Punt on Your Feelings

[Applesintime]

((Louay Al-Dabbaq - Pregame Start))

Punting was both a success and a failure to Louay.

On one hand, it meant that the offence had failed. They could not convert a first down and had to let the other team have the ball as a result - even if Louay booted it to their one-yard line, it was still a failed drive, a possession that had not resulted in anything. If you couldn’t get points, you couldn’t win games.

It always annoyed Louay to see that he had to work. Even if it meant he never saw the field, he wanted the Rattlers to succeed.

Yet in that annoyance, there was a hidden joy. Because it meant he got to see the field and show his skills off to the world.

Even if you do not want to punt, do not plan to punt, go for it on fourth down every time like your coach thinks he’s Dan Campbell, the punter can always be relied on when you need him. It was a position that was both met with a sigh of frustration and one of relief. People thought it was just a goal to kick the ball as hard as you can, but there were intricacies to it.

You can’t outkick your coverage. If you let the opposing returner get some yardage, the other team has a smaller drive - and sometimes, if your coverage is truly bad, they take it home. So if you punt it, you need to make sure someone can be there to bottle up the return.

You can’t just kick it as hard as you can. Louay used to think this was the goal. A kicker had to take into account all of the things; the wind, the weather, the distance. To him as a child, a punter just had to kick it. But there were many things you had to do, many different ways to punt. It sometimes felt like it was the kicker who didn’t have to do anything but kick it as hard as you can. Trying to get the ball as close to the one yard line as you can or into the coffin corner meant the defence had an easier time and the offence had a harder time.

The coffin corner had fallen out of fashion in recent years - too risky. A touchback ruined all the work of a good punt. Louay still liked to practice it though, which was why he was here now on the field, ball in his hands and on the thirty yard line. He didn’t need to practice to make good tape anymore. Come September, he would be heading off to punt for Deion Sanders. And without his son, Louay thought that he would be seeing plenty of field time. Though they had a four-star prospect lined up, so maybe they would keep the momentum going and he would have to settle for trophies instead of play time.

No matter.

Deep breath. Check the ball, make sure the laces are facing up. Step forwards with kicking foot, then your other foot. Drop the ball right in front of you, so the foot makes contact -

just like that.

It soared through the air as Louay’s eyes locked onto it, keeping track of the hang time. Preferably, you wanted to get a second of hangtime for every yard, but the golden standard for the NFL was 4.4 seconds of hangtime. On a good day he could get 4.0, maybe 4.1. It all depended on the weather. This one had… about three and a half seconds, then it hit down at the other 25 yard line. About 55 yards. It wasn’t bad.

He walked over, picked up the ball and kept doing that. It was good exercise and it helped keep the mind off things. Politics. Religion. The lingering fear that even though it’s been ten years since you arrived in the country and that you’re legally a citizen, you still might get shipped back home to a country you’ve not stepped foot in for ten years. A country that has barely finished a civil war.

The thunk of the ball off his foot took the edge off a little. It reminded Louay that spiralling into doubt and worry wasn’t a good idea. He had a scholarship to a college football team, aspirations to play football beyond that and a career path to follow if that didn’t work out. He’d have to beat all the Australians out, after all. And well, a punter wasn’t like a skill position where you’d have maybe four or five of them on the roster, plus practice squad players. You had one. And they lasted a long time without the wear and tear that other players had, so maybe he should be practicing his video editing skills more.

Shedeur highlights, maybe. He seemed like a fitting player to choose - Louay was still holding out that he would fall to pick #6 and he’d be a Raider. They desperately needed a quarterback after all, Bowers would be an elite weapon with someone who was good throwing to him. He was first-team All Pro in his rookie season, after all. There was clearly only one elite tight end in the AFC West.

The next punt was a classic coffin corner - touched down at the six yard line and rolled over the line. Louay fist pumped and then jogged leisurely to pick it back up. It was good exercise too, the field was long. Sometimes he wondered how the gunners could do it, rushing down that field in a few seconds and preparing to defend against the return or down the ball.

Not his job, though. If you had to get the punter defending against a return, something has gone wrong. The Rattlers were a tightly coached team but even the best team could sometimes have broken coverage. Then it was all hands on deck, trying to prevent a touchdown.

His phone ringing in his pocket brought Louay out of his football mindset. Dad had remarked on how he gave it his all no matter what sport he played. When he was younger he wanted to be a star footballer, scoring for Real Madrid and lifting trophies high. Now he still wanted to be a football player, just in a different context. And a few thousand miles away from Idlib.

Sometimes he missed the makeshift pitch they had. A disused plot of land where someone had dragged barrels to make goals. They used to play for hours there until the sun went down.

He wondered what had become of that plot.

A mass grave? A military fortification? Or was it the same as they’d left it, barrels left for the next generation of kids to play? He’d likely never know. Sometimes he was struck with that longing, that he wanted to go back home to their apartment. The smell of the bakeries and restaurants in the air mixing with the fresh coffee his mother made. The call to prayer in the air mixed with the chatter of people when his mom would take him shopping.

But then he remembered the distant gunfire in the distance, explosions and road closures that left him hiding underneath his covers, shaking in fear. The neighbours that went out one day and never came home. The pain in his stomach and the guilt he felt when it was sated.

Las Vegas was home now. For good or bad. There were no secret police. No shells.

Louay shook his head and pulled his phone out of his pocket. “Hello?” He already knew who it was - the momentary glance at the time had already shown him that he’d spent a lot longer out here than he’d intended. Lost in his own head and the rhythm of the ball.

“Where are you? Dinner is nearly ready.” His annoyed father was on the other end. He had always been conscious of the time, and that had never changed. “I got caught up in, er, practice. I’ll be home soon. See you.” Maybe dinner would be a little cold, but that was the price he paid for not checking the time. Although he had fun, this was an area that he and his father differed in — Louay was terrible at keeping track of the time.

It was an issue he’d have to work on, he thought as he slid his phone back into his pocket.

((Louay Al-Dabbaq continued in let's go baby score a touchdown))