"The Grizzly Details" -- by Matt Foster

“MATT!”

Screaming has never been a way to start a day. Julia Roberts and I were flying back from a weekend in the Alps, and just as I lean in for the car-side good-bye kiss, lips puckered, awaiting the culmination of all that is good in this world, I open my eyes to see Josh Lankford standing above me, shaking my shoulders, his blood-shot, green eyes as wide as his enthusiastic grin.

“Wake up, mayne, they’re here!”

Peeling my head away from the drool in the pillow, eyes still focusing, still searching for Jules, I’m desperately clinging to the hope that the Alps are just outside the window. Disappointed, I find no silk sheets, no crackling fireplace, no soft pillow or 88 inches of therapy there with me, just an unshaven, hyperactive man-child still screaming as he threw open the shades,

“Let’s go, you’ll miss them all! Let’s go. Let’s go. Let’s go!”

Like I said, screaming has never been a way to start a day, but Lankford’s booming voice and the unwarranted exposure to the mid-morning sun only sent things snowballing faster downhill.

We’d been around the block a time or two, in the words of Jeremy Gordon, “This ain’t my first rodeo.” Every upper classmen knew how to schedule their classes, we had early access, inside connections, and years under our belt; we had the power of the three-day weekend. Why schedule a Friday class, when you can get everything done by Thursday? Friday was the new Saturday; after all, it’s 2000, the new millennium, why hang on to those antiquated ideas? Friday was recovery day, sleep in, then maybe leave on an out of town trip, find a date, the possibilities are endless.

Sure, school hadn’t “technically” started yet, but there was no harm in starting a schedule that was a proven winner, and for crying out loud, it was Friday, and Friday’s mean sleeping in.

At noon, and believe me when they say noon they mean 12:00 sharp, the intramural football “run-throughs” began. It was the last opportunity for the unknown freshman girl to solicit a spot in gridiron glory, the last chance for the top prospect to get a heads up on the competition, and the last opportunity for Lankford to watch the pre-football stretch routines… and he would NOT be late.

There are few things as remarkable in nature as the phenomenon of a salmon run during the spawn, the only thing more impressive is the ever keen grizzly wading through chaos, in search of the best looking piece of meat. Every year, thousands of teenage girls made the trip up the stream of adolescence to give birth to freedom, to new opportunities, to adulthood – to college. And for every young fish, there is a grizzly waiting to meet them on their journey. If you were interested in the athletic type, then this was just your stream, and Josh was just the bear to meet you there.






It was a little surreal, the things dreams are made of, and the concept still hadn’t completely sunk in. There were people that abused it, there were people that judged it, and there were people who hated it. There were always grizzlies, of course, but their moment in the sun was yesterday afternoon, the run-through. This, this was a new event, this wasn’t about the scenery like yesterday, this was about the talent, the athletes, the potential, and this stream was loaded with fish… and just for tonight I happened to be top grizzly.

Evening in the West Texas summertime spelled relief, freedom from stressful work and the pressures of the day. It was created for sweet tea and a rocking chair, and some of the most beautiful sunsets God ever graced his creation with. A relief so sweet it was meant to be appreciated, to be “soaked-in”, relief from a litany of things – except the heat. This late August evening had all the sentiments of every summer evening before, but the heat wasn’t emanating from the sun-soaked ground, it came form a complex across campus, where a couple hundred freshman girls await their fate, where several coaches anxiously fumble through flow-charts and mock drafts, wondering who’ll fall to them and who’ll snatch their future talent away, and where I stood, figuratively, a head and shoulder above the rest.

A nervous chatter filled the room, trying to mask the anxious presence that clouded it, but it was all in vain. Worry covered every face; eyes darted about the room from one circle to the next, sizing up competition, wondering who will go where and when. There was no face more wrought with worry then a girl standing in the corner, her hand shaking a little as she raised the plastic cup to her mouth, spilling a couple drops on her maroon shirt – no one else noticed. Unlike every girl in there, she wasn’t worried about when she’d go, she already knew, everyone knew, it was an issue of where. Throwing the cup away, she looked up to see Andy Zimmerman, head of the officiating and an impeccable judge of talent, standing right in front of her, invading personal space in a way only a Zimmerman could do. He bent over, whispered something in her ear, and then pointed at me. Our eyes met, and immediately she turned away, trying to play it off. I stood there, still pondering her choice of tall, yellow socks when a voice cracked through the feedback of the speakers,

“Alright, we’ll make this quick – y’all know why we’re here. Foster, you’re up.”

Confidently making my way to the microphone, I look back at the group of coaches, quickly gathering last-second information and formulating back-up scenarios. I didn’t even bring a sheet of paper, much less a plan B. It didn’t matter. I walk tall, I have the first pick, and as far as I'm concerned it's all I need.

“With the first pick I select Emily Wallace – let the Dynasty begin.”