draft pick

He was called onstage and he entered, tall, thick, smiling, waving to his mother, in the crowd, knowing something that no one else knew – no one. He was afraid. He was always afraid. Always. He sometimes spent so much energy showing otherwise that sometimes he just collapsed into sleep from exhaustion. And, now, it was going to get even worse, and that’s why he was afraid. In a short moment, his name would be called, again, as the third pick in the 2011 National Football League draft. And he wanted to do anything but play football, anymore. But what was he to do? Everyone expected him to play. Everyone expected him to make it big and provide for his mother, who’d sacrificed for him, though she rarely let him forget it. But how could he ever go back home if he didn’t? He couldn’t. So, he was stuck. Jarron Stone, the kid next him from Auburn – yes, they were all just kids – elbowed him gently in the side, shot him a wink and a brotherly smile and he smiled back, making sure it masked what he really felt. What he really felt was the sinking weight of despair. He was smart enough to understand the irony: Enough money, power and fame to maybe free him forever; enough money, power and fame, to make escape impossible. He wanted to cry. He didn’t. He wasn’t allowed. He’d never been allowed.