Blue 42 by C.A. Rene
Chapter two
Dixon
The collar of my dress shirt rubs against my neck and I can feel the sweat collecting at the base. It’s loud in here with the excited chatter and the atmosphere pulses with frenzied energy. My mother and I are sitting inside the Selection Box in Grant Park, Chicago. It took us eleven hours to drive here and I barely spoke full sentences the whole way. I’m nervous and it shows in the bouncing of my knee.
“Dixon.” Mom reaches out and pats the offending knee. “Try to breathe and relax.”
Relax? This is just determining the rest of my life, no big fucking deal. Not just my life either; but hers and Danny’s also. I wanted Danny to come with us, to show him where he could go in life with hard work and determination, but he’s been slowly withdrawing from me. Our relationship is becoming more and more strained as I spend more time away from home, and it’s difficult watching my little brother slip between my fingers.
The large screen up on the stage lights up and the words ‘First Round’ shines brightly. My heart crashes into my ribs as I once again am reminded of how pivotal this moment is and I feel like I’m walking a tightrope, I could fall at any moment. My name skates across the screen with a picture of me in my Clemson uniform. The growing crowd begins to cheer and I can’t hide the smile that widens across my face.
“That’s my boy.” Mom mumbles, holding her clasped hands to her chest. She prays a lot and always did while I was growing up. Her belief in God is what she accredits for where I am today.
I don’t believe in any of that, I can only accredit myself for my achievements, and Mom can continue to pray to whomever she wants as long as I can get her out of that neighborhood. She was telling me about a drive by the week before and how one of our front windows is now boarded up. Yeah, that’s right, our house was hit with a stray bullet; luckily, my mom was in her room and Danny was out somewhere. She found the bullet lodged into the sheetrock of our kitchen wall, in about the same height her head would’ve been had she been cooking.
That’s the shit that scares me but also drives me to be the absolute best I can be because failure really isn’t an option.
“So, this Buffalo Bulls team is really going to sign you?” Her brown eyes - exactly the same shade as mine - shine with unshed tears.
“Bills, Mom.” I chuckle, “and I really hope so.” I reach up and tug on one of her greying, tight curls.
The Buffalo Bills were dead last in the league last year and they get first pick tonight. I know I’m here because of their scouts and I have been assured they want me on the team. They believe I can bring them back up to the top and I want to do that for them if given the chance.
My knee begins to bounce again as more faces pop up on the screen and my heart rate accelerates when I see a few other wide receivers. I’ve investigated their stats out of curiosity and it only made me more nervous. As good as their stats are, mine are better, and I still feel like I have room to grow.
“There are a lot of people gathering out there.” She points to the park and the large glowing Ferris wheel.
“This is it, Mom.” I squint my eyes to hold back the moisture. “This is as big as it gets.”
“You’ve already made me so proud, Dixon.” She pats my bouncing knee again, “this is just the icing on the cake.”
“Thank you, Ma.” I nod, “this is just the beginning.”
“This is what you’ve always worked for, what do you mean the beginning?” her eyes crinkle on the sides as she squints at me; her face looking older than what she actually is.
“I want you and Danny out of Baltimore.”
“We’re fine for now, son.” Her wrinkled hand pats me again, “we’re doing just fine.”
They’re not and it bothers me that she wants me to believe that.
“You guys deserve it.”
The screen goes black and a hush falls over the crowd. This is it. I’ve watched the draft picks every year for the past ten years and I know this is where they begin. Voices begin talking over the sound system and the announcers you hear every Sunday are here, talking about the lineup for today. I wish I could say I hear everything they’re saying but I don’t, it’s a rumble of voices and laughter from the crowd.
My head begins to pound and my vision loses focus as the screen once again lights up with a commercial. I can’t even take it in because my stomach is twisting with knots.
“You look like you might pass out, boy.” Mom tsks, “get yourself together and quick.”
She’s right, I know she’s right, but my body isn’t listening to any reason.
Suddenly the crowd cries out as the Buffalo Bills logo zooms in on the screen, first pick of the first round. Then there’s a compilation video of me that I signed off on for them to use, but what I didn’t see the first time are the actual game plays they put in there. They have a clip of the final game against Alabama when my team rushed me in the end zone.
My head is thrown back and I can see my mouth moving as I scream out my name. The sweat pouring down my cheeks, the black makeup over my cheekbones smudged, and the tears leaking out of my eyes. I will never forget that moment, the high, and the accompanying relief, I put my everything into that game.
As the video moves on to the other player’s compilations, I turn my head and look around the area. I see a few of the draftees here sitting at the tables but I know some are also sitting at home and watching. We had the option to do both; but I knew I needed to be here.
“Today is exciting!” One of the announcers declares to the crowd, “did you see that lineup?”
The crowd screams and the sounds amplify the anxiety coursing through my chest. It feels like time has completely slowed down and the moment I’m waiting for is taking forever to get here. I want my name called, I want the bidding to start, and then I want a fucking steak dinner.
A hand lands on my shoulder and I turn to see an usher, “time to head to the Green Room.”
I swallow thickly, the Green Room is where the picks that show up to the draft selection wait. Once their names are called, it’s a waiting game until a call comes through, and you either head to the stage or you don’t.
“Good luck, baby.” Mom pulls me in for a hug.
I nod and stand from my seat, following the usher to a set of stairs to the left of the large Draft Selection stage. I take the stairs one at a time, letting the weight of my foot hit the metal, and the sound reminding me to stay grounded. This is a memory I want to store and remember for the rest of my life, I won’t let nerves take it from me.
The top of the stairs opens to a large room with couches and a couple fridges. The room isn’t green at all, nothing in here is green, save for the Packers emblem stuck to the wall, and it gets lost in the sea of team emblems.
There are two other guys in the room and one I recognize from the list I read. He’s another wide receiver and he’s really good. He’s a popular choice and his stats are phenomenal. He stands when I enter the room and he’s fucking tall and fucking wide. His grin spreads wide across his face. His blue eyes twinkle with mirth and his blonde shaggy hair flops over his forehead.
“Man,” he claps his hands, “I heard you were going to be here today.” He holds out his hand, “I’m Greg.”
His grin is contagious and suddenly I feel my own inching across my face, “I know who you are,” I clasp his hand in a firm shake, “I read up on you.”
The speaker over our heads crackles and then the crowd below starts its loud booing. The announcer's voice floats through the room as he announces the NFL Commissioner to the stage. The booing intensifies and the three of us in the room begin to laugh. Every year it’s like this, the Commissioner walks out on stage and the crowd boos him. I looked it up the first year I heard it and laughed at what I read; he is the most hated person in the whole organization.
I watch the large TV screen hanging on the wall as he walks to the podium, waving to the crowd and keeping a large, forced smile plastered to his face amid the boos. He’s in a perfectly tailored suit, the linen grey rippling in the breeze, and his hair flies up revealing his bald spot. The guys behind me titter and I smirk as he tries to pat it back into place.
“Welcome to the first round of draft picks.” He announces into the mic and the speakers overhead crackle with his voice.
The booing continues and the three of us break out into laughter again. I needed this, the nerves have slowly dissipated and it feels good to be in a room with guys who are probably feeling similarly.
“Our first pick tonight is,” he looks down to his card, asshole. “Buffalo Bills, who will be their choice?”
I watch as a large timer starts on the screen behind him. Fifteen minutes until my fate is decided. The screen flips to the table of announcers you would normally see on a sports broadcast and they talk about my stats from the three years of playing with the Clemson Tigers.
“Good luck, Dixon.” The second guy in the room stands up and holds out his hand, “Stanley, I heard Buffalo has had their eye on you.”
I take his hand and give him a nod of acknowledgment, I’m back in my head again. Those nerves inching back up and hard to ignore.
“That phone is going to ring and then that’s when your new life will begin,” Stanley says with a smile. “Let’s have a beer in the meantime.”
He heads over to the small bar fridge and passes each of us a can. I take the smooth, cold metal in my hand and pop the tab, the fizz of the carbonation loud in the otherwise silent room. The timer keeps dialing down and with each second my blood pressure rises.
There’s a random guy in a suit off to the side, he’s sitting in front of the phone, and his eyes are dead center on the countdown. We’re at the ten-minute marker now and I want to fling my can across the room and scream. Are they purposely making me fret?
“It’s probably about money.” Greg adds. “What salary to give you.”
Right, my multimillion-dollar deal that will change the course of my family’s life and propel us into a whole different culture. A rich man’s culture. Something that makes me feel both elated and terrified. I’ve seen what that much money can do to a person who has no idea how to handle it and I’m thankful I have my mother. She’ll never let me lose focus on who I am.
The sudden shrill of the phone startles me and my beer sloshes out and over my hand. The room is quiet as the phone screams for the suited guy to answer it. It feels like forever as his hand reaches out and his fingers curl around the receiver, slowly lifting it to his ear. I look at the screen and see seven minutes blinking in a still sequence.
“Looks like The Bills have come to a decision.” The announcer says into the mic, the speakers overhead pushing sound into the room.
I watch as the guy on the phone furiously moves his hand over paper as he writes down whatever is being said. He nods and then dips his head to continue writing. I know it’s a lot because I read everything there was to read about NFL salaries and I’m waiting - albeit impatiently - for what the details are, the fine print.
He drops the phone back to the cradle and looks at me with a grin, “Dixon North, you must be one special rookie.” He chuckles, “come on over and read their offer. You let me know yes if it’s good or if you want a renegotiation.”
I walk to him on unsteady feet, with each footfall my heart tries to jam itself up into my throat, and my brain is screaming at me that this moment is profound. This pivotal moment is going to be that one point everyone has when they think of how they got to where they are in life. This is mine.
I stand at the table and the guy is still chuckling as he hands me the paper. I blink a few times and will my eyes to focus.
$12,638,000.00 per year on a four-year contract. $2,100,00.00 signing bonus. I quickly read through the other stipulations but all I can think of is, this is it. I don’t need a renegotiation, I’m a fucking Bill.
“Looks good.” My voice cracks and I quickly clear it, “yeah, I’m in.”
The other two in the room clap and holler as the guy looks at me then picks up the phone. It takes a minute before my face zooms onto the screen with the Buffalo Bills logo underneath.
“They’re asking for you on the stage.” The guy says as he extends his hand. “Congratulations Dixon.”
This profound moment set the course for the rest of my life.
