I slam my car door with the same amount of force I’d need to shoot a basketball across the length of an entire court. Even though I’ve been back home for a month, I have not adjusted. I loved living in Chicago. Everything I’d grown accustomed to was there. My favorite pizza, pub, and park to play ball at—along with the friends I used to eat, drink, and shoot hoops with.
I probably shouldn’t have left. But how in the world could I stay after being demoted from head coach to assistant coach at the high school I worked for? Last year my team ranked third in the entire state. Third! I did that, not some retired NBA player. So what if he played for the Bulls and I didn’t? I spent the last four years proving myself and all I got for my efforts was a demotion.
Beads of perspiration start to pop up across my hairline as I storm into Elk Lake High School, my alma mater and home of the mighty Crappies. Even though we’re a big fishing town, I can’t imagine how the school founders thought Crappies was the best choice for a mascot. We could have just as easily been called the Eagles or Bears. Heck, I would have even preferred the Elk LakeMourning Doves, but no, I’m the new coach of the Crappies.Someone had to have lost a bet.
“Mr. Riley!” Johnathan Cooke, the stout principal, who’s been here since I was a student, calls out. “How are you doing? It must be great to be back home!”
I respond the same way I have every day he’s said this to me. “It’s super, thanks. How are you?” I’m not a small talk kind of guy, but now that I’m back in Elk Lake, there doesn’t seem to be any way out of it. People here love to chit-chat.
Taking rapid steps across the gray laminate floor, my boss stops right in front of me before offering his standard lopsided grin. The one that looks like he’s been shot full of Novocain for a dental procedure. “You getting excited for our first big game?”
“We’ve still got a month,” I remind him. And thank goodness for that because we are not a good team. Not by a longshot.
“I can’t wait to see what you’re going to do with our guys!” he gushes enthusiastically. “We didn’t even get to districts last year.”
“I’d love to promise you great things, Johnathan, but it took me four years to get my Chicago team to state. And to be honest, we don’t have the raw talent on the Crappies that I had there.”
He waves a hand in front of his face like he’s swatting away a swarm of bees. “We’d just like to be in the top eight hundred.”
There are only eight hundred and thirty-one high schools in the state, and I’m coaching a team with practically zero aspirations.How is this my life?My talents are lost here. But instead of telling my boss that, I go with, “I think I might be able to make that happen.”
Reaching out, he claps me on the shoulder. “Good! You just let me know what you need from me.” I don’t suppose he could fulfill my wish of some decent players, so I abstain from asking.
I force as much of a smile as I can without letting my mouth morph into the grimace it wants to make. Then I walk in the direction of the gym where my team is meeting for early training. Until my arrival, they had only ever practiced after school, so they weren’t thrilled when I added a morning scrimmage once a week.
“Hey, Coach,” Decan Flynn, one of my posts calls out. “How come we had to be here at seven and you get to stroll in at seven-oh-five?”
No one from my Chicago team would have dared to ask such an impertinent question, but these guys don’t know me yet. Instead of dignifying his question with an answer, I shout out, “Everybody over here!”
Once they’re huddled around, I tell them, “You’re going to need to make a decision.” I watch as they side-eye each other, clearly wondering what I have in store for them.
When I don’t explain right away, Kenny James, aka Mr. Tiny—seriously, the kid is only five foot four inches tall—asks, “What decision?”
“You’re going to need to figure out what you want out of this sport.” I glare at them challengingly.
A kid with more nerve than determination asks, “What are our choices?”
“When I played for the Crappies,” I tell them, sounding like my grandfather waxing poetic about walking to school uphill in the snow barefoot—both ways, “we were fifth in the state.Fifth.That took a lot of work.”
“What were we last year?” one of the new players asks.
“Eight hundred and thirtieth,” I tell him. “There was only one team worse than you guys.”
Several faces turn red, followed by most eyes drifting toward the floor. “My last team was third in the state of Illinois,” I remind them for what I’m sure is the hundredth time.
“Eight hundred thirtieth?” Decan asks in shock. “I thought we were better than that.”
“You were not,” I assure him.
“Not to be a jerk, Coach, but why did you come back to Elk Lake? You could get a much better job than this,” Alfonse DeMarco says. His dad, Tony DeMarco, was in my class when I went to school here. He and his girlfriend got pregnant with Alfonse their junior year.
As much as I’m second-guessing my return to Elk Lake, I don’t want these kids to know that. They deserve to have a coach who wants to guide them. That’s why I respond, “I went to school here. I ran up and down this same court and showered in the same locker room that you guys do. I even had some of the same teachers. I came home to offer you the opportunity to be the best team you can be. But you have to put in the work.”
I feel a sense of impending doom as I stare at my audience. None of them seem the least bit fired up by my challenge. That’s when I hear a voice from the bleachers demand, “Why don’t we have a girls’ team, Mr. Riley? I know of at least six other girls besides me who want to play basketball more than any of these boneheads.”
Looking up, I watch as a tall, curly-haired brunette starts to make her way down to the court. “And you are?” I ask her.
“That’s my sister, Leah,” Decan grumbles. “Never mind her, she’s just a freshman.”
