“Henry, please!” Mom begs. He just grunts again.
“They’re grown men. They understand.”
“Anyway!” I interrupt before Mom and Dad give us any more information. “The school’s bringing me in for their summer training camp starting next month, and I’ll be coming by the school next week for a full tour and to meet the other coaches.”
“You’re gonna kill it, bro,” Cory says. I incline my head in thanks, and dinner starts in earnest.
At this table, I’m surrounded by love and support. They all have their expertise—Dad and Henry in law, Noah in entertainment, Cory in finance, and Adam in tech—but they never made me feelless thanfor taking a less intellectual route. Not intentionally, anyway. Basketball ismyarea of expertise, and I just know I’m going to kill it at this job.
June
“Robbie, I’m good, but I can’t actually make the shot if you don’t pass me the ball, dickhead!” the gangly teen shouts to his teammate across the court. Robbie glares and runs to chase down the rebound. Coach Paulson blows the whistle loud enough for it to echo in the cavernous gym and grips his clipboard so hard I worry it might snap.
“Hayes!” Paulson roars, “That’s ten laps! Get moving!”
Carter Hayes, the lanky teen with the bad attitude and easily the most talented kid on the team, rolls his eyes with all the drama of an adolescent boy and opens his mouth to talk back. Coach Paulson cuts him off with a look.
“Choose your next words wisely, Hayes. This is a basketballteam. Anyone who wants to act like this is a one-man show is welcome to audition for Theater, but they won’t be welcome in my gym. Got it?”
Boy, am I glad not to be on the receiving end of Coach Paulson’s death glare. Over the grueling interview process, we met several times, but last week when I showed up for my campus tour and ID badge was our first time interacting as colleagues.
At first glance, the five-foot eight-inch man looked unassuming with his graying mustache, a school hoodie so old thelettering was barely legible, and wrinkled khakis. He looked like someone’s dad there to pick them up for carpool, not the head coach of a team that almost made it to state last year. Yet, though I towered over him almost a full foot, his formidable stare had me forgetting that I was there to work and not actually trying to earn my spot on the varsity team as a thirty-something man.
His presence was commanding as he walked me through the locker rooms, past the weight room and the practice court, down the hall from the main court, and into his office. The more he talked about the rigorous practice schedules he’d instituted, the strict grade policy, and the honor code for all players that was upheld at games and practices, the more I wanted to impress him.
In his office, he’d given me the rundown of all the returning players from last year, including Robbie Kent and the infamous Carter Hayes. Infamous because, although he led the team in scoring from both the two- and three-point lines, he also led them in technical fouls, having been ejected from four games last season for unsportsmanlike conduct. The last ejection happened during the semi-final game, and most of the school blames him for losing their shot at the championship, especially Robbie.
Robbie is a team player and a senior this year, just like Carter. This is both of their last chances to get the attention of a scout so they can play ball after graduation. Unlike Carter, Robbie doesn’t have a shot at the NBA, but he might land a spot on a Division I team if he plays well enough this year…and assuming Carter doesn’t lose the team another key game. Because of all that baggage, Coach Paulson warned me the two would be at each other’s throats, something I’m seeing now firsthand.
Carter frowns fiercely and kicks a chair on the sidelines, but eventually, he starts running laps around the court.
“You weren’t wrong about him being a hothead,” I mutter to Paulson, who grunts in agreement and starts the next drill.
An hour and a half later, the kids are drenched in sweat, and Coach Paulson blows the whistle twice to dismiss everyone to the showers. Man, I do not miss preseason practices. Sure, the basketball clinics over the summer and sticking to my running and lifting regimen helped maintain my conditioning, but every coach I’ve had puts their team through the ringer those first few weeks. I’m pretty sure it’s in some secret coach handbook, regardless of sport, amateur or professional, that preseason practices aren’t successful until at least one player pukes in a trashcan. Seth, our junior shooting guard, is already looking a little green.
After Coach Paulson gives me a nod, I jog to catch up to Carter, who’s making his way back to the locker room but standing apart from the rest of the team.
“Hey Carter. Hold up!” I call after him. He turns with a bored expression, letting me know exactly what he thinks about being kept from his post-game shower.
“Do I know you?” he sneers, sizing me up. It’s ridiculous, considering I’ve got a couple inches and about fifty pounds of muscle on the kid. He’s definitely going to have to bulk upbefore the season’s done to survive on a college team or anywhere else.
“I’m Coach Park. I introduced myself at the beginning of practice.”
“And?” he says, contempt dripping from the single syllable. Carter isn’t my first difficult teen, but he’s definitely going to be a handful. I take a breath and remind myself that punching a kid is no way to win over my new boss or the school.
“And I wanted to talk to you about what happened earlier with Robbie. This is a big year for you and I just want to make sure we put our best—”
Carter holds up his hand.
“We?” he scoffs. “There is nowe. Not with you, not with Coach Paulson, and definitely not with any of the other sorry ass players on this team. I’m on my own out there, and I certainly don’t need help from some washed up old man who couldn’t make it in the NBA, couldn’t make it playing ball overseas, and now is stuck coaching high school kids in Brooklyn.”
Several things hit me as I stand stunned watching the teen walk away. First, he knows who I am. How else could his insults be so accurate and cut so deep? Second, he thinks I’m old. Thirty-four isn’t old! Maybe in terms of basketball, but not in terms of life. And third, I need a new tactic to reach that kid because that…was brutal as fuck.
Some of Cory’s beer dribbles down his chin, making him cough. Adam pats him on the back, studiously avoiding my eyes. Noah openly grins.Thanks a lot for the support, guys.
“Sounds like you had a rough day at work, man,” Cory says, still clearing his throat after nearly choking on his beer. I punch him in the gut; not hard enough to bruise, but hard enough so he knows what I think about being laughed at. Noah smiles wider when Cory doubles over, and Adam comes to stand between us.
“All right, guys. That’s enough. We’re supposed to be helping Damon drown his sorrows, not making them worse.”
