Every. Night.
He works his tail off, not just because he has colleges looking at him for scholarships, potentially giving him a way out of this town when he couldn’t afford it otherwise. But his jump shot also has given him a sort of fame in the area. Everyone knows his name, knows “Jason from Jackson,” just like once upon a time they knew a Ty from here too. The only difference is I’ll do everything in my power to see him do more than just mine coal ten years from now.
And that starts with walking in here tonight.
The moon hangs bright above, the sound of balls hitting the rubberized gym floor echoing across the parking lot. I tighten my jacket over me, trying to fill the hollowness in my chest as much as I’m trying to keep the cool air out.
I’m empty. I’m a shell, a ghost of a life that I once lived so vibrantly. But the difference tonight as opposed to the many nights before is this: I can feel me somewhere inside my body. The spark I used to feel when I woke up and looked at my day—at spending the morning mining coal next to Jiggs and Cord, dinner with Elin before practice later—is back. It’s flickering, growing, starting to burn as my confidence, the realization that I’m going to have to take my life back by the horns or watch it slip away becomes ever apparent.
And I’m not about to watch Elin or these boys drift away.
As much as I hate that Elin met with Parker, and I hate even more that I had to hear it from Pettis, it was exactly what I needed to get my shit straight.
The halogen bulbs glitter as I enter the gymnasium. Sneakers squeak against the floor as Reynolds’ whistle screams.
“Nice work!” he shouts.
I round the corner and pause by the bleachers. Dustin marches across the floor and stops inches from the coach’s face. They go at it, fingers in chests, veins popping.
“Hit the showers, Dustin!” I boom.
All heads turn to me. Jaws hit the floor. My eyes stay trained on my player.
“You heard him,” Reynolds says, his chest rising and falling from the exchange.
“He’s not the coach,” Dustin growls, turning to Reynolds. “You are.”
Reynolds doesn’t back down. “This is his team. You know that. Now hit the showers like you were told.”
No one utters a word as I traverse the room. When I reach Dustin, his eyes are wide. He’s only seen this look on my face a couple of times and neither has ended well for him.
I love this kid. I’ve even had him over for supper a few times and Elin keeps an eye on him academically. But his attitude can be something fierce, something I try to handle when it erupts at me because I get where it’s coming from. His parents left town while he was at a friend’s house when he was seven years old. He’s been in foster care ever since, moving from house to house, school to school. He’s been in Jackson for five years now, part of the team for two. I’ve heard enough stories, seen enough of his strained life, to have empathy for the boy. Yet, it’s my job to teach him to manage his anger and act like the man he’s going to be, hard life or not.
“Apologize to him,” I say through gritted teeth.
“He had us running suicides for the last twenty minutes!”
“I don’t give a shit if he had you running them all practice. You do not disrespect your coach like that. Apologize or get the hell out of here.”
A flicker of something dashes through his eyes and I make note of it.
“Everyone, come here,” I say.
The boys gather around, balls on their hips, sweat dripping off their chins. They watch me with a mixture of trepidation and respect that makes me pause.
This team, all fifteen athletes standing in front of me, are my responsibility. They’re my boys, my team, my group of kids to inspire and encourage, even if I did officially resign. I can’t let them down any more than I already have.
Taking a deep breath, I face them all.
“How are ya?” I ask.
They nod, mumble their typical “fine,” “okay,” “all right” and wait for me to continue.
“Look, guys, I want to say I’m sorry.”
“No, Coach, it’s fine—” Jason begins, but I wave him off.
“You know what? It’s not fine,” I say, looking him in the eye.
“No, it’s not,” Dustin says, squaring his shoulders.
“Where have you been?” Pauly asks, a tall kid with blonde hair.
“Yeah, Coach . . .” Their questions come at me in a flurry, some asking out of concern, other voices on the cusp of an outburst.
I take a deep breath. “Guys, give me a minute.” I run my hand through my hair. “Look, I get why you’re mad. You have every right to be. If any of you want to talk one-on-one, let me know and we can meet up after practice or do some fishing this weekend and get it all worked out, okay?”