“What do you like?” he asked me. I could not see his face, but I knew he got a smirk.“You...” I started.“You don't just like me right?”“... love you.”“Good”, he said while massaging harder.“And what else do you love?”“Your feet.” I said. Despite repeating this ritual every morning, I still felt ashamed.“And how do you like them?”“Bare.” I had to admit as always.“Only?”“No, also when you wear socks.”“Which socks?” he continued, unsatisfied.“The white tennis socks, and the blue socks for. ”I was stunned. I mumbled something to the coaches and thanked them for their time. By the time I made it to my car, my ego kicked in and began stoking a fire inside me. How could they even think of pulling me? Had I slacked off that much?The next couple of days were foggy. I worked hard in practice, but I knew our own playbook too well. I was going through the motions helping our team get better. Friday night before the game, I sat quietly in the locker room.“What’s up?” Jim asked.I snapped. More

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