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“Well . . . try,” I tell him.
“I have tried.” He sighs miserably. “It doesn’t work, and then it feels like I’ve got concrete in my stomach. How am I supposed to play tonight with concrete in my gut?”
Yeah, that could be problem.
“What about the faculty bathroom?” I suggest. “I can get you in there.”
“Nah, Coach, no other place feels right. It’s gotta be my house. That’s where the magic happens.”
God damn, kids are fucking helpless these days.
“Can you hold it until after school?” I ask. “Coach Walker can drive you home then.”
Again, it’s a negative.
“That’s hours from now. The turtle is rearing its head—once it’s back in its shell, there could be muscle strain—”
I hold up my hand. “Yeah, yeah, thanks . . . I get it.”
Wilson presses his lips together. “But we have a plan.”
Oh boy.
“What’s that?”
“I go out and talk up Officer Tearney in the parking lot. My brother was in the academy with him.” Wilson motions with his hands and if we had a white board, he’d be illustrating his play on it. “I block Tearney’s view of the south exit while DJ goes out the bathroom window in the locker room and Bertucci stands guard to make sure he can get back in.”
DJ adds, “I can sprint home in ten, do the deed, and be back here in fifteen.”
Apparently, DJ shits as fast as he runs—there’s something I could’ve gone my whole damn life without knowing.
I squeeze the bridge of my nose. “And why are you telling me this?”
“We wanted to make sure you were good with it,” Wilson says. “In case things go south and we get pinched. We didn’t want you to be pissed.”
Now that’s respect. Yes, technically they should be able to take a shit without my blessing, but still, as a coach—I’m touched.
“Text me if you get busted. I’ll cover for you.” I point at DJ. “Don’t twist an ankle getting home. And save some energy for the field—don’t sprint and shit it all out.”
They all nod and we bump fists.
“Cool.”
“Thanks, Coach D.”
“You the man.”
“Good luck, boys. Go with God.” As they walk tall down the hallway, I can’t help but think . . . this is my job, this is my life, this is what I do. This is the stuff no one tells you about when you’re in college earning that teaching degree.
~ ~ ~
Operation DJ Takes a Shit is a success, and a few hours later, my team is in the locker room suiting up. Music is big—it helps them get in the right head space—so I play a lot of Metallica, some Bon Jovi and “Goodnight Saigon” by Billy Joel to instill that brotherhood, we’re-all-in-this-together kind of feel.
Parker Thompson looks small and shaken in his shoulder pads as he stands in front of Lipinski’s old locker—his new locker.
I move to the center of the room, Dean turns the music down, and all eyes turn to me, waiting for me to say the words that will inspire them, that they can take onto the field and lead them to victory.
Speeches are serious business with me. I spend the week writing them, because they matter to these kids. Some weeks are easier to write than others.
“I’m proud of you.” I look at each of their young faces. “Every one of you. You’ve worked hard, put in the time, put your heart into this team. For some of you seniors, this may be the last season you ever step out onto a field . . . and things have happened in the last few weeks that aren’t how you thought this would go.”
I turn slowly, meeting their eyes. “And I know you guys talk . . . like my mom and her club ladies . . .”
Muffled, guilty chuckles reverberate through the locker room.
“. . . and I know some of you think that I let my ego get in the way—that Lipinski’s not here because of some pissing contest between the two of us.”
I shake my head.
“It wasn’t like that. Pride’s a good thing—it makes you work hard, strive to be better . . . but I would sacrifice my pride for any one of you. I would bend and I would break, in a heartbeat, if I thought it’d make us a better team, a stronger team.”
I point at Lipinski’s locker. “Brandon’s not here because he chose not to be here. It was his choice. He wasn’t thinking of you and he sure as shit wasn’t thinking of the team when he made it. And that’s on him. It’s easy to work hard, to be proud when things are going your way . . . when all the pieces fall into place in front of you. But the true test of a man—of a team—is what happens when those unexpected hits come. When you get your teeth knocked out and you’re down on your knees . . . are you gonna stay down and whine that it wasn’t supposed to be this way? Or are you gonna stand up, with your head high, dig deep and move forward? Pull together all your intensity, all your strength, and get it fucking done—push the ball down that field.”
