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But here, besides the occasional car that rolls down the street and the wind that sways through the trees, it’s quiet. All I can hear right now if I really listen closely, is the repeated sound of a whistle being blown and muffled voices.
I follow the noise to what appears to be the front gates to the field, which are sealed behind turnstiles and four unmanned “ticket” booths.
Curiosity gets the best of me as I lean my head through the gap of the gates, craning my neck to get a peek inside.
It’s smaller than I’d anticipated, even though the only visual I’ve ever had of the stadium was what I saw on TV with Gramps. I’m pretty sure the venue for my 16th birthday party was bigger than the space the field occupies. But Gramps always said, “Crawley is a small town that becomes a big part of your heart.” Maybe that just means that there is only room for this place to grow on me.
Another sound of the whistle is followed by a voice calling out, “lads, you’re absolutely smashing it. I’d better see this same energy on game day.”
Smashing it?
“Keep it up,” they encourage as I glance toward the voice that commands not only my attention but all of the players.
There’s roughly about 14 to 16 guys in total, but only one seems to draw in my gaze, and it’s not a player at all. It’s the man who stands along the side of the pitch, with one hand perched against his stubbled cheek as he surveys the field in deep thought.
Unlike the players, who appear to be wearing a mixture of Crawley uniforms, this man is dressed a step up in a form-fitting white button-down top. But it’s not the way the shirt clings to his chest that keeps my attention. No, it’s the way he’s got the sleeves tensed up around his vascular forearms.
“Coach, can we take a quick water break?” One of the players turns to ask him, catching his attention.
Coach.
He’s the coach.Good Lord.
I’d always envisioned a coach being someone much older. A person who's been through their own fair share of years in the industry and opted to return because the sport is all they’ve ever known.
The older gentleman who joins the guys on the field, setting up what appears to be a drill, is exactly what I had in mind.
But no, the Coach of Crawfield looks as though we could be the same age. Yet, he’s got a look in his eyes that tells me he is, in fact, older, more experienced, wiser. There’s something profoundly unsettling about that—I just can’t put my finger on exactly why.
The players sense his approval as he subtly tilts his chin upwards, granting permission.
As each player starts to make their way off the field and over to the bench, I sneak a quick glance back at him, only to be completely caught off guard when I realize his gaze has now fallen onto me.
“Oi!” he shouts, his face falling flat. His outburst causes the players to shift their attention back at him before they follow his intense gaze over to me.
I freeze in place. What should I do? Should I run? No, I don’t do running. But I also don’t do awkward first impressions. Ugh, think Delaney, think.
“Hey, love,” one of the players shouts, nodding in my direction with a playful smirk. “We don’t usually let fans in early, but if you want a tour, I’d be happy to take you around?—”
“Wilks!” Coach calls out in a sharp, assertive tone. “Water break’s over. Get back out there.”
The boys groan out in annoyance, playfully punching “Wilks” in the chest as they head back onto the field. “You knobhead, you always manage to ruin it for the rest of us.”
Knobhead?
What does that mean?
And why am I still standing here?
I attempt to answer the lingering questions in my mind before Coach straightens his spine, his posture tall as he begins to head in my direction. It’s clear that he’s got a purpose in mind—that purpose probably being to tell me off. Let’s just say I don’t do well with being told off. My high school gym teacher, Mr. Barnes, yelled at me once for giving up halfway through my morning laps. Let’s just say I cried so much that I was hospitalized for dehydration.
And it’s at that moment that I realize, much to my dismay, that running might be my only viable option. I bet this is my payback for complaining about Mr. Barnes’ excessive volume levels and getting him suspended for a week. It’s all coming back to bite me in the ass.
I hate that it’s come to this.
Without wasting another moment, I quickly tuck myself around the corner of the building, just in time for Coach to meet the gates.
“Hello?” I hear him call out in question. “Is someone there?”
