Or, more accurately, it hasn’t stopped people from going out of their way to deliberately misconstrue his mission. And the biggest culprit of this is still Glenn Chandler.
His popularity has been skyrocketing and his base has increased to a problematic level. During his last rally, he spent a record twenty minutes spewing his lies about Quinton, convincing his followers that Quinton is protesting the military and disrespecting our troops . . . despite Quinton stating multiple times why he’s protesting—fairness and equality for all. “If he cared about any of these causes, he’d quit throwing a football and sign up to serve his country. But the only person he’s concerned about serving is himself. We aren’t fooled!” The crowd went crazy over that and the more conservative news stations have been playing it on what feels like a loop.
It’s absurd. From what I’ve seen online, a lot of people are ready to grab their torches and burn things down. I’m really concerned about how that will translate to real life.
I slide open the glass door with my hip since my hands are occupied by an overabundance of snacks and a filled-to-the-rim glass. Nobody seems to notice my entrance, so I take a seat in the back row. It will be easier for me to pay attention without someone pointing out how cute Quinton is (Brynn and Vonnie) or telling me about all the chemicals in my tortilla chips (Greer).
“Please stand and remove your hats as Carol Langford performs our national anthem,” Jack says as a woman in a bright-red dress settles into her position behind a microphone in front of the Mustangs sideline.
A group of four military members in their uniforms stand behind her; the two in the middle are holding flags while the other two hold what look like guns. Children and adults burst out running from the center of the field in different directions, all holding onto a giant flag they’re now spreading across the field. But even with all of this, my attention is focused on one person and one person only, Quinton Howard Junior.
I can’t see the front of his jersey to see if he’s used the tape or not, but I know it’s there. Then the music starts, and for a moment, he stays standing. My lungs stop working and even though it doesn’t make sense, dread that he might stay standing courses through my body. I close my eyes, not able to watch. But when the wave of boos fill the stadium, my eyes snap open and I see him on one knee. Relief blooms from the tips of my toes to the crown of my head even as Vonnie and Brynn both turn around, concern for my livelihood evident on their beautiful faces. They offer me what I’m sure are their best attempts at reassuring smiles, but what in actuality look more like grimaces.
“It’s fine.” I get out of my seat and I walk down the few steps to their row. “I’m really not worried, I promise.”
Nobody says anything. I’m guessing that’s their way of not lying to me. I appreciate it all the same.
Carol finishes belting out the final note of the anthem and Quinton stands up, clapping with the rest of the team as they rush the sideline.
All of the tense, angry energy floating around the stadium seems to dissipate with a crescendo of cheers that builds as the special teams players—the players who come out during kicks and punts—take their positions on the field.
Cleveland’s kicker runs forward, swinging his entire body as he makes contact with the football and sends it deep into our end zone. Davis, the Mustangs kick returner who clenched the position after his fourth return for a touchdown during preseason, positions himself beneath the ball and catches it with ease. But instead of dropping to his knee, he explodes into a full sprint.
Before I can check myself, I’m out of my seat with the rest of the stadium, screaming until my throat is sore, cheering as he breaks one tackle, spins past another one, and finds the hole his teammates have created with amazing blocking. He runs as fast as he can until a Cleveland player ends up bringing him down on our twenty-five yard line.
Everyone is on their feet, even Vonnie, who told me at the last game she saves her energy by sitting while everyone else stands. But this is why I love football so much. In the last hour, Vonnie was crying, I was put firmly in my place, and the crowd booed their quarterback, but thirty seconds in and everyone has forgotten it all. It’s like their cleats have magical powers. Each step they take, every brutal hit they make, we’re pulled out of reality and nothing else matters. For three glorious hours, all of our problems fade away.
Special teams clears the field as the Mustangs offense jogs out. Quinton is the portrait of confidence and grace. His body looks like it was made for this. Tall and lean, he fills out his uniform in a way that not a single other player on the field does. And even though I know I can’t go there ever again, I can’t help but notice how well he wears the uniform, blacked-out logo and all.
He just shouldn’t look that way. Cropped spandex pants have no right looking that delicious on anybody.
He takes his position behind the center, squatting down before checking to his left, then his right. He stomps his legs and his head bounces around as he no doubt yells out instructions to the rest of the offense. This is his field. This is his team. And there’s no mistaking that he has
