It is hot as fuck out here.
But when is it not? August in most parts of Texas reminds me of the different levels of hell in Dante’s Inferno, which I only remember because all of our players are required to take Lit I. Some areas are hot and humid, and it feels like you’re cooking in slow boiling soup. Some places are hot and dry, and it seems as if your skin is burning off whenever you’re in the sun. In Flinton, we have a breeze. Yes, we’re in a relatively flat area, but we’re surrounded by rolling hills so the wind loves blowing through.
Unfortunately, in late summer that breeze is so hot, it’s like the devil himself is breathing over your shoulder.
Did I mention it’s hot as fuck out here?
“Come on, ladies!” my boss and the man in charge of this field, Hank Stellan, taunts. “We’re playing football, not practicing for a dance recital. Get your heads out of your asses.” He bangs his clipboard for effect.
I barely notice, my mind too busy searching for inconsistencies on the field and patterns we can tweak.
Hank and I have worked together with this team for over a decade, and we have our coaching practically down to a science. He watches the overall picture and screams obscenities for most of the practices. I stand with my arms crossed, chomping on my gum, scrutinizing the tiny details that can make the difference between a good player and a great player. After practice is over, Hank and I meet and discuss what we each saw.
It’s a good system; led us to four national titles in the last ten years. It’s not a sweep of all the trophies but still something to be proud of.
Scratching the back of my neck, I curse myself for not wearing sunscreen again. I can already feel the sunburn coming, and we’re not halfway through this practice. This isn’t my first rodeo. I should know better. But I keep forgetting to pick up some 50+ SPF at the store. Sheila used to make sure I always had it in stock, so it’s taking some time to get into a new routine.
I chuckle to myself. It’s been three years, Jack. You should be in a routine by now.
But I’m not. You can call me helpless or a good-ol’-boy or lazy, but I’m not really any of those things. Sheila was just really, really good at running our home. I never had to make a grocery list or put my laundry away. She did all that. I took care of the bills. She took care of the rest. It was simple and perfect for us, and I guess I still have a hard time remembering I’m the only one in charge of all that now.
What can I say? I’m a middle-aged man who settled into my ways a long time ago. This old dog likes those tricks.
My mind begins to wander as we wait for everyone to get into position on the field. I find myself thinking about the dark-haired beauty I ran into earlier today. Who does she take care of? A husband? A boyfriend? Just herself? What brought her to Flinton State and how long is she going to be here?
“Dammit!” Hank yells next to me, banging on that damn clipboard again. I chide myself for losing my focus on my job. I’m here to win football games, not troll for women. “What the hell was that? You aren’t holding a greased pig. It’s shouldn’t be that hard not to fumble.”
The players get in position again, and I cock my head as I watch our tight end’s stance. He seems hyped and jittery. That’s nothing new. Lots of our players get hopped up on endorphins when they play. But his take-off on the hike is half a second too late.
“Take-off drills,” I comment to Hank.
“He’s pushing late?”
“About half a second.” Which means he’s late getting across the field. Which means he’s having to reach that much farther to make the catch. Which means he’s screwed when a member of the opposing team is gunning for him.
“All right that’s enough, ya bunch of pansies!” Hank bellows and stomps onto the field. “Let’s set up for take-off drills.”
Someone hands me a water bottle, although I’m not sure who. I typically don’t pay much attention to anyone on the field other than the players. It’s not because I don’t appreciate them. I just get hyper-focused by my job.
As the assistant coach for the Flinton State Vikings, I’ve seen a lot of players either make it or break it on this field. My goal is to help them make it. Not only so we can win, which means job security for me, but so they can go on to have successful careers. We’ve had several kids receive very lucrative offers in the pros. Hell, two years ago, we gave the NFL the number two draft pick in the country. That means paying attention to anyone other than the guys who are actually passing the pigskin around isn’t my priority.
But I certainly appreciate whoever remembered to put ice in this water. Squeezing a good-sized gulp in my mouth, I cringe as the icy water gets that much colder when it mixes with my minty gum. It’s almost uncomfortable, despite how refreshing it is for such a hot day. I think it was 107 degrees last time I checked. But losing the gum isn’t an option. Five years ago, when Sheila got cancer for the third time, I finally quit smoking. In its place, I chew gum. Lots of it. And I suppose it keeps my breath minty fresh, so I shouldn’t complain.
“Fucking typical Texas heat,” I grumble to myself, making a petite female trainer stop and eyeball me. “Ma’am.” I nod in her direction. She shakes her head and walks away, handing out more water.
One of the guys catches my eye and I find myself watching him run drills. He’s not the biggest player on our team, but he’s definitely bulked up since he made it as a walk-on two years ago. And he hasn’t lost his grace as he’s grown. That’s a huge problem for most college players.
Let’s face it. Boys aren’t done growing until they’re practically out of college, so these guys are constantly having to relearn their bodies and how to manipulate them for maximum effectiveness. For instance, pull-ups aren’t the same after suddenly growing four inches. The floor isn’t as far away, but your arms seem longer. And that’s not the only time rapid growth makes things hard. Every time you think you know how to do something, your body changes, and you have to relearn it all over.
Crossing my arms and keeping my eyes on our guy, I watch as he explodes from the ground, attacking the tackle dummy with such force, it throws the training coach off balance. But I can see where he can do better.
“Stevens,” I call and wave him over. He rips his helmet off and jogs my direction.
“Sir?”
“How are those tackles feeling?” I keep my eyes off him and on the field. No use in making anyone on the team get too comfortable. I’m their boss, not their friend. Their feelings are of no consequence unless it carries onto the field. Don’t get me wrong, I care about each one of them on a personal level. But during workout practice is not the time or place.
“They’re feeling pretty good,” he replies. “I’m concentrating on powering through my legs like you said, and I think it’s working.”
I nod once. “Make sure you don’t forget you have an upper body.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Use your legs to explode, just like you’re doing, but once you get to your opponent, don’t forget to push off with your arms. Draw on your back muscles to make that same kind of explosion with your upper body and knock his ass to the ground.”
“Yes, sir.”
Always so polite. His mama raised him right.
“And Stevens”—I turn and stare him down—“if Coach Matthews isn’t flat on his ass after knocking into that dummy, you’re doing it wrong.”
The kid spouts a lopsided grin. I can see motivation in his eyes. As a coaching staff, we don’t put up with shit. Our players will show us the respect we deserve. There are no exceptions.
However, putting one of us down because we’re tackling too hard doesn’t count. That’s just good football.
“Yes, sir,” he says one last time and runs back to his position when I wave him off in dismissal.
Hank sidles up next to me, instinctively knowing something’s about to go down on the field. He just doesn’t know it’s Matthews yet.
“Still think he was a good addition to the starting lineup?”
I nod once. Even though Stevens wasn’t talented enough to get here on scholarship originally, he’s worked his ass off, always with a good attitude, and it’s paid off. He plays football for the love of it, not as a way to make money and get girls. At least, that’s not the vibe he gives off. When the university randomly opened up a little more scholarship money, we gave it to him. It took a bit of convincing, but I still think he was the right choice.
“Yep. He’s about to flatten, Matthews.”
We both watch as Stevens gets into position again. Just a few short seconds later, he explodes off the field, his thick legs using all their strength to launch him across the short distance. As he connects with the tackle dummy, it’s obvious his entire lower body is doing the bulk of the work. But then, just a micro-second into the exercise, his upper body gets in on it. The force of it throws Matthews, who is standing behind the dummy to hold it stable, completely off balance, and he barely has time to register that he’s going down before he ends up flat on his back.
Hank and I snicker.
“That right there is why I stand behind the decision to put him on the books,” I point out, still chuckling. Matthews frowns over at us and flips us the bird, making us laugh a little harder.
Watching one of our own get mowed down is fun sometimes, but playtime is over. We have a job to do.
Hank begins yelling and banging on that damn clipboard again. And I get back into my cross-armed, gum-chewing stance, eyes studying the field, spotting other small problems that can be fine-tuned.
This is college football. Here in Texas, this is life. And I’m damn proud to be a part of it.