By the time I get finished with the post-game interviews, I’m f*****g frantic.
I can see from the field that the family box is empty. Lights out. The stands have cleared.
There is only one place where people are congregating—the home team sideline—and I swear to Christ, if the security team allowed Stella down here, I’m going to tear a hole in the sky. There is alcohol and groupies riding on the shoulders of my teammates. Even the coaches are acting like fools, singing and guzzling champagne straight from the bottle. When I arrive at the impromptu gathering, everyone goes wild, cheering, slapping me on the back and taking pictures of me with their phones. But I don’t give a s**t about any of it. I’m glad we won the game. I’m relieved I lived up to expectations and I feel some closure wit
