A Number and a Dream

By Zach Province

Infootball, hearing your number called by teammates, coaches, fans and even opponents is endearing. Sure, they all know your name, but there is just something special about hearing “Nice throw, 18”. Maybe it’s because it’s a little reminder that you’re a part of something bigger than yourself: a team of men you get to call brothers on the gridiron, all fighting towards one goal. Perhaps it’s what that number means to you personally. I wear 18 for every team on which I play because of the man that helped me fall in love with football and all of its chess-like strategies: Peyton Manning.

I was maybe seven or eight, watching SportsCenter, when a couple of the anchors started mocking his audible-at-the-line style and commenting about how he just wasn’t good enough to “win the big one.” Looking back on it now, it seems ridiculous to consider the great Peyton Manning to be an “underdog,” but that’s exactly what he appeared to be to little ole me.

It’s the reason I instantly bonded with him. I, too, had always felt like the underdog.

I grew up in a family of athletes. My dad was a star football player and thrower for track and field, collecting many medals in his time, my mom grew up with a slew of brothers with whom she’d play backyard football and eventually become quite the basketball star, and my two brothers, close in age, are athletically gifted. We were constantly outside, playing a sport of some kind. My dad taught us the proper way to throw a spiral, and I was hooked. I would lay on the living room floor, right below the high point of the ceiling, and throw that ball up over and over, trying to get as close as possible to touching the ceiling with a perfect spiral.

When the rest of the family was busy, I would come up with ways to play football solo. I would either throw the ball onto the roof and have it roll back to me, find a couple of park benches a good distance apart and throw back and forth attempting to hit them, or, much to the amusement of my neighbors, I’m sure, I would play an entire game in the front yard by myself that included snapping the ball, throwing, and tackling myself.

When my dad was available after his long days at work, I would bug him relentlessly to throw some passes with me. It felt like Christmas morning every time I would get a “yes.” My dad had the best arm I’d ever seen, so I was always trying to throw just like him. We would play a game called “Favre” or “Cunningham,” depending on which strong-armed quarterback he wanted to emulate that day. The object of this game was to throw the ball so hard that your opponent physically couldn’t catch it. I’d later be known as the kid with the rocket arm in school, and on any team I’d be involved with, and I credit my father and this game for that ability. The only con to growing up in my athletic family was not understanding how gifted my arm was compared to anyone else’s.

I went into my little league career dreaming of being a bruising running back. Turns out though, my little league had a backfield weight limit that my brownie-loving behind couldn’t get down to. Before every game, I would have to get on the scale in the concession stand and hear the official say “red dot”. Having a red dot on your helmet meant you were stuck on the line of scrimmage and not allowed in the backfield or to carry the ball. I knew it was inevitable, and yet every time I had to wear it, I was crushed.

I wasn’t able to live out my running back fantasies, but I became a valuable member of the team anyway. I was put at center, which is considered the “quarterback of the offensive line,” and I did a damn good job at it. I would consistently impress coaches and opposing players with my skill and determination. So of course, I knew the NFL was in my future. You couldn’t tell my nine year old self otherwise.

Life is great at humbling you, though. Just give it time. When I finally broke free of the weight limits of little league by getting to middle school, I tried out for running back. We had another kid on our team who was a much better athlete. Naturally, the coaches chose him and put me at fullback. When our starting center got badly injured and we had nobody to fill in, I sacrificed my fullback position to go back to center to help the team. I still enjoyed it for the most part, but felt the love for the game start to slip. By the time 8th grade football sign ups came around the following year, I decided I wasn’t going to play. I was having the time of my life playing backyard football with my friends at the Longfellow Elementary Field, where I was mainly a quarterback or running back. Plus, I was not a fan of the head coach.

I told myself high school was going to be my time to shine on the football field.

Once again, it most certainly was not. I signed up for the freshman team and went to the first week of “two-a-days,” but a combination of asthma, heart palpitations, hot weather, being out of shape, and a head coach that didn’t believe in water breaks caused me to quit when I felt my heart about to explode from immediately. He asked what position I would like to play. I told him I could be the quarterback. He responded by saying he already had one. I’d have to be okay with tight end.

I was nervous as can be showing up to that first get-together, but very eager to demonstrate what I could do with a football. I started warming up with my friend, Tyler. While we were throwing, Matt walked over and said, “Okay, you are our quarterback.” all the sprints we were doing.

Just from seeing me throw. It was a nice confidence boost and reassurance of my girlfriend’s belief in me.

I got a job at an auto body shop and focused on my other passion, cars, until I was 24. My girlfriend at the time, who knew how much I missed playing, mentioned that she heard some friends talking about a local football league. It was a full contact, no pads, old school, backyard football league. It sounded perfect. Despite my hesitancy from being introverted, I went. I’m very grateful to her for pushing me and giving me the little bit of confidence I needed to go out of my comfort zone. All it takes sometimes is one voice in your corner telling you that you can do it.

While that league was a ton of fun, it was also pretty dangerous, and we were seeing some serious injuries. It folded within that first year, but it had reignited my lost passion for playing, and I knew I had to find another way of getting on a field. I turned to the local indoor flag league that I once played in during high school. (I was benched on that team for throwing too hard). I joined the first team that was willing to have me. When that season was coming to an end, my teammates told me about the outdoor league they were a part of in Cleveland. They all said my arm ability would be better suited in that league, since the field was much bigger, so I agreed to join.

I would find a little more success there, as well as more helping hands on that team. Before one of our games, I was doing my usual warm-ups, and an unknown teammate walked over, amazed at how fast I was throwing. His opening words to me were: “Do you wanna play semi-pro football?”

Shocked but excited, I, of course, told him yes. Once again, I found myself driving to a field full of strangers, having to prove to all of them, and myself, that I belonged there. With a high level of nerves, I arrived early. As I waited in the empty parking lot, fear that it was a prank and nobody else was showing up grew in my mind.

After some time, a red Corolla pulled up, and out popped a man who looked dressed to play. His name was Danny, and funnily enough, he was the starting quarterback of the semi-pro team.

I stood out, but not in a good way. I was the only one not in pads, and probably looked like a lost puppy. Since no one knew my name, they referred to me as “Big Country” amongst themselves. I learned this later. Apparently I looked like a country boy, and I stand 6’3”, 230 lbs. It was a fitting name, I suppose.

As usual, once the throwing started, so did the looks and “damn”s. I knew I’d made an impression, because one of my future friends and teammates came up and asked if I was an undercover NFL quarterback shooting a prank video on them. The Ohio Gladiators accepted me with open arms.

I didn’t get any play-time until the last minute of the last game of the season. I couldn’t have been happier to hear my number called by our coach.

I trotted onto the field with my ten brothers, who I still barely knew, and we called a simple halfback inside zone left, the easiest play for a quarterback to execute. I walked into my shotgun stance 5 yards behind the center and looked around to take everything in for a brief moment. This was my first game action as quarterback for an organized and padded football team in my twenty-six years, so I wanted a memory in my bank to reflect on later in life. I did a quick scan of the defense and called hut. I went to hand the ball to my running back, but he was not where I thought he would be, and I clearly was not where he expected me to be. The ball dropped onto the turf. Luckily, the running back fell on the football to keep the drive alive. A fumble and a loss of 5 yards became my first official stat line. It could only go up from there, right? Again, I came to the line and examined the defense in hopes they’d think I was going to audible something. They called my bluff, and I called hut. I received the snap and almost immediately felt a little pressure approaching from my left side. By the time my brain processed that I may be in trouble from a pass rusher, I felt the crown of a helmet spear straight into my back, snapping my neck straight back, resulting in neck pain and cracking that have never fully gone away.

I somehow managed to stay on my feet, but I got swung almost a full 180 degrees. I knew I was going down.

In moments like that, you tend to panic when you’re not a veteran, and that’s exactly what I did. I looked for the first white jersey I could see and threw it to him. He caught it, and immediately went down. I wasn’t happy with the play result, but I was a little proud of myself for taking the hit and still completing a pass to give my team a fighting chance to pick up some yards. That feeling of pride quickly turned to shame when I saw the yellow penalty flag fall to the ground and I realized the receiver I threw the ball to wasn’t a receiver at all, but my left tackle. This meant he was an ineligible receiver, and it pushed us back another 5 yards and lost us the down.

So now, we faced a daunting 3rd & 20 with our own end zone creeping on my heels. Coach called in basically the easiest completion. I received the ball from the center, turned to fire it at my open receiver, but had to stop since none of the three receivers were turned and waiting for the ball. I rocketed the ball at my closest receiver and it hit him in the back. The play fell dead with the ball.

These are the memories I have to look back on from my first time on the field during a semipro match. But it’s part of the process, and you learn with time and experience. Thankfully, I can say I’ve vastly improved from my first drive as an official quarterback.

I’ve spent almost 3 seasons with the Gladiators, but unfortunately, I haven’t been able to see the field too often. Season 1: I got in too late, and had the horrendous drive mentioned above, and the pesky neck crack. Season 2: I was out the whole season with a mix of shoulder injuries that took a while to diagnose. Season 3: I only just became healthy right as the season was kicking off, so my coach wasn’t able to evaluate my in-game play during the regular season. Plus, our other quarterback, Danny, was playing great, and we were winning every game, so he didn’t feel the need to make a change.

At the age of 28, with a full-time job, a house, 3 cars, and a 3 year old pit bull to take care of, I am doing everything in my power to play professional football before my body decides it’s time to cool it on the hits. In the football world, that is almost ancient. Luckily, I play quarterback, and our life span in the game tends to last longer than skill position players.

So what’s next in my career? I have that same question, but hopefully not for long. In March of 2022, I was invited to the National Scouting Combine in Indianapolis, where I could show my skills in front of coaches, scouts and agents. From that combine, I was 1 of 25 guys invited to a more private combine in Xenia, Ohio. Both I failed miserably at the athletic testing, only to completely redeem my reason for the invitation once the throwing started.

From the NSC, I met a man named Russ, who would also help push my football career in the right direction. I didn’t know it at the time, but Russ is a scout for a CFL (Canadian Football League) team. In early February of 2023, I received an email from him inviting me to a tryout for the Edmonton Elks. The CFL is considered one of, if not the biggest, stepping stones into the NFL, so I was blown away by this offer. I knew I had to go no matter what.

The tryout was in Atlanta, so quite a long journey down from Ohio, but I met some amazing guys, made good connections, and learned a lot about how pro tryouts and teams are run. While I was nervous for all three of these combines/tryouts, I had something new to rely on: a self confidence I’d earned through the myriad of trials I’ve faced. I finally felt I belonged on the field with all the other incredible athletes.

I have more CFL tryouts on the calendar this year, and hopefully one of those goes well enough to force me to finally get a passport. Pro football is a tricky thing to crack, and once you get in, it’s not easy to stay there. When you want it this bad though, it’s a fun ride.

My favorite thing about football, though, is the trust your brothers have in you when your number is called to lead them. There’s nothing like being in a huddle with ten pairs of eyes on you, waiting for the call, and breaking the huddle. Then, after the scoring play, hearing “Nice throw, 18,” while embracing your teammates.