Tiny bobbleheads all nod as if they’re soaking up the words of wisdom. I say a silent thank you to Coach Stadler for saying them to me when I was not much older than this group and for then teaching me what they meant.
“Let’s do what Coach Mike had planned and run. But with a small tweak. Instead of sprints, we’re going to run as a team. I think three laps around the park should be a good start. This won’t be like the races you do at school or even like the drills you’ll do later where you can show Coach Mike what you’ve got individually. For this, we’ll stay together at a pace slightly faster than the slowest and slightly slower than the fastest. We’ll adjust as needed, but the important thing is . . . no man gets left behind. We cross the finish line together or we’ve already lost. Understood?”
“Yes, Coach B,” they sound out as one.
I nod to Mike, all business. “You up for this?”
He looks surprised, his dad bod already flushing. “Us too?”
“Well, yeah. Team includes the coach. Lead by example.” He looks at my boots and jeans pointedly, making it clear that I’m not dressed for running. I dig my heel into the turf, amused. “I wear boots and jeans in the fields all day, every day. I could run in these for miles if needed.”
Any excuses gone, he shakes his head and chuckles, but he walks over to the gathered boys with me. “All right, this isn’t a ready-set-go type of thing, so I’ll just count us off. We’ll practice this first bit and I’ll call out which foot to run on so we stay together, but the goal is for you to not need me or Coach Mike to set your pace but rather for you to be in tune with the man next to you, on and on down the line. That’s how you become a team. Got it?”
They seem ready to roll, so I call out, “One, two, three . . .” And we’re off, not like speeding bullets but rather like slow-plodding sloths, each kid unwilling to go faster than the one next to him. The lesson is already sticking, but I speed them up a little bit. “Left, left, left, right, left.” It’s not quite military precision, and some of these boys probably aren’t even sure which is right and which is left, but together, we make our way around the park.
The second lap is a bit faster, and I don’t have to say a word to keep the boys together. They do it naturally and a warmth fills my chest. The third lap finds us slowing back down a bit, exhaustion starting to hit us. But we cross the fence post of the finish line together and all twelve boys cheer for themselves, high-fives given freely between all of them, even Johnathan and Cooper.
“Great job, guys,” Mike says breathlessly. He’s got his hands on his knees, not exactly gasping for air but damn close. “Take five, get water, and then we’ll regroup for drills.”
The boys all run toward their bags, newfound energy from their youth bursting forth.
Mike watches them and then turns one hairy eyeball at me. “Shit, man. I’m in decent shape, lift weights three times a week, but hitting the treadmill ain’t nothing compared to running on uneven grass trying to keep up with those pipsqueaks.” It’s not an insult in the least. Instead, he seems pretty impressed with his team.
One side of my mouth quirks up. “I know. I work my ass off in the fields, but I don’t think I’ve actually run flat-out in way too long. It was good, though, for all of us.”
Mike nods his agreement as he puts his hands on his head. “So, drills next? What do you think?”
I squint at the boys. “First practice, you said? You know who’s got an arm and who can catch yet?”
“Nah, most of these boys have played flag football before, but not all of them, so there might be a sleeper pro.” He grins even as he says it.
“How about we do a couple of tossing drills then? See who can throw for distance, for accuracy, and with any form to speak of. And then reverse and see who can catch an easy toss.”
For the next hour, as the sun races across the sky, we do just that. A line of boys throwing to Mike and me and then us throwing to them. After a while, we gather back up in a huddle and Mike tells the boys they did a great job. He gives them a parental look of expectancy and they turn to me as one. “Thanks, Coach B!”
“Thanks for letting me jump into your practice today, guys. It was a lot of fun. You’re gonna have a great season,” I say honestly. Being back on the field, even if it’s just a bumpy field in a city park, brought back good memories, back when life was simpler, things were easier, and football was the solution to all my nonexistent problems. I don’t mention the behavior that warranted my stopping in the first place, the incident forgiven but not forgotten.
Unprompted, the boys all line up to give me another handshake and do the same with Mike, which makes me feel like my earlier lesson did some good. And then they’re off like the rambunctious kids they are, bags flying onto shoulders, loud shouts, and tumbling feet.
I watch them go, Mike at my side. “You did good today, Brutal. Those boys might not know what a treat they got, but I certainly do. You’re something else.”
I feel heat on my face, and I shake my head. “Once upon a time, maybe.”
Mike scoffs. “And today. Not many would’ve stopped to help Cooper, and even fewer would’ve helped with practice the way you did.”
“That kid’s got a mouth. He might’ve earned a little bit of that. But just a little.” I hold my thumb and finger up an inch apart. “The rest was uncalled for.”
“Agreed. So, about that . . . about practice . . .” Mike pauses, looking at me curiously. “Like I said, I’m here for Evan, but I’m just the best they got out of a nonexistent pile of options. A couple of the boys don’t have dads for various reasons. Killian lives with his grandparents, and the ones with two parents didn’t have anyone else step up to coach.” He chuckles. “Not sure if that says Jamie’s got me whipped or what because here I am.”
He holds his hands out wide and then places them on his hips. “What I’m trying to say is . . . you interested in being an assistant coach? I could sure use the help, and the boys could use the expertise.”
I shake my head no on autopilot, without even thinking it over for a second. “I don’t think so. That ain’t me. I’m no coach.”
Mike’s grin and bark of laughter are ones of disbelief. “Pretty sure there are twelve boys who’d disagree with you on that. Think it over. You don’t have to answer now. Here’s my number.” He reaches down to his bag, pulling out a piece of paper and scribbling his information down. I take it, slipping it into my back pocket. It feels heavy with possibility.
Could I? Should I?
“You’d have to pass the background check and be listed on the roster or they won’t let you on the sidelines at the games, but we can do that quickly. Plenty of time before the first game. Practices are here on Tuesdays and Thursdays at seven, Saturday mornings at ten, and the first game is several weeks away. We could use you, man. For all of it, any of it, whatever you’re willing to volunteer for.” He holds his hand out once more and I shake it firmly.
“Thank you, Mike. Truly. I’ll think about it.”
And I do. All the way home, down the paved asphalt of town, to the dirt of our driveway. I sit in the truck, not getting out and thinking.