The only time Marie has ever watched football was when her ex-boyfriend played on our college team. He wanted her to support him. She broke up with him after the second game because no man was worth that kind of torture—her words, not mine. She came today after letting me know that in no way, shape, or form was I to yell at her when she started playing Candy Crush in the first quarter. I was honestly just so proud that she knew football was comprised of quarters and not periods or innings that I couldn’t argue with her. So when she says she’s confused, she means it.
Usually I can clear things up, but not this time.
“Not that I know of.”
I think she keeps talking, but I can’t hear her anymore. All I can do is track Quinton’s movement on the field like everyone else. I think of any positive way to spin him blatantly disrespecting the League paying him millions of dollars. I have to be misunderstanding his intentions.
Time ticks by and both teams go to their benches. Most of the fans seem to have let whatever the hell he was doing roll off their backs and I relax a little. I grab my phone out of my purse, wanting to make sure nobody from the Mustangs has sent a panicked email as the first beats of the national anthem start to play.
Then it happens.
I’m waiting for my email to refresh when I hear the cascade of whispers and boos beginning to build.
I hope it’s just the poor performer forgetting the words, but when I look up, my eyes are laser focused on Quinton Howard Junior.
On his knee. During the national anthem.
He’s making a stand. He’s not the first player in the League to take a knee, but he is the first Mustangs player to do it.
I get goosebumps on my arm. As a biracial Black woman, I’m aware of the injustices Black people face daily and respect Quinton’s protest. But pride wars with panic over how this will affect my new job.
“Oh shit.” Marie doesn’t even try to hide her smile. “Looks like your job just got more interesting in the best possible way.”
I’m about to spout off some sarcastic response when my phone starts vibrating in my hand, my boss’s number on the screen.
I’m not sure the fallout at the Mustangs will be the “best,” but Marie wasn’t wrong. It did just get a lot more interesting.
Two
The world is on fire.
Okay. Fine. That’s mad dramatic.
The world is not on fire, but my job has for sure taken the first crazy train straight to chaos.
I’m the strategic communications manager for the Denver Mustangs. Most people have no idea what that means and look at me like I have two heads. Then I tell them I’m basically Olivia Pope . . . but for football players. This helps most people. Or, at least it helps Shondaland fans. And why would I even talk to someone who doesn’t appreciate the greatness that is Shonda Rhimes?
Anyways, it’s my job to fix problems when they arise and to place the Mustangs organization in the best light possible. When I found out about the opening for this position—the position I put on my dream board my freshman year of college—I already had a binder full of strategies. Drunk driving? Covered. Injuries? Check. Failed drug test? I have ten different emails ready to send out. I had any and everything that could possibly happen mapped out with at least five ways to spin each one.
I even had a tentative plan for one of the players taking a knee. One I hoped would keep the player, the community, and the organization happy. What I didn’t expect? The quarterback blacking out his logo and protesting his employer too. I mean . . . what in the world?
Like I said: Crazy. Train.
“Did you see what Glenn Chandler said?” Paul, my coworker, asks.
Glenn Chandler is the latest person to throw their hat into the upcoming presidential race. It’s just that the hat he threw in is covered in outrageous statements trying to get him the most coverage possible. And boy is he eating up this Quinton thing. “That Quinton is an ungrateful and entitled American, spitting in the faces of our troops?” I repeat the talking points Glenn really harped on. “I did. And people seem to be eating it up.”
Thanks to YouTube and social media, everyone has a platform. That can be wonderful. I mean, it brought us Issa Rae and who can ever be mad at that? But for every creative genius using it for good, there’s a Glenn Chandler using it to fuel their fire of anger. So when Glenn stood in front of the American flag, with a flag pin attached to his lapel, and started making accusations? It didn’t matter that he didn’t have anything to back them up with. His conviction was enough to convince his followers that Quinton had one motivation: to attack America and all it stands for.
And now I’m left scrambling to catch up. Normally I’m great at getting ahead of a situation. If Quinton had just told us about his plan, I could’ve helped. I would’ve had the press briefed, prepared, and on topic. But now we’re two steps behind in a gap that seems to be growing every second.
“Yeah, that’s what he said. But we sent your statement to ESPN and for what it’s worth, you did a great job defusing the situation for most people.” Paul rolls his chair next to mine and tosses his phone on my desk. “Just don’t look at the comment section.”
“Obviously. That’s the first rule of the Internet.” Also, I spent all last night reading the thousands of comments on the Yahoo homepage. There’s no need for me
