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You grew up in the Charlotte, NC area.
Just a kid. A football player. All-state.
Then one day you became a central figure in our collective lives. Number 10. Dark hair, serious demeanor. Who was this kid? Could he play quarterback for Wake Forest? Really?
A couple of years went by. You started to become a fixture in our weekends, standing in the shotgun walking alongside your running back, surveying the defense while holding that football inside the back’s belly but not letting go, waiting, waiting, “delayed read pass option meshing,” which is now a five-word verb in the dictionary.
You stare down the safety. Coming in, pass. Staying back, hand it off. You glare at the linebacker. Is he blitzing? If yes, find that receiver doing a hitch pattern in the area vacated by the overzealous blitzer. Chess moves. Peak at the cornerback. Cheating in or dropping back? Whichever he chooses, you’ve got an answer he won’t like. Check mate.
All done in about, oh, .001 nanoseconds. Your brain processes information and makes correct decisions at the speed of artificial intelligence algorithms.
You cemented yourself in our minds forever up at West Point by the Hudson River last Fall amid the Fall leaves. Bombs away. Most superb performance by any quarterback any of us will ever witness. Throw out the stats. We don’t need ‘em. We saw what you did. Seventy points in 19 minutes.
Video game.
You had us at hello. But after that virtuoso gig you had us feeling love and compassion. We leaned in – towards you — a guy who doesn’t want the credit, just wants to work, just wants to win, who never talks trash, always makes us proud. You threw six touchdown passes against Clemson. Who does that? Answer. Probably no one. Ever.
Right then and there you could have thrown off your helmet, walked out of Truist Field and never meshed with the running back or played another down of football and we would all think you were a really tough and special dude and understood and wished you all good things forever.
In the clutch against a major national powerhouse, you threw strike after strike after strike after strike after strike. You couldn’t be stopped.
Afterward, you could have walked to the podium for the post-game presser and been justified saying you played a good game and felt proud about your performance. No one would have thought anything of that because you would have spoken the truth. Instead you said: “We lost so it’s a failure.”
Your focus was on winning, not your sterling and spellbinding game statistics. Your face showed the double-overtime loss broke you in half. Your brokenness broke us. When you hurt after a loss we hurt for you. Our emotions are one. You wanted the W. For your teammates and for us and for you.
Now you’re winding down your courageous career. Six games to go then probably a bowl game finale. Then other great things because great people who work at their craft the way you do and shine on the biggest stages become even bigger stars. People of massive significance. Humble people liked you our world craves.
Now our emotional love affair with you builds to its final crescendo. Just a few more games to watch a true living hero do what he does with the skill of Picasso, the touch of Steph Curry, giving a Masterclass in quarterbacking. A dude who has never asked for the credit. A dude who had a blood clot scare to start the season. A dude who has been open about his emotional struggles.
All done with aplomb. All class.
Y’all can have Drake Maye. Y’all can have DJ Ukelele.
Our guy is Sam “One More Year Mother So Dear” Hartman.
No matter what happens during these final raucous games, no matter how intense our love affair becomes, you’ll always be the number one guy for us, we the ultra-lucky group of Wake Forest football fans who have watched you do your thing every Saturday, playing your mellifluous mesh melody.
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Sammy Sportface, a sports blogger, galvanizes, inspires, and amuses The Baby Boomer Brotherhood. And you can learn about his vision and join this group's Facebook page here:
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