Hoping for Bearmill Creek

I sighed.

I leaned my head back against the back of the couch.

I stood up, since pacing seemed like a good option to release all my nervous tension. Immediately, as I rose all the other sets of eyes in the room stared me down. Guess I’m gonna haveta stay seated.

Slowly I clamored back down to the couch and tried to get comfortable. Because of the circumstances, I knew I never would be, though.

I leaned my head on the couch, envisioning the worst. If my name wasn’t called. If my parents threw me out since our dreams were dashed. If those responsible for my future changed their mind. If all those conversations I had at my kitchen table in South Georgia were built on lies.

These were the thoughts of all the young men in the room. When waiting, every mind goes to the negatives or the worst possible outcomes. We just need to focus on the positives during stressful times. Ugh, now I am beginning to sound like my pastor back at home. I’ll miss him, but not his long lectures after services to me about responsibility and not forgetting my roots.

I won’t forget where I came from, no, because it was such a useless part of my life, but I will certainly enjoy life outside of this small town. Its too small for the likes of me and all those who came before. No wonder all those who make it big leave. I am the most recent in a long line of ambitious young men to get an opportunity to leave and take it I will.

I looked down at my phone for what seemed like the millionth time.

I saw texts from friends, most just classmates I knew since my graduating class was small. Tiny, yes, but boy were we good at what we specialize in. A fourth of those students were on the Varsity team with me.

Then I saw one I didn’t have the contact name for. I opened the text and stared at it astonishingly.

“Hey, this is Ben Smith. We met in Jacksonville. I wish u the best luck.”

I smiled, wondering how he thought I wouldn’t know who he was.

I looked up and caught Ben looking at me, knowing he was the one who sent me the text. He looked just as nervous as I was. His knee was frantically bouncing, and his eyes quickly moved around the room.

We weren’t allowed to talk, but we were given our phones. This was a major loophole, but I guess they assumed enemies would never work together.

Although we were rivals and everyone knew we were fighting for the same top spots, we bonded over our competitive spirit and frustration over our expectations.

I knew that whatever happened tonight, together we were the class of 2023 and would be friends for our entire professional career.

He was from the middle-of-nowhere Missouri, but his talent has been heard of around the country. Just like mine, although everyone already knew of my hometown. Five years ago, ESPN even permanently assigned their one of their top high school recruit analysts to Bearmill Creek. Our town has churned out one hotshot after another for the past 15 years.

I clicked over to Snapchat and saw messages of “good luck” and “Watching my bud on TV.” You’d think after watching their small-town boys each year the hype would die down, but nope. I swiped through them, until I saw one that was different.

It was a picture at the only nail salon in town. The photographer held up her freshly manicured hands and captioned it with “I’ll leave this up to you; red and black or black and turquoise, I’ll support you either way.” One hand was painted with red and black stripes while the other had turquoise and black polka dots.

I shed a small smile knowing that my girlfriend was the only one who knew the teams that had offered me spots. I was split between the two southeast teams, but knowing she knew everything I was feeling I felt a bit less nervous.

Not for long, though, because as soon as I closed out of the app a man knocked on the door.

“Benjamin Donald Smith and Jeremiah Thomas Arnette, follow me please.”

The man was was dressed for business casual as he led us away. Down through back hallways and official-looking rooms we went until we were in the wings of the stage. We could see the chairman on stage and the sea of coaches at tables in the auditorium.

“With first overall draft pick, the Jacksonville Jaguars choose...” began the announcer with a dramatic pause.

This was the most important pick of the night. Whoever they chose would not be forgotten. Yes, high expectations were placed on them, but the rewards that could be reaped as being the first pick were unimaginable; testimonials, advertisements, sponsors, interviews, articles, and the title itself as “first overall pick.” I wanted it all. I would be the biggest name in sports of years. Bigger than Tom Brady or Joe Montana. I was set to make all the records. I was the most promising of all the Bearmill Creek boys.

“Jeremiah Arnette from Bearmill Creek.” I had all I wanted. This was the start of my career.

In my small town, all that mattered was Friday night football in the fall. As I walked out onto that stage, I smiled as wide as I could. I was out. They were watching me receive my ticket to a bigger place. They would always be able to say they knew me, but they would hopefully never see me again.

I shook the chairman’s hand. I held my jersey for the cameras. I looked into the sea of lenses while I imagined the small town. The men would clap each other on the back. The moms would gossip about my childhood. Coach would tell everyone he knew I had a natural talent, like he said about all the other professional players our town has produced. But Pastor Bill, poor man, would know in his heart he had lost me like all the others before. Despite his best efforts, I would still leave. The town would realize I wasn’t any different than those before me and look towards the new developing athletes. The town would feel let down, again, since they weren't able to keep another boy home.

I walked towards the microphone for my speech of thanks and excitement, my final test to prove my worth as a professional to my new coaches, and I thought one last time about Pastor Bill sitting at his couch. I knew what I had to do.

“Thank you to all those who helped me get here,” I began just like a normal speech, “but I want to specifically give a shout-out to my hometown of Bearmill Creek. You finally have your hometown boy. I’m not leaving.” Realizing how that sounded, like I was refusing my pro NFL contract, I continued.

“I will come back, just let me make some money first!” I finished with a laugh. “You’ll always be the home of my heart.”

Now I could see everyone at the watch party in downtown cheering. My parents would cry, and with them all the mothers and fathers who had already let their children leave.

It was a promise on national television. There was no way I could turn back on them now. They needed a hero and I would step up and be the hometown boy. Their waiting was finally over. Now I just needed to see what I could do about it from Jacksonville.