Practice had just ended, and Tommy Sweeney was exhausted. The team went to the locker, patted each other on the back, complimented each other, and went about their usual routine of showering, changing clothes, and going their separate ways, which for Tommy meant returning to the room he rented from Ms. Evermore. Ms. Evermore was a widow. She was in her late sixties and her gray hair made this evident.
Tommy went into the bathroom and looked at himself in the mirror. He had not shaved in over a week and had a nice beard going. He decided it was time for a shave. Before using a razor, he took it down using clippers. But something happened. Tommy saved his upper lip for last, something he had always done. This time, when all that was left to shave was his mustache, he could not bring himself to do it. He liked it.
Leeeeave itttt, whispered a voice.
This startled Tommy.
“Ms. Evermore?” he called out. But there was no response. He thought maybe it was just the television from the other room. He cleaned up after himself and went to his room.
That night, Tommy dreamt about showing up to practice with his new mustache. His teammates all complimented him and gave him high fives. One of the cafeteria ladies liked it as well and even offered to suck his dick in the bathroom. An enticing offer, but Tommy had to keep his head in the game and perform well at practice. So he declined.
Tommy arrived the next morning to a practice that did not go as his dream did. Some teammates complimented his mustache, but Tommy could hear a hint of sarcasm in their voice.
How is Micah gonna mess with me about my mustache? He thought. Mother fucker wears a purse!
Maybe it was a purse. Maybe it was a man-bag like Micah swore. Regardless, Tommy could not let it get to him. He HAD to focus on practice. It was going to be tough cracking the 53-man roster with Tyler Kroft, Lee Smith, third-round pick Dawson Knox, and Jason Croom all battling for spots.
At practice, Tommy was getting some reps with the second team. Suddenly, he heard some groans coming from the field where the first team was practicing. He saw one of his teammates limping. It was Jason Croom. It looked like he injured himself.
Exxxxcelllentttttt, said a voice.
He turned and saw Wyatt Teller standing near him. “What’d you say?” Tommy asked.
“Looks like he hurt his hamstring,” Teller replied. “You hate to see it.” And he walked away.
That night, Tommy lay in bed looking at the ceiling. He felt bad for Jason. He was a good guy. Losing time in the offseason could hurt his chances at making the roster. However, he couldn’t help but think about the opportunity this could give him.
This is your chance, Thomas, said the voice. It was the same voice he heard at practice and attributed to Teller.
Tommy sat up in his bed and looked around. “Who’s in here?!” he asked, “Show yourself!” but no one appeared.
Relax, young Thomas. It is I, your mustache.
“Oh, bullshit!” Tommy exclaimed. “Am I going crazy? What’s happening?”
Please, it is imperative that you remain calm. You are not going crazy. You are in the best shape of your life, mentally and physically.
“Mustaches don’t talk!” he said.
Not all. But I do. You should feel lucky, Thomas. I am only here to help.
“Help with what?” he asked.
Help you make this football team. You want to make this roster, do you not?
“Of course I do. But I don’t need help from some supernatural entity that’s possessed my mustache.” Tommy said.
Oh, but you do need my help. With all the competition and you just a seventh-round draft pick, you surely would have ended up on the practice squad. Is that what you want?
“Hey, if I do well, I could get claimed off waivers,” he replied.
True. And land on the Jets fifty-three.
“Shit, you’re right!” he realized.
Of course, I’m right. You’ll find that I’m always right, Thomas, said the mustache.
“So what do we do?” Asked Tommy.
You just play well. Mr. Croom’s injury was unfortunate, but it will move you up the depth chart. Now, we must focus on Dawson Knox.