Sitting on the bench while the rest of his teammates play has never really gotten to Sam Starus. And in a way, he thoroughly enjoyed having a seat. His knees are starting to become just for show, and his arms, a viable part of his job, are also starting to give out. Morning, much like nights, start with a routine: pain…and growing accustomed to that pain until he feels like he’s ready to begin, or end, his day. Next year, he continuously reminds himself, will be the last… though he’s said that for the past four years. Sam loves the game, but a hard work ethic, and a sense of worth and want keep him on the field more than the game itself, or, as of the past years, on the bench. Practice has always been the greatest part of his job. A sense of gaining and sharpening a skill makes him feel useful, and, as a person, whole.

It had been ten years ago, near this time of the season (the end) that he made, as all the journalists, sports-casters, fans, and fellow footballers describe, as the most important catch for a small budget team. He had always played better at night, even enough to garner the nick-name “the owl”. The ball had been on the thirty-five yard line, and there were thirty-one seconds left on the clock. As the ball snapped, the owl sensed that his mouse knew exactly where he was going. The agility that once flourished in Sam shook his defender, Darius Rockford, into oblivion. Anyone could have caught this pass. It was perfect, and it had to be. Before the pass was thrown, Sam had to sprint at full-speed before the safety could pick him up. The catch was memorable only because Sam’s momentum had him falling forward to grab the ball, cleverly fooling everyone into thinking he had to dive to make the catch. No one talked about Steve and the throw, only Sam and his awkward and clumsy “diving” miracle.
They lost once the playoffs came around, but it had been the owl’s final year on the contract. Steve had a horrible year, and, for the most part, so did Sam. But the catch was the only memorable thing he had done that year, but it’s importance grabbed the GM’s, Dean Thoro’s, attention. Sam had just been given a forty-million-dollar contract… for what, he always thought… I only caught a perfectly thrown ball. He felt guilty as soon as his pen lifted from the paper. The signature was finalized, and now Steve Marts was more than likely going to end his career as a practice squad quarterback.
As predicted by himself, Sam never lived up to the contract. Dropped balls and bad routes plagued him as the seasons blended together. And the fact that Dean wouldn’t spend a dime on a decent quarterback also exacerbated their losing ways. Seven years later, his contract was on its final year. He knew he wouldn’t get another deal, from his team, or possibly any other team. This, much like the past four years, was going to be his last season. Remembering the time he was booed by his home fans, Sam sat on the bench, reflecting where it all went wrong. And now, the game had somehow shifted into the second quarter. Time to get off the bench and sit in the locker room, Sam thought to himself.

Jared Starksy had walked alongside him, as he typically does on their way to the locker room, to the field, and to the condo, where they both had their own separate lives. Jared, lightly jogging, made his way, from the field, to Sam. “God, what a boring ****ing game. I’m starting to wonder why we are playing. Can’t we just forfeit?”. Sam throws in, “we might as well throw in the rest of our season… I don’t see us doing any better than winning three games.” Both shared a chuckle as they made their way to the locker room.

Everyone gathered in a sloppy and disproportionate circle. Sam started to question if this is why they can’t win games. We can’t even take a knee right. Coach Murphy started with “We can’t allow ourselves to give up, or lose concentration…” and that’s all Sam could listen to. Everyone was talking, and didn’t care. Sam looked around and remembered that the team had great players, but these guys only wanted to shine on this team, and get paid by another. They were known as the farm team that was in the same league. It worked like a cycle: draft talent, then sell talent. The G.M. only cared about his money, and not the team, or city, or fans. Sam realized his forty was a publicity stunt, and he wasn’t the only one that fell for the trap. To show a sense of loyalty, to the city and its fans, Dean would often sign the fan favorites, and forget the rest. Sam had been a fan favorite, seven years ago, but now they look at him as if he’s the reason the team is awful.
After his speech, Murphy stumbled towards Sam: he’s drunk again. “You and I are one of the same Startus” he somehow managed to get out.
“How do you figure coach?”
“Oh, coach, I like that… but we all know my title won’t be the same. **** this team, I feel like I try so damn hard, and none of these ****S ever give one of themselves.”
When did I become a therapist, Sam though, remembering the talks, much like this one, he’s had with others. Sam had to divert, knowing that giving coach a platform to discuss the teams “problems” would turn, yet again, into some racist rant about how these “blacks are ruining the game.” Murphy had always assumed Sam would agree with him… but he only would nod and smile, just as he always did, even if his parents had been “blacks” who had adopted him, and saved him from… God, who knows what. “let’s get out of here before we’re late… again” Sam said. Murphy replied “oh yeah, don’t want those ****s to give me another 50k fine.”
Back on the field, Sam had only now just realized the game was a blow-out. He never really cared. Jared took the seat next to him on the bench.
“When ya think you’ll be over this man?”
“hmm… maybe three years ago?”
“haha, **** man, why you still here then? All we do is ride this bench to death?”
Sam had to think for a moment, and lied. “The money never hurts.”
“ain’t that the truth man, ****, with the amount you’re getting’ paid, I’m surprised they don’t wipe your ***.”
Sam never really enjoyed this type of talk… banter, locker-room talk, or whatever people called it now. Yet he had a growing affection for Jared, who reminded him of himself. They both were the first to practice, and were always the last to leave. Sam knew Jared couldn’t explain, in words, why he’s playing football, but knew they both shared the same feeling about it. Practice and hard work gave them a sense of purpose, and a will to keep doing what they did… off and on the field. And Jared seemed to, not like the others, care about Sam’s age, and dwindling ability. The team seemed to make him feel guilty about taking more than half the salary-cap for the team. Everyone was in it for the money, and nothing else.
Jared got called out. For the next ten minutes Jared had caught two touchdowns and ten catches. The team was now back in the game. There were only a few minutes left, and his team was down by one touchdown. “and would you look at that, they’re on the thirty-five.” The team lined up in a shotgun, with Jared being the right slot receiver. The ball came his way, and so did a 250-pound linebacker. Jared looked like he hit a brick wall. He immediately went limp at contact. The crowd fell silent, and a pin could be heard as it dropped to the floor. Sam joined, in shock, the group of kneelers and their praying-huddle group. He didn’t know if it would work, but Sam prayed, for the first time in his life. Jared still hadn’t moved. He noticed the white flesh and wide eyes of the doctors. Sam felt like vomiting when he saw one of them put two fingers on his neck. By the look he gave his fellow colleagues, Sam knew he had felt nothing. Death had joined this huddle and prayer. They got the stretcher and carefully gave Jared the spine-stabilizing treatment. The crowd cheered as he was carted off, not knowing his career, his life, and world were now gone. Ten minutes passed and Murphy called him on the field. It was fourth down, with thirty-one seconds on the clock. The ball was on the thirty-five.