Page 14 of Worth the Trip

The field cracked up.

Ramirez looked at me.

I shrugged. “You hired him.”

“You recommended him.”

“Because he can coach.”

“That ain’t all he do.”

From across the field, Malcolm yelled, “Stop talking about me, and come help these safeties!”

Ramirez closed his eyes for a second.

I laughed. “He got excellent hearing.”

“He got an excellent ability to get on my nerves.”

“Also documented.”

We went to work.

Practice moved the way good practices did, fast enough to demand attention and repetitive enough to expose who understood something, versus who had only memorized where to stand. Footwork, reads, corrections, reset. Again. Summer football didn’t reward boredom. If a player could only execute while he felt fresh, interested, and comfortable, I didn’t trust the skill yet.

Malik missed his first read during teamwork.

Then another.

I called him over.

He removed his helmet and wiped his forearm across his forehead. “I know.”

“Then tell me.”

“My eyes stayed inside too long.”

“And?”

“Made me late outside.”

“So, fix your eyes.”

He nodded.

That was it.

His mama didn’t need to become the explanation for every bad rep. Sometimes, a player missed a read because he missed a read, and I wasn’t about to teach Malik that being worried made him fragile enough to require different expectations.

“Again.”

He put his helmet back on and ran toward the formation.

The next rep came clean.

I gave him one nod.

He gave it back.