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“Christ, Blake, they’re all acting like they just got up from the Thanksgiving dinner table or something,” my defensive coordinator mutters.
“Right? Something must be going on. Call them in, we need to get to the bottom of this shit.”
I stand there waiting as Collins gets the team over to me, crouching down while taking a knee to wait on me, and anxiously waiting to hear what I’m going to say. This isn’t the same group of kids who slaughtered Penn Holley last week, and if they don’t put some pep in their step, they’re going to get dragged through the mud and lose their hard-earned ranking. Not to mention, if their attention doesn’t shift back onto the plays, they’ll end up injured or worse
“The easiest way for a player to get hurt is to be unprepared and lax in their plays,” I state. “During our summer camps, you boys gave it your all during two-a-days and three-a-days. You learned new plays, and worked hard to ensure the existing plays were committed to memory. Last week, you led the region in rushing and passing yards, touchdowns, and possession. Yet today, you all look as though someone killed your dog. So, tell me, what the hell is going on?”
Junior, who is the only sophomore on the varsity squad, raises his hand. “Go ahead, Junior.”
“Well, Coach Blake, none of us are feeling all that well.”
“What do you mean you’re not feeling well?” I inquire. I’m unaware of any stomach bugs going around, and while I know teenage boys will push the envelope with drinking, most of the team has chosen not to go that route. I have a few who will occasionally indulge from what I’ve heard, but only after a game, and for sure none of them do drugs.
His shoulders drop and I notice he’s got sweat beading on his forehead that wasn’t there a few minutes ago. Gazing at the rest of the team, I see most of them look the same.
“Coach, we all ate the school lunch today,” Timmers states when Junior fails to speak further. “Not gonna lie, I’m not sure if I’m going to puke my guts up or shit my pants.”
Fuck. Sounds like good old fashioned food poisoning. “Any of you go to the nurse?” I ask.
“Jameson did because he threw up in sixth period,” Cordell calls out.
I look at the team again and realize Jameson is absent from practice, one day before our game. “Did he check out and go home?” I question.
“Yeah, Coach, he did,” Timmers replies.
I mutter under my breath, cursing the fact that if the rest of the team ends up as sick as it sounds like Jameson is, we’re going to end up forfeiting the game. But my boys come first because at the end of the day, this is just a game.
“Okay, boys, I suspect you all have food poisoning and it’s only going to get worse from here on out. Let’s head over to the clinic so we can get the rest of you checked out, so I know how we need to proceed.”
“What do you mean, Coach?” Junior asks, wiping at his mouth. I note he and several others have moved spots from where he was originally, and realize I need to move this fiasco along, or the staff that keeps the field in pristine condition is going to be cursing all of us.
“Thinking tomorrow’s game needs to be called off, Junior,” I reply. “Let’s move it, boys.”
“Coach, they’re our biggest rival,” Timmers ghastly states with a forlorn look crossing his face. “We can’t forfeit!” he protests.
“We can, and we will. None of you boys are in any condition to play football, and the nausea and cramping is only going to get worse,” I inform them, preparing them what they're facing while remembering my own bout with food poisoning several years ago. I thought I was dying, and at one point, was positive I had thrown up food I consumed in my earlier childhood years. I even swore I was seeing my stomach lining at one point, but my mom told me it was hallucinations from the fever.
“While you’re getting checked over, I’ll see if I can snag a bus to take you guys home. No way are any of you who drive getting behind the wheel in your condition. Your folks can come back later this evening and grab your vehicles for you.”
* * *
“Sorry, Coach,”Timmers mumbles as I drop him off.
“Not yours or anyone else’s fault, buddy,” I reply.
I only ended up taking a handful of the kids home because several ended up being transported to the hospital from the school’s clinic, and a few of the boys called their parents who came and picked them up from the resource office. Once I get done taking the bus back, I’ll be heading to the hospital to check on my boys.
Tonight’s gonna be a long night; I’ve already called the coach from the rival school, as well as the division officials. At the end of the day, I’m not worried about one loss because to date, we’re undefeated, so our team should still make the county playoffs at the end of the season.
Apparently, not only my team was impacted; it seems that anyone who ate the school lunch has taken ill. The last I heard, the principal was in communication with the superintendent to see about closing school tomorrow, and possibly Monday, to allow the kids to get better while the kitchen is completely cleaned and disinfected.
“See you Monday, Coach,” Timmers says before walking up his driveway, shoulders slumped in defeat.
“Hopefully so, man,” I whisper before heading back to the bus depot.
Time to head to the hospital. Right now, I’m glad Dusty is spending the night at my sister’s house. We do that a lot during the season since practices run so late; that way he’s able to keep to a schedule. I’ve found with his ADHD that those are a must, otherwise, he devolves, and things get ugly fast. Other than that, he’s a good kid and I’m grateful he’s mostly easy going.
Once back at the school, I turn the bus keys into the bus barn, then head to my office to grab my duffel bag before driving up to the hospital. Morris, the school janitor, is carefully mopping the floor outside the locker room.
