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“When practice is done, I expect a detailed report for two of the five teammates.”
“Excuse me?”What is he talking about?
Coach looks directly at me. “Didn’t you read the packet I gave you?”
“Some of it.”Like a teeny tiny fraction.The packet was thirty or so pages. I figured I had all week to catch up.
His jaw clenches, and I certainly read him now. He’s pissed. At me.
“Had you followed my orders, as I had asked, you would’ve known about the special assignments.”
Special assignments?
What kind of shit-fuckery is this?Who plays collegiate summer ball and has special assignments?
“Are these assignments for everyone?” I ask.
“No. They’re for the one staying at my house.”
I clamp my mouth shut as anger pulsates through my veins. Cursing would land me in more hot water, but this is such bullshit. We’re here to practice and win games. This isn’t summer school, for fuck’s sake.
Coach continues when I don’t respond, “You need to bond with five members of the team and report back with what you found. It doesn’t matter who you cover as long as Jason Fowler is in tonight’s report.”
“But—”
“You should’ve done what I told you to do.”
Christ. This is worse than boot camp. This is Professor Fellure’s biochemistry final exam level bad. The last thing I want to do is make nice with these people and then write about it. Obtaining this level of information requires me to hold conversations with them and dig deep into their history. That’s something I don’t care to do, nor do I want them digging into mine. But contrary to popular belief, I have enough sense not to argue with the coach.
“Yes, sir. I’ll get right on that.” My voice comes out sharper than I intended, but I’m beyond annoyed. I jar the truck door open when his loud voice halts me.
“You may disagree with my coaching tactics, but one thing you will learn is respect. And the last thing I’ll put up with is attitude.”
I take a deep breath, still looking across the parking lot. “Understood, sir.”
This guy made his assumptions about me before I arrived. He may peg me for an unruly punk, but he couldn’t be further from the truth. Sure, I don’t toe-the-line outside baseball or warm up to my teammates, but I never cause trouble for the team. I do the job asked of me even if it doesn’t check this guy’s perfectly squared boxes. Punishing me for not being a social butterfly is pure crap.
Crap?
Well, would you look at that? I can improve my language.
I’m still reeling over Coach’s assumptions as he catches up to me and walks by my side. Before reaching the locker room, my phone buzzes with a text. I debate whether to read it, but it’s from Marty, a friend from Bellow Bay. He’s the only one who sends updates on my dad.
Marty:I know you can’t come home, but your dad’s worse.
I sigh, which earns me a side-glance from Coach. I don’t acknowledge the text and shove the phone in my pocket. I don’t have time to deal with my dad’s bullshit today. I’ll have to address this later.
Coach comes to a halt when we reach the locker room. “When the team hits the showers, I expect you to give me fifty laps. A lap is one complete turn around the stadium.”
“On top of getting to know this Jason guy and another teammate?”
“Yes. Next time, listen to what I say.” With those parting words, Coach pivots and stalks down the hall.
I don’t mind running as much, but how am I going to squeeze time to talk to anyone? I’m still pissed when I push into the locker room. A few heads turn my way. I scan the unknown faces. Most of their glances hold curiosity more than anything, but I don’t miss the few scowls tossed my way. Unsure what I did to any of these guys, I head straight to an unoccupied locker.
Theseare the assholes he wants me to warm up to?
I’ve dropped engines in vehicles easier than that.
