C.J. grew up in a suburb of Fort Myers, Florida. His dad slung used cars; his momma was a paraprofessional at the local elementary school. His upbringing was within the concrete jungle. He never had an Xbox or a PlayStation as a kid, he went outside in the scalding heat, the weeping humidity, and he played basketball, he rode his bike, he caught snakes in the overgrown brush. He was like any other kid in Florida. Despite its best efforts, the Floridian school system is flawed. The average district in the state averages 35th in safety, and 20th in academic performance. The classrooms are stuffed to the brim. The teaching staff is woefully underpaid and underqualified. It is a perfect storm of factors that when combined, results in far too many youths wondering where they fell short when reality hits them at the ages of 16, 17 or if lucky, 18.
C.J. was on the same path until one fateful day when he was out in the apartment complex driveway. We are not talking a nice apartment complex – we are talking the kind that was originally designed with comfort and leisure in mind, but those intentions dried up in the very same manner as the large in-ground pool within the middle of the two-story concrete building that felt and resembled more of a prison than a community. That dried up former pool acted as a community trash heap and junkpile. C.J. stood alone out front of the white stucco ruins.
Destiny rolled its window down. “Hey kid, you ever play Football?”
“No sir.”
C.J. was taught to be respectful, but short with strangers. Specifically, never spend too much time with strangers that roll up on you in a car. “You look like you could be a good ball player. I am the coach at the middle school up the road. Give my card to your mom – I think you’d be one hell of a wide receiver.”
He tossed his card out of the window and drove off. C.J. cautiously walked over and picked it up. The card read: Jason Ness – Head Coach, Immokalee Middle School Football. It had his phone number and email address on the card. C.J ran into the house where his mother was cleaning the kitchen. “Mom, can I play football?”
“What, like on the basketball court in the park?”
“No, for the middle school.” C.J handed her the card.
“C.J., where did you get this?”
“That man, the coach, he talked to me quickly and gave me the card. He told me to talk to you.”
A look of disgust washed up on C.J.’s mother’s face. “What’s wrong, mom?”
“I know Mr. Ness, he’s always harping on athletics, ignore your education and focus on your skills on the field. I will not have you mortgage your future by lying to yourself. Football is just a game, and school is your foundation for your future, C.J. You will not be playing football, you will be focusing on school, and that is final. You won't make the same mistake as your dad. ” She threw the card in the trash can, and spit in it.
“But mom, dad played ball. I saw the photos in the family photo album.”
“Your father put everything on the line for football. He thought he was a surefire ISFL player. He did what we just spoke about – he put his education out of his mind. Not even the backburner, he left it altogether behind. He has no college degree, and the only way he can even contribute to putting food on our table is working 60 to 80 hours a week selling mid-2000s Cadillacs. Your daddy was an all-star running back until he tore his ACL in the senior year of high school. The colleges that were recruiting him rescinded all offers, and he was standing there, with a poor GPA, unlikely to graduate, without any collegiate scholarship to bail him out. Do not make the same mistake he did, C.J.”
“Why didn’t I ever know dad could've made it to the ISFL? Why were you hiding this from me?”
“I just told you exactly why, C.J. Now go, run along outside. That’s the last we will speak of it.”
Frustration did not come close to describing the fury that C.J. felt. His brain pounded; blood slammed against his skull in repetitive, unrelenting ways. His dad got to play ball, his cousins played ball, his uncle played ball. Because of his mom’s fascination of education, he was going to be left abandoned. What started off as a curiosity about football when that man first started talking to him turned into a spark of fascination. That spark caught, contorting itself into an ember. With each breath, that ember was stoked and has grown into a raging, basking flame.
He was gonna play ball. What momma do not know, do not hurt momma.
C.J. was on the same path until one fateful day when he was out in the apartment complex driveway. We are not talking a nice apartment complex – we are talking the kind that was originally designed with comfort and leisure in mind, but those intentions dried up in the very same manner as the large in-ground pool within the middle of the two-story concrete building that felt and resembled more of a prison than a community. That dried up former pool acted as a community trash heap and junkpile. C.J. stood alone out front of the white stucco ruins.
Destiny rolled its window down. “Hey kid, you ever play Football?”
“No sir.”
C.J. was taught to be respectful, but short with strangers. Specifically, never spend too much time with strangers that roll up on you in a car. “You look like you could be a good ball player. I am the coach at the middle school up the road. Give my card to your mom – I think you’d be one hell of a wide receiver.”
He tossed his card out of the window and drove off. C.J. cautiously walked over and picked it up. The card read: Jason Ness – Head Coach, Immokalee Middle School Football. It had his phone number and email address on the card. C.J ran into the house where his mother was cleaning the kitchen. “Mom, can I play football?”
“What, like on the basketball court in the park?”
“No, for the middle school.” C.J handed her the card.
“C.J., where did you get this?”
“That man, the coach, he talked to me quickly and gave me the card. He told me to talk to you.”
A look of disgust washed up on C.J.’s mother’s face. “What’s wrong, mom?”
“I know Mr. Ness, he’s always harping on athletics, ignore your education and focus on your skills on the field. I will not have you mortgage your future by lying to yourself. Football is just a game, and school is your foundation for your future, C.J. You will not be playing football, you will be focusing on school, and that is final. You won't make the same mistake as your dad. ” She threw the card in the trash can, and spit in it.
“But mom, dad played ball. I saw the photos in the family photo album.”
“Your father put everything on the line for football. He thought he was a surefire ISFL player. He did what we just spoke about – he put his education out of his mind. Not even the backburner, he left it altogether behind. He has no college degree, and the only way he can even contribute to putting food on our table is working 60 to 80 hours a week selling mid-2000s Cadillacs. Your daddy was an all-star running back until he tore his ACL in the senior year of high school. The colleges that were recruiting him rescinded all offers, and he was standing there, with a poor GPA, unlikely to graduate, without any collegiate scholarship to bail him out. Do not make the same mistake he did, C.J.”
“Why didn’t I ever know dad could've made it to the ISFL? Why were you hiding this from me?”
“I just told you exactly why, C.J. Now go, run along outside. That’s the last we will speak of it.”
Frustration did not come close to describing the fury that C.J. felt. His brain pounded; blood slammed against his skull in repetitive, unrelenting ways. His dad got to play ball, his cousins played ball, his uncle played ball. Because of his mom’s fascination of education, he was going to be left abandoned. What started off as a curiosity about football when that man first started talking to him turned into a spark of fascination. That spark caught, contorting itself into an ember. With each breath, that ember was stoked and has grown into a raging, basking flame.
He was gonna play ball. What momma do not know, do not hurt momma.