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At Wednesday's practice I noticed Coach Meyers approaching the practice field. He stopped in the far corner of the end zone and watched our current team segment. His hairy arms were folded across his chest. One of his hands was placed into his armpit while the other was raised and held his chin. His dark sunglasses hid his eyes, but I knew they were looking right at me. His stoic posture indicated this wasn't some leisurely mid-afternoon stroll. This was business. He was here to evaluate me.
We rarely go full contact during our team drills with the purpose being to prevent injuries. Also, a player can only take so many hits in a season before their legs start to wear out. We instruct our players to play to the whistle, and we always blow it before the ball carrier gets taken to the ground. Well, I didn't have a whistle. Coach Brooks took mine, the same night he took my manhood. For whatever reason, I had not run to the store to buy a new one. Hell, I didn't even need to do that. We had extras in the coaches office. But it didn't feel right wearing a whistle anymore. Coach Brooks had made it clear I was not worthy enough to be blowing on a whistle. My lips were more appropriately suited to be blowing on something else. Until I was given permission again from Coach Brooks to wear a whistle, my shoulders would remain bare of this symbol of a coach's authority.
Disaster struck my team ten minutes later. As it happened, my star running back, Braxton, was running the ball up the middle when he was wrapped up by the middle linebacker after a four yard gain. Braxton fought through the tackle, but when a second and third defender came in to help out, he fell to the ground - a rare tackle seen at one of our practices. The whistle should have blown on the initial hit. The tackle should never have happened. I was upset at seeing the tackle but became more upset when I saw Braxton clutching at his ankle and writhing in pain. Everyone went silent, including the coaches. We hoped it wasn't serious. The trainer rushed onto the field to see what had happened. I cautiously approached and listened to their conversation. It did not look good. A couple minutes later, Braxton was helped up by a couple players and using them as crutches, he hopped off the field to be further evaluated.
"Fuck." I thought. I walked back to the huddle and told Coach Riley, my assistant offensive coordinator, to restart the practice.
"Let's have a quicker whistle from here on out." I said.
"Don't blame this on me." He said. "You're the head coach. Blow your own damn whistle."
"I don't have one." I was taken aback by his aggressive tone. I shouldn't have been too surprised though by this response from Coach Riley. He was always challenging me, especially on the headsets on Friday nights when he disagreed with a play call. But he had never done it in front of players. All eleven helmets in the huddle turned toward the two of us.
"Well, you should have one!" He yelled. "How can you expect to coach a practice without a whistle? We can't read your mind when you want a play stopped."
I wasn't sure how to respond. I couldn't let an assistant coach defy me like that in front of my team. I was the head coach. That kind of disrespect should be unacceptable. But I didn't know what to say. My heart was beating, and my breath was becoming shorter.
"Run the play," I said to the offense in the most forceful voice I could muster, which wasn't much. Coach Riley waited for the huddle to break before taking a couple paces in my direction and standing next to me. We stood shoulder to shoulder as we watched the players line up. I put my hands on my hips trying to imitate the image I had in my mind of Coach Brooks.
"You can't talk to me like that in front of the team." I said.
"That was your fuck up, not mine, and you know it." He chewed on his whistle as he spoke. I shifted my weight away from him. I said nothing. "Things are going downhill real fast. We've lost our last two. Now, our best player is hurt. If this ship sinks don't expect me or any of the coaches to be all noble and go down with it. We don't owe some 30 year old kid any favors. If she goes down, it's all on you."
Coach Riley didn't wait for my response, not that I had one anyway. He walked away in disgust. I peered down into the far end zone. Coach Meyers stood there for another second. His dark sunglasses pointed directly at me. He shook his head back and forth disapprovingly. Then, he turned and walked back towards the school. I watched his broad shoulders saunter away. His hand was pressed to his ear, talking on the phone. That couldn't have been a good sign for me.
I missed being an assistant coach at that moment. Head coaching came with a lot of prestige, but the pressure and stress of the job were taking their toll on me. As an assistant coach, I didn't have to deal with unhappy parents, players, assistants, or athletic directors. I could sit back and let Coach Brooks do his thing. At the end of the season, we all got state rings anyway, no matter how insignificant we really were in the grand scheme. I put my hands on my hips, and discreetly slipped my thumbs inside the waistband of my jock. I rubbed the rough material trying to see if it would evoke some kind of magical genie in the form of Coach Brooks to appear and come in and fix everything. It was a silly thought, but the more I played around with the jock, the more it became clear what I needed to do, or rather, who I needed. I needed Coach Brooks.
Later that night when I had gotten home from practice, I texted Coach Brooks. Five minutes later my phone rang.
"Hello? Coach." I answered.
"I don't do that texting bull shit. Call me next time. If I can talk I'll pick up, otherwise leave a voicemail."
"Sorry Sir."
"It's fine. Now, what do you need? Make it quick though."
I did my best to keep it brief. I felt like I was talking a million miles an hour. I explained the pressure I was under from my athletic director and how I needed to start winning or I was going to get fired. I apologized a hundred times but asked him for his advice on the game on Friday. We were playing Sheffield, a tough team with a great defense that included a defensive end that was signed to play at Notre Dame next year. Sheffield had held everyone to single digits so far, everyone except Cedar Springs who had put up 35 on them a few weeks ago.
"Run the option." Coach Brooks said, interrupting my rant about their defense in mid-sentence.
"The option? We don't do that. It's not in our playbook."
"Well that's your first problem. You should fix that. But if you want to move the ball on those guys, you've got to make them play honest. Don't let them play aggressive and downhill. Make them play assignment football and have to be disciplined. Plus, you can read that big defensive end, so you don't have to try and block him. Trust me. You won't be able to. Then, when they start overplaying that, hit them with a couple play actions."
It all made sense, perfect sense actually. Why hadn't I thought of that? Even still, I'm not sure how realistic the advice was for me. The option wasn't the easiest play to run. There are a lot of reads and timing that take place. It takes practice to get it right and do it well. It was Wednesday night. The game was Friday. How could I install the option in one day?
"That might be hard to put in with only one practice left, Sir."
"Well, it ain't my fault you don't have it in your playbook. That's your fuck up. But, you asked for my advice, and I've given it. I've gotta go anyway, boy. But trust me. The option will work." I opened my mouth to protest again, but he had already hung up the phone.
The other coaches laughed at me when I told them about trying to put in the option that day. They had the concerns I did on the phone, that it was too difficult to install in one day and that we should stick with the game plan we already had devised. I didn't spend much effort trying to convince them. I relented quickly and followed them out to the field to start practice.
Friday night rolled around, and the game was not going our way. It wasn't completely terrible though. Our defense was playing out of their mind and keeping us in it. At halftime we were down 7-0. My offense hadn't been able to move the ball into their territory all night. Missing our star running back was really hurting us right now. I walked past a mean looking Coach Meyers on my way to the locker room. He had no words for me, but the look he gave me said it all. 'Figure out a way to win or you're gone.' Hell, he might even can my ass tonight if we failed to put any points on the board. Frantically, I searched my mind for a solution. Nothing we were doing had any hope of working against their stout defense.
Outside the locker room my assistant coaches were arguing about what adjustments to make. I listened for a few seconds. None of their ideas were any good.
"Let's try the option," I said.
"Oh, give me a break," Coach Riley said. "We've talked about this. It's a stupid idea. We couldn't do that in a week, let alone during halftime!" The other coaches echoed these concerns.
"Let's just try it," I said. There was a chorus of disagreement. "Listen, we don't have to put in the whole thing. Just one simple play and then a play action pass off of it, too."
"It's not going to work," Coach Riley said again.
"We've got to try something. We haven't moved the ball across the 50 all night."
I didn't win any of them over but at least they had stopped talking. I walked into the locker room to tell the team our adjustments. I drew two plays on the board. There wasn't exactly enthusiasm from the guys about the idea, but I think they were relieved that we were going to at least attempt something new. They were tired of getting their ass kicked. I said a few more encouraging words, and we headed out for the second half.
Sheffield got the ball first. They got one first down, but our defense held strong after that and forced a punt. We took over at our own thirty yard line. I went to the option right away. It took them by surprise. My backup running back took the ball on the edge, and their linebackers were nowhere to be found. He gained twenty-two yards, and for the first time all night we had possession on their side of the field. I decided to go with a hurry-up offense, so they couldn't make adjustments. We ran it two more times; the first time for another ten yards; the second time for another seven. It was 2nd and 3. This time, we faked the option and threw a pass deep over the middle. Our receiver was wide open and walked into the endzone for a touchdown! An extra point later, and we were tied 7-7.
The rest of the game was a defensive battle. We kept trying to run the option, but now they had made their adjustments. We didn't have enough wrinkles in that play, or enough practice, to know how to continue running it to success. We traded punts back and forth. But, with less than a minute in the fourth quarter, Sheffield was driving. They had the ball at our forty. On the next play, their pass was tipped at the line and intercepted by one of our outside linebackers. Our linebacker raced down the sideline before he was finally chased down and knocked out of bounds inside their ten yard line. With fifteen seconds left in the game and no timeouts, I decided not to take any chances. We sent the field goal team out right there. The kick was good! We led 10-7 with time for only the kickoff and maybe one play. Their hail mary pass was knocked down, and we won, 10-7!
The locker room was insane after the game. The players were excited, and so were the fans. It was nice to be greeted with some smiling faces including a happy Coach Meyers. He lifted me up in a congratulatory bear hug. Gosh, that felt good! I only wish he had held me longer. It was also good that my red jockstrap was tight because the pouch had a little extra tension to hold down after being squeezed by this big grizzly bear.
I mingled around for a little bit but after all the players had headed out of the locker room to go celebrate elsewhere, I headed to Cedar Springs. I phoned Tyler on the way, but there was no answer. I texted him letting him know I was on my way. I pulled into his driveway and expected to see the usual crowd of cars, but there was only a lonesome big red chevy truck. I guess the coaches weren't coming over tonight.
I knocked on the door as I entered.
"Hello?" I called out "Tyler?"
There was no answer, but I could hear noises coming from down the hallway. I tiptoed in this direction and saw Tyler's bedroom door cracked open. This is where the noise was coming from which I could now make out to be a wet popping sound. Slowly, I pushed open the door and discovered Tyler on his knees, his hands placed on the edge of the bed for leverage while another man sat between them with his dick buried in Tyler's mouth. The man, of course, was Coach Brooks.
Coach Brooks had his eyes closed as he leaned back on the bed. He was fully enjoying the service his offensive line coach was providing. And typical of a true lineman, Tyler was selflessly giving everything he had for the man above him. I was impressed with how much of Coach Brooks' monster that Tyler could fit in his mouth. He could certainly fit much more than I could.
