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The most infuriating thing about the whole situation is that Nathan knows what’s happening to him. Contrary to what his internal critic would have him believe, he’s not an idiot.
Nate doesn’t want to act like a prick, but he feels cheated. It shouldn’t be like this. He’s made it. He’s not just the kitman anymore – he’s Coach Shelley. In the locker room, he’s no longer the butt of the joke. There’s no target on his back. People care about his ideas. He can make himself big, now.
But Richmond’s relegation came fast on the heels of his promotion to coach. Also, as he found out from the “wonder kid” debacle, the novelty of being a public figure wears off quickly. All it took was a handful of racist, borderline-homophobic tweets for him to realize that the game was always going to be different for him. It isn’t fair, he thinks, for all the success he’s brought Richmond.
His mum tells him not to care about the opinions of strangers. He promises her not to pay them any mind. He still does.
He doesn’t like that he does it, but he keeps up to date with everything the world is saying about him. He even checks on Roy, Beard, and Ted’s internet buzz sometimes. None of them are getting called losers. Bitterly, he counts the number of “thirst tweets” for each of his colleagues compared to his own. He doesn’t want to. It doesn’t feel good, no matter the outcome.
He tries to remember the euphoria he felt the first time he wore that whistle around his neck. It feels like something that happened to someone else. He made a jab at Colin then, too. It was funny at the time. But so was bullying Nate, once. That thought makes him nauseous.
That’s not what he’s doing. Yes, he lashes out at people. Is that so terrible? That’s how everyone around him solved their problems until Ted Lasso showed up. He can’t help it; harsh words come out of his mouth these days, irrepressible like lightning seeking the ground. It’s a high, that little bit of power.
But when he tries to sleep at night, he realizes lashing out doesn’t feel good either.
Every good moment these days has a catch.
His picture is in the papers? The one person whom he needs to care about his success never will. He gets the best mentor/stand-in father figure in the world, only to have him disappear into his own personal problems and demons. He has friends now, but it’s still so lonely. And there are things that he can’t bring himself to ask the other Diamond Dogs about – like “am I fundamentally unlovable?”
He’s never brought a query to the group before. Even now, there’s no one special enough in his life to ask for advice about. Such a silly thing, but it makes him feel inadequate. No one’s even asked him if he’s seeing anybody. The thought doesn’t compute. Like Coach Lasso laughing at the idea of him being a “big dog.” He’s just built differently. He’s not a charmer like Ted or a sexy enigma like Beard. He’s not the legendary Roy Kent. He’s certainly not Higgins, whose idyllic home life is the stuff of Nate’s corny, domestic fantasies. That’s what he wants, he realizes, not groupies. (At least, not only groupies.)
Man, woman, genderfluid, whatever. He just wants someone to see him as he is, the way Ted did. He needs someone to hold him until all the hurts of his life melt away, leaving only that hopeful feeling he had when he felt like a real person for the first time. He holds onto the feeling of his first suit, shots with the lads, or a moment of unbridled joy sending him jumping into a strong man’s arms.
He even misses the simple pleasures of fresh laundry and clean shoes, and the understanding that every little thing he could do for the team mattered, even the things no one else wanted to do.
Where’s all that gone now?