There’s something about Quintell Solomon’s hands that is unlike those of most other college receivers.
From the exterior, they don’t appear any different. They’re covered by gray Nike gloves. At the base of the glove is a Velcro strap. A sticky substance laminates the palm of the hand. It’s standard for all wideouts, from high school to pro, and helps receivers grasp balls that whistle toward them at tremendous speeds.
Look closer, more intently, and you’ll see how Solomon’s eyes are fixated on the ball so precisely that he can see the microscopic pores of the pigskin while it’s still suspended in the air, and how he plucks it at its highest point, delicately, almost like there is a layer of feathers insulating his hands. Once the ball is secured, he cradles it into his breadbasket, like a mother holds her newborn baby.
Then you come to realize. Those are the hands of a father — soft, firm and sure-handed.
“Her name’s Quinariah,” Solomon said, “and she’s the love of my life.”
Those who have fatherly obligations know that it’s easier for a father to have children than for children to have a real father. Especially when daddy has a plateful. Somehow, Solomon has found a way, though he was nervous at first.
“(Was I) scared of taking care of somebody else? Yeah,” he said. “Scared of just the responsibility? No. I knew I had to step up to the plate. That’s what my momma always taught us. She raised three boys on her own.”
So he wants to make sure Quinariah’s never alone. He knew from the moment he held her — “We were in the hospital, 12:41 in the afternoon. It felt like it was just me and her there” — he had to be there, because she’s his spitting image, has “his eyes and his big feet.”
But for now he has to be away from her, over here as opposed to back home with her in Texas, honing his skills and dreaming big — about the NFL — so that one day he can afford to put his baby girl through college, he said. It’s why he’s always at full throttle, because he has to work three times as hard as anyone else.
“Basically, when I left high school, they told me to come out here and make a name for myself, and I’d be able to support my daughter,” he said. “The thing my mom constantly reminds me of is, ‘Look at the bigger picture.’”
So that’s what this father, football player and student does. It’s taken a lot of teeth-gnashing and more than a little faith, plus plenty of moral support from Solomon’s inner circle.
There’s more to the story, though, more about how Solomon ended up coming to this university.
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It has to do with the human proclivity to search out comfort, what we know. It has to do with brotherhood, how two siblings, Frankie and Quintell Solomon, stuck by each other with conviction, not allowing feuds or crises to make them forget that the same blood runs through their veins. This is about how an indestructible bond was built, and, ultimately, how that attachment translated into both brothers attending the same college — and playing for the same football team.
Make no mistake about it. Quintell, a former walk-on, came here out of kinship. His elder brother, Frankie, a safety for the Lobos, is well-known in this part of town.
“I was about 12. I’ll never forget it,” Quintell said. “We got into a huge fight in the house. We weren’t talking, but no matter what happened inside the house, my mother told us to stand up for each other. We went outside in the street and started playing basketball. Some dude fouled me too hard, and then tried to jump me, and (Frankie) had my back instantly.”
Two brothers — Frankie is the jovial, talkative one, while Quintell is a bit more reserved. Frankie’s here on scholarship, Quintell’s not. They’re teammates, yes, but they line up opposite each other. Quintell’s job is to be one step faster than his older brother, while Frankie proves that he still dominates his younger brother. Nothing personal, though. They’re just competing mano-a-mano in the framework of a team.
Now Quintell’s starting to hammer out his own name. He’s all over the field — between the hash marks, in the slot, flanked out wide, tightroping the sideline. The little brother brags about how his big brother can’t keep up, about how he’s whipping him in one-on-one battles, 3-0.
Big brother disputes that claim, saying it’s 3-2, but since kid brother’s ahead, he jokes that he’ll “take him to a movie.”
Little brother fires back.
“He always has to take me out, because I always win,” Quintell said. “He hasn’t beat me since I was his height. After I hit my growth spurt, he had no chance.”
Two brothers, vastly different from each other, though fundamentally the same. The common denominator: “My brother came in at the same weight I came in, about 160 pounds. You’re never too small to play. The recipe to success is hard work,” Quintell said.
So Quintell works hard — for his brother and his daughter.
There’s something about the way Quintell speaks about his mother that makes you understand everything. Understand his drive, understand how he’s able to balance all his responsibilities — as a man, as a parent.
Men might need food and water to survive, but they also need purpose. Purpose slakes the thirst of dry throats and fills the emptiest of stomachs. Solomon has purpose. If he’s snakebit, there’s no rattle, no indication of doubt or fear. He doesn’t coil up, doesn’t shy away from responsibility.
How did he get this way?
“My mother told me that she’d pay for me to walk on at any school in the nation, because she knew I could play,” he said. “She had enough faith in me. If she can believe in me, why can’t I believe in myself?”
So Quintell works for his mother, his brother and his daughter. They’ve all done something to shape him. Quinariah is his guiding light, Frankie his watchful eye, and his mother his foundation. But you would’ve never known had you not looked past his gloves.
