I’ve done my job like the good little athlete they’ve trained me to be.
But today is different.
The piece of black tape feels as if it weighs a thousand pounds hidden in my glove. My knee itches to touch the ground.
I can’t keep quiet any longer. I won’t keep quiet any longer.
No.
This is the day I will take a stand by taking a knee.
Today is the day I look up.
One Elliot
I’ve never had actual work benefits.
I mean, sure, I’ve got medical and a 401(k), but I’m talking about benefits that mean something. Like my friend Liv’s Nordstrom discount or Marie’s endless supply of cupcakes.
But now, I’m finally on their level. I have perks. The best perks possible: discounted and readily available Denver Mustangs tickets.
Sure, the parking costs a mint, the food is outrageous, and don’t even get me started on the drinks . . . but I’m here! My first ever professional football game and I’m part of the Mustangs family.
My dad would’ve freaking loved this.
“Why’d you make us get here so early?” Marie’s freckled arm stretches in front of me to nab one of the cheese-covered nachos in my lap. “I’m going to burn to hell and back.”
I made her apply sunscreen in the car, but even so, she’s right. She’s still going to burn. She burns just thinking about the sun. When we took a trip to Vegas for her twenty-first birthday, she burned so bad at the pool that I thought she needed to go to the emergency room.
“Because, if we didn’t get here when we did, the parking would’ve been impossible, the lines to the concessions would’ve been a mile long, and you would’ve been complaining that you were hungry and needed beer when I wanted to watch the game.”
“Okay, but now the team’s about to come out and I’m almost out of beer and you’re not being a good nacho sharer, so I’m going to complain anyways.” She grabs the last cheesy nacho in the tray and shoves it into her mouth before I can steal it back. And, because I work for the organization, I can’t punch her in the arm like I really want to. Maybe if I was a trainer or something that sounded a little more aggressive, I could get away with a light swat. But, since I work in public relations—aka the department that extinguishes fires, not ignites them—it’s probably not the best idea.
In my next life, I’m so going to be a wrestler.
“Asshole,” I mumble beneath my breath, which turns out to be unnecessary because that’s the moment the announcer decides to let his presence be known.
“Denver, Colorado! Get on your feet! Let’s hear it for your Denver Mustangs!” Jack, the announcer the Mustangs have used for the last five seasons, shouts through the speakers. I met him this week; he was kind of obnoxious, but I guess that’s perfect for his job.
The metal floor rattles beneath my shoes with synchronized anticipation as everyone jumps to their feet.
Everyone, that is, except for me.
This is the first professional football game I’ve ever been to. I’ve wanted to come to one of these games forever and I promised my dad that he’d be by my side when I did. We were going to celebrate his remission with the best seats and all the beer he could drink.
Grief is such a bitch.
Because even though I woke up with a smile and have been looking forward to this for weeks, grief has decided to take this moment to drop a brick on my chest and wrap itself around my throat. The tears fall before I even have the chance to stop them and the only coherent thought I have is that I hope
