“They wouldn’t have played me,” he says.
“You don’t know that. You don’t know why Nico was missing today. Jesus, Noah. Are you trying to get Dad fired? You can’t play, so what…Dad should lose his job, too?” I’m shouting, but the words seem to run right through my brother. He shakes my temper off and pushes forward on his crutches, moving to a few of the players on the other side of the crowd.
The buzzing sound is loud and impossible to ignore. It blares three or four times until everyone turns to see my dad standing in the center of the fight, a bullhorn in his hands, his finger pressing on a red button. He holds it the final time for several seconds, the shrill sound echoing off the bus, school, and neighboring houses.
Eventually, fists stop and bodies shift, every player and coach standing to face my dad, even the ones who I know aren’t in his corner.
My dad spins in a slow circle, looking every single person in the eyes, including me.
“I have coached for two decades. I’ve assisted before this, and I sat there on the sidelines, like many of you, on a team that had a lot of integrity and reputation for greatness. I wore Crimson in Alabama, and I wore blue and gold here. I understood what an honor it was just to put on that goddamned uniform every Friday or Saturday night.”
My father’s nostrils flare with his breath, and I can feel him struggling to remain composed—as much as he can—in the middle of his team’s self-destruction.
“What did I tell you at halftime?”
It’s silent, and my dad waits for almost a full minute before someone finally steps forward to speak. When I realize it’s Travis, I hold my breath, worried that he’s only going to make this worse.
“You said nobody’s job out here was guaranteed, sir,” Travis says.
“Damn right,” my father responds, loud and quick.
He begins to pace, and I lean against the bus, my eyes moving from him to Nico, who is watching my father quietly and respectfully. His face is bruised, and he is finally showing the wear from tonight’s game.
“Monday, we begin again. We…start over. I’m going to post a list. If you’re on that list, then you are on the team. The rest of you better show up ready to try out. Nobody is guaranteed, and I don’t give two shits who your dad or uncle is!” My father shouts his ultimatum, and a few of the coaches flinch at his choice of words. Jimmy O’Donahue snickers to himself and looks away.
“I suppose Nico gets to be on that list?” Travis says, stepping forward more, backing up his opinion. I think he was expecting others to join him, and when they don’t, he starts to sway on his feet and look around.
“You all can probably guess the few names that will be on that list. And if you think they’re going to be there, then guess what?” My dad stares into Travis’s eyes, moving closer until there are only inches between them. “That means you know who’s really playing with their heart and who’s doggin’ it. Quit pretending you don’t. And quit being an embarrassment to this program. You embarrass me, your parents, and yourselves.”
My dad holds Travis’s gaze until my brother’s best friend blinks and his eyes fall down to his feet. He knows my dad’s right, and he knows he’s acting like a child. I don’t know why he’s taking over for acting out on my brother’s aggression, but it’s not winning him any points in anyone’s eyes but Noah’s.
“I don’t want to be on that list,” Nico says, breaking the silence. Heads shift and my father turns to look at him quickly, his brow pulled in. Nico steps forward. “That’s part of the problem, Coach. I know you mean to reward hard work, but that’s just not how it comes across.”
Nico turns to look down the line of players, most of them the guys who gave up on him tonight and let him struggle.
“You all think I’m getting some sort of special treatment. I’m not stupid. I hear the shit you say—sorry Coach, no disrespect with the language,” Nico says quickly, holding up his hand. “I hear you, though. I know I’m the scholarship kid. I know that Sasha and I, and maybe Jason and Malachi over there, are the only people with brown skin on this damned team. We feel it. You don’t have to say anything guys, if you don’t want to, but you know…you all know. We feel it. You whisper about it, even when you don’t think you are. We must be getting favors. We must be here to make sure Cornwall isn’t too white. Why the hell couldn’t it be because…we’re good. Maybe we’re just…good.”