“You’re Brutal Tannen?” he asks, and I nod once in confirmation. He claps his hands once before sticking his hand out for another shake like we didn’t already introduce ourselves. “Why didn’t you say so?”
I shake his hand again, though I’m not sure why, and lift and lower one shoulder. “I . . . did?”
He chuckles like I said something funny. “No, you said your name is Bruce, like you’re not known around here for being one of the best football players to ever grace the grass in the whole city. Didn’t you play for State too? Figured you were going pro!”
He recites my history like he has a clue. I thought I was going to get drafted too.
Plans changed.
“What happened?” he pries.
I grit my teeth. It’s been years and I’m over it, but I don’t think it’s ever easy to expose your greatest pain for public consumption, especially to someone you don’t even know.
“Family stuff,” I say coldly, not inviting further discussion.
Mike seems to realize that he’s overstepped and retreats politely. “Yeah, I get it. Family’s everything. Anyway, I was thinking . . . since you’re here, you think you might hang out and help with practice? Like a guest coach or something?”
He looks hopeful, but I don’t feed into it. “Nah, sorry. Gotta get home, got dinner waiting.”
“Oh, uh . . . yeah. Of course,” he stutters, like my refusal was not at all what he was expecting. “I was just hoping you might . . . I mean, you’ve got a lot more knowledge about football than I do. I’m more of an armchair quarterback, if you know what I mean, but Evan wants to play and I was the only dad who would do it. Kinda got voluntold by the wife.”
He tapers off, not saying anything bad about his wife, and the smile on his face says he doesn’t mind being voluntold for this gig at all. Past him, I can see those same sets of eyes watching our interaction. All except one pair of icy blue ones that are fastidiously studying the laces of the football in his hands. Something about that hits me. This smart-mouthy kid doesn’t think for one second that I’m going to do this.
Has he been disappointed before and is protecting himself from useless hopes? Or can he see that I’m not cut out for helping kids figure out the game I know inside and out? Considering I said ‘the s-word’ within moments of walking up, it’s likely the latter. But lack of a filter aside, I could probably help them with football and the most important part of the game, being a team.
I gnaw on that for a quick second, dissecting my reasons and remembering my youth on the field.
Football was everything to me for so long, truly saving me. Mostly from myself. Could one of these boys need that opportunity to? Could I help with that?
Though that’s really bigger than what Mike’s asking right now, he just wants a couple of hours of my time. That, I can do.
I sigh, testing the words on my tongue. “Yeah, I could hang out for a little bit, I guess. Let me just send a text home.”
He smiles heartily. “Of course, thanks! I’ll just tell the boys.”
He steps away, and I fish my phone out of my back pocket. I remember a moment too late that I promised Shayanne I’d be home for dinner, but I feel like these boys need me more than she does today, especially for some special announcement she’s making that’s definitely not that she’s pregnant.
Hell, she’s probably just gonna tell us all that she and Luke are going on another trip. I don’t begrudge her that excitement, but I don’t need to be there to hear the blow-by-blow of their itinerary. Especially not the first time because she’ll talk about nothing else for days if that’s what her news is.
Still, even though I know she’ll be fine when I explain why I’m skipping dinner, I decide to not incite Shayanne’s wrath by texting her directly. I bypass her and text Brody instead.
Something came up, won’t be home for dinner. Tell Shay sorry.
I get back a middle finger emoji so I check that off my responsibility list and head over to the boys, who are all sitting cross-legged and listening intently to Mike, who’s singing the praises of my high school glory days.
“All right, Brutal . . . or, uh, Bruce. Which do you prefer? Or Coach B, even?” he asks. I can tell that in his mind, it stands for Brutal and that he really wants to call me that. Like I’m famous or some shit when all I did was crunch a few bodies damn near ten years ago.
“Coach B is fine,” I tell him and the boys. Though everyone calls me Brutal, and I answer to it readily, I’ve never felt right introducing myself that way. The name brings up too many questions when you’re a grown ass man who looks like I do. “I think first things first, I need to know everyone’s name.”
The boys start rattling off their names from their seated positions, and after three, I stop them. “Okay, hold up. Let’s start with the proper way to introduce yourself, especially when you’re looking to impress. Whether that’s a coach, an employer, a girl’s dad . . .” The boys giggle a bit and my lips quirk. “Or whoever. So, you stand up. Never introduce yourself to anyone sitting down. Offer a hand and shake firmly, but don’t do that stupid squeezy thing where you’re trying to break their hand. Look them in the eye and say your name clearly and loud enough to be heard. Like this.”
I turn to Mike, dipping my chin to make sure he’s on board with being an example for the boys. I hold my hand out and clasp his. “Bruce Tannen. Nice to meet you.”
“Mike Kauffman. Good to meet you too.”
We both turn back to the boys and I continue the lesson. “Your turn.”
The first boy stands up. “Johnathan Williams. Nice to meet you.” Seems Mr. Kicks-A-Lot is a fast learner, a plus in his column, especially given the good handshake and eye contact he offers me.
Down the row they go.
Evan Kauffman. Joshua Williams, apparently Johnathan’s fraternal twin brother. Killian Bloomdale. Cooper Meyers. Anthony Mondela. Christopher White. Derek Simpson. Liam Holt. Julio Ruiz. Trey Thedwell. Marcus Stacy.
A better-behaved group of young men stands before me than were on this field just a few short minutes ago. “Nice to meet everyone. Great job, guys.” I turn to Mike, moving on. “What did you have planned for practice?”
He shrugs, admitting, “It’s only our second practice, our first active one because the last one was mostly going over rules and dates for the practices and games. I figured we’d run sprints and do a few drills today.”
I nod. It’s a good start. “Sounds good. Can I make a suggestion?”
Mike smiles warmly. “That’s why I asked you to stay. Please do.” He gestures toward the kids who are watching, waiting for any tidbit I can share.
I search my head for the words I’d heard from one of my favorite coaches. I’ve had many over the years, some great, some good, and some just okay.
I drop down to my knee again and address the kids. “What’s the most important thing about a football team?”
“Touchdowns!” Derek shouts, his arms reaching over his head like a referee.
“Winning!” Killian corrects.
There’s a few more suggestions, so I hold my hands up to stop their guesses and give the answer I was looking for. “Teamwork. Football is the only sport in the world where you need eleven people doing eleven different things, but all of them working toward a single goal. If even one of them is off, the whole thing falls apart. You might be the fastest sprinter, the fiercest linebacker, or be able to throw a perfect spiral and hit a target a whole field away, but without the whole team working together, you’ll never win a game, regardless of what the scoreboard says.”