Requiem for a Broken Dream.
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Captain Canada
- Posts: 4987
- Joined: 01 Dec 2018, 00:15
Requiem for a Broken Dream.
Boy has no breakaway speed huh
Requiem for a Broken Dream.
Praying on Kam's downfall damn near two months in advance smh
By the time we get to the red zone, Kam normally gets subbed out due to auto subs which you can't adjust
this a day one chise so Kam started with 79 speed
EA was on some bullshit
Requiem for a Broken Dream.
Season 8, Episode 10
With deliberate movements, he peeled off his sweat-soaked jersey, the fabric clinging to his skin. The cool air of the locker room raised goosebumps on his arms as he methodically removed his pads and cleats. As he changed into street clothes, Kam's thoughts drifted to the task at hand. He clenched his jaw, a simmering anger building in his chest.
Without any notice, he slipped out of the locker room and into the quiet hallways, the excitement of the game fading into memory. He made his way towards the visitor's locker room, his heart pounding with each step.
A bored-looking security guard stood outside the door. Kam plastered on his most innocent smile. "Hey man, I was hoping to swap jerseys with my boy Jamal, we played in high school.”
The guard eyed him suspiciously for a moment before shrugging. "Make it quick," he grunted, stepping aside.
Kam's pulse raced as he entered the enemy territory, feeling out of place the moment he stepped into the somber room. He scanned the room, searching for his target as he had mostly remembered his jersey number and not his name. With each step, he could feel more and more eyes coming onto him yet no one uttered a word, mostly out of confusion. He finally spotted him, thankfully only a few lockers down from the entrance.
Without hesitation, Kam strode forward. He tapped him on the shoulder, and as the player turned, Kam's fist connected with his jaw. A satisfying crack punctuated the sudden silence.
For a heartbeat, the room was frozen in shock. Then chaos erupted. Bodies surged towards Kam, shouts of anger and confusion filling the air. Fists and elbows flew as he was engulfed by the opposing team. Kam struggled against the onslaught, but he was quickly overwhelmed by sheer numbers. Just as he was pushed to the ground, he spotted Jamal out of the corner of his eyes, jumping into the fray.
“Back the fuck up!” yelled Jamal, to no avail. He pushed his way through, finding Kam at the bottom of the pile and did his best to cover him up against the punches and kicks that were raining down.
"Break it up! Now!" one of the younger coaches yelled, his face flushed with anger as he pushed his way through the sea of bodies. Another Rutgers assistant coach was right behind him, grabbing players by their shoulders and yanking them away from the pile.
The security guard who had let Kam in burst through the door, his walkie-talkie crackling with urgent chatter. Two more guards followed close behind, their heavy boots thundering against the tile floor. They waded into the melee, separating players with practiced efficiency.
Jamal still had his arms wrapped protectively around Kam, shielding him from the worst of the blows. Sweat dripped from their faces, mingling with specks of blood from split lips and bloody noses.
…
The jukebox in the corner played a melancholy country song, the twangy guitar barely audible over the rumble of conversation and clinking glasses. Lana traced the condensation on her glass with her finger, lost in thought. She barely noticed when a group of bikers and their better halves settled into the empty stools beside her.
"Hey there, darlin'," a gruff voice said, startling her from her reverie. "You look like you could use some company."
Lana turned to see a burly man with a salt-and-pepper beard grinning at her. His leather vest was adorned with patches, and a bandana covered his balding head. Despite his intimidating appearance, his eyes were kind.
"I'm fine, thanks," Lana replied, attempting a smile that didn't quite reach her eyes.
One of the women in the group, a petite blonde with heavily lined eyes, leaned in. "Don't mind Big Mike, honey. He's harmless. I'm Candy. What's your name?"
Lana hesitated for a moment before answering. "Lana."
"Well, Lana," Candy said, her voice raspy from years of cigarettes, "why don't you join us? We're heading back to the clubhouse for some real drinks. This place waters 'em down something fierce."
Lana glanced around the bar, the thought of another long night in these confines felt like a threat to her very being.
"I don’t see why not," Lana said, surprising herself with the decision.
Big Mike clapped her on the back, nearly knocking her off the stool. "I can tell you’re a fun one.”
…
Kyrie exchanged a tense glance with Derrick before raising his fist to knock on apartment 3C. The peeling paint flaked off under his knuckles as he rapped sharply on the door.
Muffled voices and shuffling sounds came from inside. After a moment, the door cracked open, revealing a wiry man with bloodshot eyes. "What do you want?" he slurred.
Without warning, Derrick shoved the door open, sending the man stumbling backward. The four players burst into the dingy dorm, immediately fanning out to search for their stolen belongings.
"Where's our stuff?" Kyrie demanded, grabbing the man by his stained t-shirt.
A woman emerged from the bedroom, her eyes wide with fear. "What the fuck are y’all niggas doing?!”
Tommy, the backup tight end who they brought for muscle, overturned the coffee table, sending empty beer cans clattering across the floor. Lou, who was always down for some action, yanked open drawers, rifling through their meager contents. The apartment was a mess of dirty clothes, fast food wrappers, and drug paraphernalia.
Derrick cornered the man, his fist connecting with a sickening thud. The woman screamed, cowering in the corner as chaos erupted. Kyrie felt a surge of guilt, but pushed it aside as he continued searching for any sign of their stolen possessions.
After what felt like an eternity, Lou called out, "These niggas don’t got shit in here man, just some dirty ass sneakers. What kind of hooper is you, nigga?”
Kyrie looked around the ransacked apartment, his chest heaving. The man lay groaning on the floor, blood trickling from his split lip. The woman sobbed quietly, her mascara running down her cheeks.
"Let's go," Kyrie said, his voice barely above a whisper as he cursed himself under his breath. As angry as he was at the bad intel he had received, he was even angrier at himself for acting on it, only to come away empty handed and embarrassed as they filed out of the apartment.
…
Lana leaned back against the worn leather couch, her head swimming as the white powdery substance coursed through her system. The clubhouse basement was a haze of cigarette smoke and dim lighting, the air thick with the scent of stale beer. Candy sat beside her, expertly cutting lines on a small mirror balanced on her knee.
"Here you go, sugar," Candy said, offering Lana a rolled-up bill.
She thought back to the first time that Richie had introduced her to this elevated way of partying, albeit under much different circumstances and aesthetics. She wasn’t in a Midtown high-rise surrounded by C-list stars looking for financing on their next project. She was in someone’s basement in the middle of New fucking Mexico. She pushed the thoughts away and leaned forward, the familiar burn in her nostrils bringing a rush of euphoria.
As she sat up, wiping her nose, Lana's gaze drifted across the room. Big Mike sat in a battered armchair, his massive frame dwarfing the furniture. He was tying off his arm with practiced ease, a syringe held between his teeth.
"This might be rude," Lana commented, her words slightly slurred. "But what the fuck is he doing?”
Candy followed her gaze and chuckled. "Oh honey, that's the good stuff. Big Mike likes his over and under.”
Lana frowned, the term unfamiliar. "Over and under?”
"It's H and blow," Candy explained, her voice casual as if discussing the weather. "Now, that right there? I don’t fuck with it too much, a high that good you can only have so many times in life. Mike is, well, he’s Big Mike for reason. In more ways than one, if you catch my drift."
Lana watched as Big Mike injected the concoction, his eyes rolling back in his head as the drugs hit his system. A small part of her brain, the part not clouded by cocaine and alcohol, whispered a warning. This was dangerous territory, a line she hadn't crossed yet.
"You’ve done it before?" Lana asked, intrigue in her eyes.
Candy shrugged, already preparing another line for herself. "Life's all about risks, honey. You gotta decide which ones are worth taking."
Lana's gaze drifted back to Big Mike. He sat motionless in the chair, a look of pure bliss on his face. For a moment, she envied him.
Candy looked up, a knowing glint in her eye. "You wanna try it, don't you?"
Requiem for a Broken Dream.
Damn Lana about to be a crackwhore? How you go from a high class sugar baby to shooting heroin in a 1%er clubhouse?
Considering Kam’s antics, no wonder they were close, both they asses D1 fuck ups.
Considering Kam’s antics, no wonder they were close, both they asses D1 fuck ups.
Requiem for a Broken Dream.
why she gotta be a crackwhore lol
She's just without direction right now, struggling to find herself amidst a job that she asked for but now hates. not that i was inspired by anyone in the chatbox or anything
Requiem for a Broken Dream.
Season 8, Episode 11
"Again!" Coach Reeves' voice boomed across the empty stadium, echoing off the metal bleachers.
Kam's legs felt like they were in quicksand as he turned and sprinted back to the starting line. His lungs burned, desperate for oxygen. The world blurred around him, narrowing to just the white chalk line he was racing towards.
As he reached the end, he doubled over, hands on his knees, gulping in air. Coach Reeves' shadow fell over him, a looming presence that made Kam's stomach churn with anxiety.
"This ain’t nothing. You got off easy, if you ask me." Coach's voice was low, dangerous. "I don’t care what that man said, that little stunt you pulled after the game? That's not just embarrassing for you. That's embarrassing for this whole team, this whole school."
Kam straightened, meeting Coach's steely gaze. The disappointment he saw there cut deeper than any physical pain.
"You don’t know how close you were to being back home," Coach continued, his jaw clenched. "The only reason you're still here is because your teammates vouched for you. Every single captain came to me and said you deserve a second chance."
A flicker of hope ignited in Kam's chest, quickly doused by Coach's next words.
"But make no mistake. If it wasn't zero tolerance before, it's zero tolerance now. One more slip-up, one more fight, hell, one more dirty look at an opponent, and you're done. No exceptions. No third chances. You understand me?"
Kam nodded, his throat too dry to speak.
"Good," Coach said, his expression softening slightly. "Now get back out there. You've got fifty more to go."
…
“Sky! Sky! Sky!” Jamal pumped his arms as his palm faced the sky, signaling the audible as the offense came out in a trips set.
He jogged over to the inside most receiver of the bunch, squaring his body as he settled into his stance. The ball was snapped and Jamal jammed the receiver to the outside, almost guiding him to the sideline before jumping back inside to take away the slant ran by the outside most receiver.
Trevor expertly pump faked the slant before going deep, fooling the boundary corner that had peeled off his zone and tried to jump the slant, leaving the wheel route wide open for the second receiver.
“We’re in Sky!” Jamal barked at his corner as the offense celebrated the touchdown, “That’s your man!”
The corner ignored Jamal as they walked back to the 35-yard line, never bothering to turn his head to face Jamal.
“We got to pick it up,” Jamal told the group as they formed a muddle huddle, awaiting the new set of plays from the sidelines, “We look like fucking shit.”
“Shut you bitch ass up,” muttered on the defensive lineman, resting his hands on his waist.
“What’d you say, nigga?” Jamal approached him, stepping to the 300-plus pounder that stood before him.
“Chill out,” one of the senior safeties stepped in, “Let’s lock in.”
“Ain’t nobody trying to hear that shit from this nigga,” the same defensive lineman spat, “We know where you stand, hoe ass nigga.”
“Only hoe ass nigga in this huddle is your bitch ass, nigga. Did you even get a fucking pressure in the last game? Sorry ass bitch,” Jamal fired back, anger forming in his eyes.
“At least I stand with my niggas,” he sucked his teeth.
“Word,” chimed in another among agreeing head nods and comments from the others.
“We don’t fuck with you, nigga,” the corner that had been ignoring Jamal chimed in, “You picked a side now stay there, pussy nigga.”
…
Kam shifted uncomfortably in the plastic folding chair, scanning the community center's crowded gymnasium. Colorful posters adorned the walls, advertising various outreach programs and support groups.
Brady, the team's hulking tight end, stood at the front of the room, his usual stoic demeanor replaced by a look of genuine enthusiasm. He was explaining the mentorship program he'd started, pairing high school athletes with at-risk middle schoolers.
"I was in your shoes not that long ago," Brady was saying, his deep voice carrying easily over the murmur of the crowd. "It's about being there for these kids, showing them there's a path forward."
Kam felt a twinge of guilt. He'd only come because Coach Reeves had made it mandatory, part of his "rehabilitation" after the fight. But listening to Brady speak, seeing the passion in his eyes, Kam couldn't help but feel a spark of interest.
The speech lasted a few minutes, the most Kam had ever heard the tight end speak before. The event broke out into various workshops with different players stationed at different posts, signing autographs and dolling out gear in exchanged for report cards while other stations had information on the recruitment process, financial aid info, and academic tools that were available within the community.
Kam’s station was the busiest one, kids and adults alike lined up to get his autograph. It reminded him of the ‘brown paper bag’ money he was getting at Kentucky for these type of signings, often at a bar or sports apparel store. With his current NIL deal, he didn’t need those couple of hundred bucks anymore and instead had signed hundred of jerseys, footballs and other Michigan gear while he was at Barstool’s studio in a room by himself as part of his deal.
He was pretty sure that what he was doing at the moment was a violation of his deal but he didn’t care and doubt they would to as he handed another child a football with his signature on it. The line was dwindling down when he saw a familiar figure moving towards him.
“I can’t say I expected to see you here,” Zoe said, sliding into the empty seat next to him.
“I could say the same about you,” Kam shrugged, greeting the next person in line with a smile and signing the baseball hat they handed to him.
“I’m the one that helped Brady set this up. Not to brag or anything.”
“Ain’t much to brag about,” Kam laughed, “But for real, this is dope. I would have liked this as a jit.”
“Jit?”
“Never mind,” Kam shook his head, focusing his attention on the poster that was handed to him, celebrating a national championship he wasn’t even there for.
“You should do these more often,” Zoe stood up, wanting to return to her actual responsibilities for the night, “Shows you in a different light.”
Requiem for a Broken Dream.
The fuck up wheels turning already. Kam ain’t never gonna learn
Requiem for a Broken Dream.
NAU (FCS) | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0 | 0
MICH (3-1, 1-0) | 7 | 24 | 7 | 14 | 52
MICH QB CJ Carr: 9-10, 84 yds, 4 TD, sacked once
MICH HB Kamaldeen Seidu-Harris: 32 att, 366 yds (school record)
MICH HB Nate Yates: 13 att, 36 yds, 3 TD
Season Stats 111 att, 867 yds, 4 TD, 3 rec, 23 yds
Remaining Schedule #25 Oregon, at Indiana, at Iowa, at UCLA, at #6 Penn State, at Michigan State, vs. Illinois, vs. #8 Ohio State