The Whistle

Trying to wipe away the sweat from his forehead, while keeping his suffocating helmet on, the boy struggled to complete his pregame ritual. However, this ritual was not one he underwent by choice. Instead, it was an inherent convulsion that forced himself to combat the biological stirrings within him, before having to face the physical battle on the football field moments later.

It began with nausea just as he slipped into his uniform and pads. He had already been silent and minimized talking to his friends, family, teammates, and coaches, so he at least could use the silence as a tool to focus on not throwing up in the locker room. With his headphones blaring “Lose Yourself” by Eminem, the Detroit MC’s conclusion to his first verse would always hit too close-to-home, and he would promptly have to change the song to something more peaceful before “…Mom’s spaghetti” came on. His go-to was usually “Something” by the Beatles, or if his stomach was at ease enough for a little pump-up, he could maybe play “Come Together” or “Back in the USSR”.

The dreaded time always came next. Like a stampede rounding a corner, the growing echo of the roaring crowd above signaled it was time to take out the headphones and brace for impact. Teammates and coaches finalized plans and pep-talks. Helmets were on. Pads were being slapped. The cacophony of boyish energy, manly testosterone, and percussive encouragement from the crowd spiked the boy’s emotions to their limits. Just as it was beginning to feel overwhelming, the doors flew open, and each player was slapping the roof of the door as they left. The boy was towards the back, and he could hardly discern which force was stronger– the pull of those rushing in front of him or the push from those behind him. He smacked the words “Physically Dominate, Mentally Overpower” as he went under the door’s arch, and the next moment his senses were stunned. Light and sound flooded the stadium, existing so ferociously that matter ceased as pure energy took over.

The next thirty minutes fly by. The boy goes through the motions during the rehearsal drills, not due to laziness, but to necessary acclimation. His nerves haven’t subsided, but the crowd noise is beginning to feel like a steady buzz fading to the background. Shouting is the only acceptable form of communication.

He stands on the sideline, partially unaware the national anthem has just concluded. Now, the only thing left for his mind to handle is the coin toss. To his dismay, his team loses, and defense is called on first. This is the optional period in his routine, where if he’s lucky, the offense gets the nod, and he gets to dwell in the mental agony he calls the “final steps of his pregame ritual” for at least four more plays. However, this Friday night he is not so lucky.

Everyone running onto the field is bursting at the seems with energy. Teammates slapping each other in the helmet with a few menacing, shaking stares to those across the line sets the tone all around him. Even when a few guys yell at him, as if to try and pump him up, he is still the last hold-out. Like an old-timer clinging to what he knows, he is defiant, convincing himself that he needs these last few moments in peace before the chaos ensues.

His helmet is the Niagara Falls of sweat at this point. His pants, slightly too big, sag and he must adjust his knee pads, while he bends down into his stance behind the defensive linemen. His coaches are yelling the call from the sidelines as the opposing offense breaks from the huddle. Despite the crowd, despite the yelling, despite the band banging away, he hears nothing and only sees the noise. The view from his helmet, his blinders, shifts furiously left and right, examining the line, examining the position of all 22 players on the field. Sound trickles in the corners with every jolt of his head, but at the snap, complete silence.

The quarterback turns his way, and as soon as he extends the ball behind him to the running back gathering steam, the silence is now accompanied by slow-motion. The lineman in front of the boy attempts to block him, but instinctually he rips around him and is standing in the backfield. Before the boy’s mind has time to understand how he came to be on the offensive side of the ball, his instincts take over again. This time, a bulldozer is headed his way, carrying the scrap of leather he is meant to stop from advancing. He takes a few steps, meets the bulldozer, and the next moment his mind realizes what his body has already discovered – when hit just at the right angle, the bulldozer is really just one of those inflatable flailing red balloons in front of the local car dealership.

The amazement wakes up the boy from his automatic setting, and the world comes to life again. The offense is trying to salvage the loss with a fast tempo to the ball. The boy’s teammates are headbutting him in celebration. The band is playing “We’re Number One” as loud as they possibly can. He finds himself working back into position to start the cycle over. No sense of pride. No enjoyment. His anxiety propelled automation is gearing up to take over again, hinting at a cycle that will continue for the next sixty minutes until he is physically, mentally, and emotionally drained. If he took the time to think about what was happening inside that helmet, he might plunge himself further into mental and emotional anguish over the sheer realization. However, his automation saves him. A blessing that is also his curse.

What the doppelganger inside of him, pulling his strings without resistance, assuming his body, mind, and spirit for the game didn’t account for, was the silent guardian in the crowd. A paradox that seemed to be there for only one purpose. A high-pitched reminder of order amidst the chaos. A single sound standing out amidst the riot. A call to him that breaks through all distraction, hollering, and instruction. A subtle gesture that steadies the boy before his instincts take over. A whistle.

Not just a whistle, but a whistle from his father. Spectators couldn’t distinguish it, but the boy could pick it out of any sound, no matter the size, chaos, or volume. As primal as a father bird calling out to his family in a tone that sounds identical to humans, but completely unique to kin. An invisible bond bound by biology.

The boy might not acknowledge it during the game, and he might not even acknowledge it after the game. But he can’t remember a single game when he didn’t hear it. And that consistency, is and will always be the strongest routine in his life.