My name is next. I’ve been waiting all season for this moment: to hear my name called as one of the sophomore football players chosen to practice with the varsity team for the playoff. Even though I have started every game and was confident, I was nervous.

Suddenly I’m thinking of all the times I was yelled at for a bad block. I play back every penalty I received this season: Two holds and a false start against Wheaton Warrenville South, 25 yards …. I replay the whole season in a matter of seconds. A total of 65 penalty yards! That’s the most on the line.

I remember a particularly rough game. Coach was not happy with how I played. After my second holding call, Coach said, “You’re really starting to piss me off. One hold, okay, but two? You’ve got to be kidding me.” At the next practice, he made me line up next to one of our defensive starters for sprints. As we ran he yelled, “He wants your spot. He’s taking your spot. He has your spot.”

Coach announces the next name on the list. It’s not mine. My heart sinks. My head throbs as I feel my complexion turn red. Thoughts of failure return in a flash flood of criticism. I stare blankly into space as those thoughts drain from my mind. I don’t care anymore. Football is over. I promise myself I’m done for good.

When I get into my dad’s car, it’s silent. Finally I hear, “Did you make it?” from my little brother in the back.

“No.”

My dad gives me a look as if I’m joking. My silence assures him I am not. It’s almost 12 when we get home. I still have homework and a test to study for. By the time I go to bed it’s four.

I go to school, and when I get home my mom suggests I try to think of not getting called up as a positive, since it gives me more time to prepare for basketball tryouts. That’s easier said than done; I feel like I have wasted my time.

I ask my uncle to work with me on basketball skills in those two weeks. He is the best player in my family and even played college ball. He’s very good, but he worked hard for what he achieved. He tells me and my cousin, who is trying out for the varsity team, that if we are going to work with him he doesn’t want us to waste his time.

His practices are hard. The first couple of days we focus on doing the little things right. My uncle says for a tryout you want to look your best and show that you can bring a specific skill or two to a team. Both my cousin and I play the same position, the four or power forward spot, so we work on similar things. The only difference is he got the height genes and I didn’t.

When I was younger I was tall, so naturally I played a tall-kid’s position. As I got older my height advantage waned, but I still played the only position I knew, even if I was undersized for it. I’m a gritty player. I play physical defense, hustle up and down the floor, and throw my body for rebounds and loose balls. My uncle has me work on diving for balls until I can do it without even thinking. Diving for a loose ball rarely happens in a game, but he says if I can be that player who will get every ball, the coach will notice.

My uncle pushes us, making us work on the things we struggle with. He makes me stretch for 45 minutes. The strain in my hamstrings burns like hot coals. After, though, that burning strain becomes a nice feeling, as if my legs are weightless. I leave the gym covered in sweat every day.

My cousin stops going to our workouts after a couple of days. I never find out why. Perhaps he didn’t like my uncle’s intense attitude. That attitude is exactly what keeps me going. I like that he believes I can go beyond my normal game and become a more complete player.

My uncle talks to himself as he shoots. With each throw, he knows whether it will go in or not. “You have to have confidence,” he tells me. “Every time you shoot that ball you have to believe in the shot, and also that you will make the team.”

Tryouts arrive, and I go in with that mindset: I am going to make the team. I was an A-Team player last year. I’ll do fine.

I feel like a better player. My shot is fixed and I am hustling, playing defense, and grabbing rebounds – the things I wanted to highlight. After the tryouts, we go into the locker room where we line up. One by one we meet with the coaches and find out whether we made the team.

I’m excited and feel no doubt that I’m in. I’ve gotten used to the idea of not getting called up to varsity football as a positive, because now I’m going to be on the basketball team.

“Hynes.”

I walk in with a smile on my face and sit in the chair facing Coach.

“I’m sorry …”

My smile disappears and is replaced with a blank face. I can’t look up. I can’t think. The anger is boiling inside of me. I want so badly to ask What were you looking at? Who made it over me? What did I do wrong? Instead I give a faint little thank you and walk out.

My mom is in the car outside. Once again, that same little voice in the back seat asks, “Did you make it?” This time I can’t even look at him. I sit struggling to keep my emotions from spilling from my eyes.

Just two of the 19 sophomore football starters weren’t called up. Only one of the 11 players from the freshman A-Team was cut from the sophomore basketball team. One person had both of those things happen and didn’t see either blow coming. That person had worked since he got to high school for those goals. Now he never wanted to think about football or basketball again. That person was obviously me.

I stop going to offseason lifting for football and don’t call my uncle to work out again. I have one sports season left, track. I had run long-distance track as a freshman and loved it. There was no pressure. I was not there to compete with others, as my coach stated when we had one of many conversations about my weight and how if I were to cut 25 pounds from my 175-pound frame I could be an All State competitor. Coach Nordahl is exactly what I need – someone who will push me to be the best I can be and accept me for what I am.

Although there is no pressure or fear of cuts, I still have the same passion and competitiveness I had with football and basketball. I begin to run on my own, trying to get my stamina up. My personal record for the mile is 5:09, and my plan is not to only get back there but break five minutes – a lofty goal for a sophomore who has often been told after races, “I don’t normally run against guys as big as you.”

My time begins to shrink, and I become a competitor. The season is wrapping up and there is one meet left. I have one last chance to reach my goal.

I warm up carefully, stretching every muscle. I make sure I am hydrated. I am not going to fail. This is all me.

I line up next to a kid with nice track spikes. I’m clearly not on par with him, so I look around for anyone I have run against before. I see two guys who beat me at the beginning of the season and choose them as my pacers.

At the pop of the gun, I get into the zone and started cruising. The first three laps fly by and I realize that I am in sixth place, which would mean points for our team, but more importantly, I’m on pace to break five minutes. I begin to cramp up in the last 200 meters, but I am not going to fail again. I am done with failing.

The last stretch is brutal, but I hear cheering and sprint with what energy I have left. I cross the line and turn to see 4:59 on the clock. I did it! I finally reached a goal I set for myself! I pushed my body to its ultimate limit, but I succeeded. I finally feel good about myself.

This accomplishment gives me enough confidence to go back to football the following season. I am told that I’m not an offensive lineman, the nice way of saying “you’re not good enough.” That doesn’t faze me because I know failure now, and I know that I can get back on offense and learn the plays to be ready for next year.

However, my chance to prove myself comes sooner than expected. The next week our starter is injured and I’m the next man up. I play more than most of the kids I had envied the last year. I play for most of the season and do well for an undersized center.

It all worked out in the end. I failed, but I rebounded from two crushing blows and regained my confidence by being willing to try again. I learned to appreciate failure and the benefits it can bring. Failure tears everything down so you have to built it back up. As hard as it was to be cut, the way I recovered made all the pain worth it.