Yup, that’s me. I’m the asshole standing behind the end zone looking away from a touchdown catch.
How did I find myself in such a preposterous position, you ask?
The story of how I got a job that explicitly forbids me from turning my head 180 degrees began when I was born an incompetent to permissive parents who refused to talk me out of being an incompetent.
I assumed that after graduating with an English degree from the University of Central Florida, I could walk into any advertising agency and get hired as a copywriter.
The wrongness of this assumption was confirmed repeatedly over the next three months when each visit to an ad agency ended with a security guard lifting me by the scruff of my neck and tossing me back into the street.
In hindsight, it may have been more prudent to apply for jobs online instead of showing up unannounced to demand employment. But as they say, the past can change you, you cannot change the past.
One day, while in the familiar process of being carried out by a no-nonsense security guard, I had an epiphany: if I became a no-nonsense security guard, I would be the one lifting unwelcome guests by the scruff of their necks and tossing them into the street.
The prospect of such a poetic twist of fate was irresistible to an aspiring Bounty paper towel commercial writer, and so I said to the security guard, “say fella, how do I apply to be a security guard?”
My inquiry intrigued the guard enough for him to place me back on my feet. He looked at me suspiciously. “You want to be a security guard?”
“Yes,” I said. “The way I see it, my day would be much finer if I was the one throwing undesirables out of buildings.”
He scratched the top of his shiny bald head and scrunched his leathery face. “I don’t know, you’re very skinny. Are you strong enough to lift a grown man who could be twice your size by the scruff of his neck, carry him 20 or 30 yards and toss him into the street?”
“Sure I am!” I lied.
The brute scratched and scrunched again. “Well, we’re having tryouts next Monday at noon behind the county jail. If you’re serious, I’ll add you to the list and then you can show my boss what you’re made of.”
“Splendid”, I said for the first time in my life.
Next Monday, I went to the county jail to try out for security guard work. The guy running the show had an even leatherier face. Wielding a clipboard in his paws with a whistle around his massive neck, he barked commands and insults at men running a drill.
The drill involved holding rubber dummies of varying sizes by the scruff of their necks while running through tires. The scruff appeared to be made from a malleable clay-like substance, enabling the recruits to easily grip it.
“Hey, what are you doing?!” the ogre yelled. “Hold him steady! Parallel to the ground! You wave him too much and he’ll slip out! These bastards are slippery. Come on, again!”
I wasn’t sure if I should announce my arrival or flee, but seeing as how I needed a job to survive, I mustered the requisite courage to approach.
“Hi Coach,” I murmured. “I am here to try out for security guard work. Name should be on the list.”
Without so much as a glance in my direction, Coach brought the whistle to his mouth.
“Alright men, take five,” he shouted before deigning to acknowledge my presence. “Yeah, you’re that kid who thought he was good enough to join our ranks. You got a lot of balls kid,” he smirked and shook his head.
“I sure do, Coach,” I said in an attempt at good humor.
That got Coach’s attention. “Alright kid, I’ve seen Rudy, so I am willing to give someone like you a shot. Show me what you got,” he said and pointed in the direction of the tires.
Suspecting that asking for clarifying instructions would immediately disqualify me, I ran over to the pile of dummies next to the tires.
The other men ceased their boorish chatter and quickly assembled into the standard “look at this new asshole” formation.
I extended my hand into the pile and felt around for a nice piece of scruff to grab onto. Once I did, I tried pulling, but it was wedged in there pretty good, and my failure sparked the onlookers’ boisterous laughter and mocking finger pointing.
I looked over at Coach. He had an impassive expression that was oddly comforting, like he still believed in me.
I took a deep breath, rubbed my palms together, inserted my hand into the pile, grabbed on to some scruff and with all my force, yanked the dummy out.
As I fell backwards with the dummy landing at my feet, gasps emanated from my detractors.
Coach clapped twice. “Alright good, now run the drill!”
I managed to barely lift the dummy off the ground before realizing how impossibly heavy this thing was.
Unable to stand fully upright, I feebly dragged the dummy by its scruff two steps towards the tire course before collapsing.
Here it comes, I thought, rambunctious laughter. Instead, I only heard the solace of silence. Then, each brute walked up to me, bent over and gave me a pat on the shoulder, with a few even offering words of encouragement like, “Hang in there champ” and “You’ll get’em next time!”
As I lay dying, I knew my dream of becoming a security guard was also about to die, and just as I was ready to accept permanent destitution, I saw Coach’s prodigious shadow darken the small patch of sunlit turf in my line of sight.
“You showed a lot of grit out there, kid. Not many weaklings would have attempted to try out for something they obviously couldn’t do. Of course, you’re too weak to be on the frontlines. But I want to give you another opportunity. An opportunity of a lifetime.”
“Oh?” I said. My right cheek was now firmly embedded in the hot turf, and unable to lift my head, I shifted my left eyeball to the upper corner of my eye in a crude attempt at eye contact.
“That’s right kid. Let’s go into my office and I’ll tell you all about it.”
And with that, Coach grabbed me by the scruff, carried me into his county jail office, and sat me in a chair across his desk.
“I need good men all over the football stadium, you understand?”
“No,” I said.
“NFL teams hire my guys to keep the fans and the players safe. You’re not cut out for keeping anyone safe. Or comfortable. Or making fans feel like they’re not in imminent danger of being mauled to death. But, you do have grit.”
“That I do.”
“I need you to step into a position that requires a huge amount of grit, you understand?”
“Yes.”
“You’re going to stand behind the end zone and stare into the stands.”
“Aha,” I nodded. “And what’s your benefits package like?”
Coach stared at me and nodded. “Lot of grit, kid, lot of grit. Now, the most important part of this job is what, can you guess?”
“Being a team player?”
“Close. The most important part of your job is to never look at the field. Never!” He slammed his fist on the desk. “I don’t care if Mike Evans is catching a touchdown with his toenails, you do not look!”
Coach proceeded to tell me about a legendary Stands Starer who trained himself to kill his peripheral vision to prevent accidentally seeing the end zone.
Once he finished his pitch, he leaned back in his chair and said, “What do you say kid? Do you have what it takes to be a Stands Starer?”
“Yes,” I blurted out. “Now about those benefits…”
“You start Sunday. Jags vs. Texans.”
That conversation took place five years ago. I’ve spent each football season facing away from the end zone ever since.
The psychological torture of knowing that if I turned my head, I would belong to the courtside-seats-at-basketball-games caste of fans is almost too much to bear. They don’t even have seats like that in football; I would literally have the best seat that no one could buy.
As it were, I stare lifelessly into the stands. If Jamar Chase makes an all time great touchdown catch, I won’t see it because that’s my job.
Two years ago, I asked for a promotion to a security guard who is allowed to turn his head. Coach responded with strikingly merciless blows to my face and scalp, basically my entire head region.
I never asked to turn my head again.
And so my life continues with no foreseeable end in sight, save for an F-18 Super Hornet confusing me for an enemy combatant and missling me as the national anthem winds down.