Fortunately, all the following questions go to Coach and the suits. I look around me as they speak, trying to absorb every last detail. The enormity of the moment slams into my chest. Less than fifty times this trophy has been presented. We’re bringing it home to Dallas. For the city. For the fans that have stood by me for so many years, and those that haven’t. This is for those who’ve booed when I’ve jogged onto the field. This moment is for every one of my football coaches growing up who donated their time to us boys. This is for the middle school and high school coaches who believed in me, and spent extra time that they weren’t paid for because they saw something special. Fuck. This is for my parents, who’ve come to my games, worn my jersey, who’ve believed in me when I didn’t have faith in myself. This moment is for Charlie, and our baby, growing in her stomach. Our baby’s daddy is a Super Bowl champion. That thought makes the smile already on my face that much larger.
I’m knocked out of my own head when Coach is hitting me on the back and beaming at me like, well, a guy that just won the Super Bowl. “Get your trophy, son, you deserve it.”
I look around and see the MVP trophy. What? They’re giving it to me? I played a great game. My numbers were good, but what about the amazing run that Ty had? He deserves this more than me. I mean, he did, like, gymnastics and shit to get into the end zone.
I take a couple of shuffle-steps back to the microphone, and stand there with a cocky smile on the outside with a world of doubt on the inside. When they hand me the trophy, I hold it up above my head for everyone to see it. Giving it a couple of pumps into the air. The cheers are deafening, so everyone must agree that I deserve it. Right?
The reporter starts asking me questions about different plays of the game. I handle those like the professional that I am. Then he blindsides me with, “After last year’s season-ending injury, and devastating end to your perfect season, just how much does this mean to you?”
It takes everything that I have to not let my eyes leak on worldwide TV. What does this mean to me? What does this mean to me? What the fuck kind of question is that? “It means everything to me. Everything. Tonight is what we play our whole careers for. It’s why we sweat our asses off in training camp, and spend late nights watching film. It’s why we leave our families. It’s why we do that one extra rep in the weight room. This is only possible because of the incredible guys that surround me on the field and the support that I have at home.” The whole time that I’ve been standing up here, I’ve been thumbing my ring. I hope Charlie’s watching this, and she sees my gesture of love and appreciation to her.
“So Colin, Chevy is giving you a Corvette. Does that mean that Big Bertha will get garaged?”
I smirk. “I think Bertha is a permanent member of the Cowboys’ family.” The crowd erupts in more cheers. Bertha is now a legend. The station that carried the Super Bowl hauled her to Miami for promotional appearances. Ford, who Bertha and I endorse, nearly lost their minds at how much free publicity the old girl was bringing them. Charlie just shook her head, but I reminded her that we’d saved enough money from my sponsorship deals for her marble countertops in the kitchen, and the Viking stove.
Finally, after what feels like hours, the ceremony is over. We walk into the locker room, where the celebration is just beginning. There’s more interviews, a press conference, coach’s team meeting, and champagne is flowing freely. I finally get a shower about three hours later, or maybe four. Hell! It could be next week, for all I know. While the guys are partying it up, I slip out of the locker room to go find my girl.
Turning on my phone is an assault to my senses. I ignore the pings of hundreds of congratulations texts and voicemails.
Me: Are you at the owners’ party?
I stare at the phone, hoping that she’ll respond and not already be asleep. I mean, I wouldn’t blame her. She is thirty-seven weeks’ pregnant, but I need to see her more than I need to breathe at the moment.
After a few minutes…
Charlie: Congratulations my love. I’m so proud of you. No. Everyone is back at the hotel, waiting to hear from you.
Me: I have to go this party. Do you feel like joining me?
I feel like the biggest dick-bag for even asking her. She’s been having practice contractions. I know she’s exhausted. These last weeks have been brutal on us. After winning the NFC title, I don’t think that I’ve actually spent more than a total of five hours with her in two weeks.
Charlie: I’ll meet you there.
Thank God she said yes. The relief is so strong that I sag against the nearest wall, finally letting my emotions overtake me. Super Bowl-winning MVP quarterback.