My Football Life

by Naseem Broom

People always ask when it all began. I used to say I was not sure. But now I know it started long before I understood what I was getting into. Ever since I was a kid playing football, the lights beaming on my face gave me a rush that felt like its own kind of approval. During Youth Football, playing was never a problem. The coaches loved me and were always excited to see me out there. Fast forward to high school; I always found my way onto the field on Friday nights for the next four years, putting in the work and keeping my head down. All that work paid off when I received a scholarship offer and committed to St. Thomas University. I was excited and couldn’t wait for the day I would ship off to Miami Gardens. But once I arrived at STU, reality hit me hard. I quickly realized this was not going to be easy. And now here I am, reflecting on the beginning of fall camp. Back then, all I wanted was a chance. A few snaps, a moment under those lights. But at St. Thomas, wanting a chance and getting one were two different things. I showed up early every day, hoping effort alone would open a door. Instead, I learned what it felt like to stand in the same spot all practice and basically be a scout team dummy. Games came and went, crowds roaring, and I stayed on the sideline waiting for a call that never came. The air during those first practices carried the sharp smell of wet grass, the kind that sticks to your cleats. Every whistle cracked through the field like a cold sting on my ears. Sweat rolled down my back, thick and salty, soaking into my pads until it felt like I was wearing a soaked blanket. One day after practice, I finally asked, “Coach, what else do I gotta do?” He didn’t even look up from his notes. “Just keep grinding, Broom. Your moment’s coming.”


My moment finally came on a humid Sunday that felt like every other game day, except something in the air told me to stay ready. Maybe it was hope or maybe it was desperation. I jogged onto the field, and the lights hit me like they had been waiting, like they recognized me after all the days I stood on the sideline pretending the disappointment wasn’t piling up. The field stretched out in front of me like a stage I’d been practicing on my whole life. For one drive, everything I’d worked for felt like it was unfolding at once—every early morning, every late lift, every moment I swallowed frustration instead of letting it eat at me. Confidence surged through me like a flame catching onto dry wood, fast and bright. I could feel the ground under my cleats and the rhythm of the play settling into me. The game slowed down just enough for me to breathe and believe I belonged. For a moment, I felt seen—by the crowd, by my teammates, maybe even by myself. But just as fast as it came, it was gone. I was taken out of the game without a word, replaced before I could even look over to understand why. I stood there with my helmet still warm in my hands, watching the next series unfold without me, wondering how a moment that felt so right could disappear so easily, how one drive could be the beginning and the end at the same time.


A teammate walked past and muttered, “Bro, you were cooking. Why’d they pull you?” I just shrugged. “Your guess is as good as mine.” Inside, though, something sank—quiet and heavy. I kept waiting to hear my name again, waiting for someone to call me back in, waiting for that same air that told me to stay ready to give me another sign. But the call never came. And standing there in the lights again, I realized this was really where it all began—the same way it began when I was a kid, staring into the brightness and hoping it picked me out of everyone else. The beginning people ask about didn’t start with my first snap. It started with wanting a moment so badly that even the lights felt like something I needed to prove myself to.