“I’ve been waiting years for this.” He’s stretching his neck and cracking his knuckles. This is just another game for him, one he seems to be taking very seriously.
I look at his empty hands. “Did you write your speech down? Do you need me to go find your speech?”
“No speech.” He doesn’t look at me. His eyes are focused on the area we’ve designated as the stage. He points to his head. “It’s all in here.” He drops his hand to point at his velvet-covered chest. “And in here. I wanted it to feel real, not rehearsed.”
Even though he told me from the beginning he didn’t want me writing a speech, I hoped he’d eventually see the light and write one himself. Or you know, just do it to get rid of hearing me nag. I’ve been to enough events to know not having something on paper isn’t a good idea. But I’m keeping my fingers crossed the stubborn man standing in front of me will prove me wrong. And if he doesn’t, at least I get to say “I told you so.”
I give the signal to the DJ to introduce him once the song that’s playing has ended. And it’s like that simple motion causes Quinton’s nerves to skyrocket. His confident stance is now bouncing due to his tapping foot and all of his nervous energy is contagious.
“Relax, you’ve won a championship, this will be cake.” Really though, a couple hundred guests versus millions watching? How hard could this be?
But instead of my words lightening the mood, I think they do the opposite.
Actually, I know they do the opposite because instead of laughing, he shoots his hand out like a rocket and latches on to mine. He stares into my eyes for a second, fear written across every hard edge of his face. “But this actually matters.”
“Hey.” I turn my entire body to face him and grab his other hand, ignoring the way my stomach is doing flips from not only feeling his touch, but getting to be the person he’s confiding in. “You’re going to be amazing. I know we haven’t exactly seen eye to eye during this process, but even so, I’ve never seen someone more dedicated and passionate about something. Everyone here will see that too.” I maintain eye contact with him, watching as he shakes out his shoulders and takes deep, measured breaths.
“You’re right. I got this.” He drops my hand and I mourn the heat almost instantly. “Thank you. And if I haven’t told you before, you’re more than qualified for this job. I couldn’t have done this without you.”
Before I get the chance to respond, the DJ is calling Quinton to the stage and I’m left staring at him as he goes, trying to wrap my head around what just happened between us.
“Good evening, everyone. Thank you so much for joining me here tonight.” Quinton’s voice booming through the speakers shakes me out of whatever spell he put on me, and I slip to the back of the stage so I can take in everyone’s reactions as he speaks.
“As I’m sure everyone in here is aware, I’ve caused a little . . . disturbance . . . this season.” Quiet laughter rumbles through the audience. It’s the perfect start to his speech. “During the first regular season game I decided to use the platform I’ve worked so hard for to speak out against issues that are plaguing not only our society, but the company I work for. I placed black tape over the League’s logo and I’ve taken a knee during the national anthem.”
He pauses for a second, letting the audience get their applause . . . and a few boos . . . out of the way before he continues.
“You see, just like with the small group that’s gathered here tonight, everyone has different opinions on what I’m doing. And although I’ve had more interviews this last month than I’ve had my entire career, I still need to share my truth. You’ve heard that I’m upset with the way the company I work for treats its players and the way society treats marginalized groups of all kinds, but you don’t know everything. And that’s why we’re here tonight.
“I’ve heard from people that even though they might support the causes I’m fighting for, they don’t necessarily agree with my methods. I understand that.” He finds me on the side of the stage, flashing a quick smile at me before turning to walk across the stage. I don’t want that little speck of attention to mean anything to me, but it does. In this room full of people, he sought me out. We shared something that nobody else knows about and it makes those butterflies that only seem to make an appearance around him flutter back to the surface. “Football is one of America’s favorite pastimes, fans are coming to games to escape the reality of their life to watch a game for a few hours, and why should I take that away? Do my job. Hashtag shut up and play, right? Leave the politics to the politicians. I’ve heard all of you. I have. So now, I’m asking that you hear me.
“As you all know, I’ve grown up with football. My dad, who wishes he could be here tonight, retired from this great game in 1992, ten years after he suited up for his first professional game. When he retired, there were three African American head coaches. The League was almost seventy percent Black, but only three head coaches were. That was a problem, but that was also progress.
“Now, I want to fast-forward to this year. The demographics are still pretty much the same. The League is still made up of nearly seventy percent Black players, which means there has to have been some progress on the coaching front, right? Wrong. Today, there are only two Black head coaches. There are only five Black general managers. And owners?
