Old Fashioned - Becker Brothers

JordanTen days blew by in a whirl, as they often did when the school year started. For me, it was always a blur of practice and plays and drills and tapes. It was school days filled with working my players in their weightlifting classes, and evenings spent getting them ready for the first game.

It almost seemed like I’d stepped in a time warp, because here it was, Friday night.

The first game of the season.

This was what I lived for — the smell of the turf, the energy of hungry athletes buzzing in the locker room before it exploded out onto the field, the hum of the crowd anticipating what will happen. It felt like coming home to me, pacing the sidelines as I watched my team, clipboard in hand and a piece of gum in my mouth for me to chew on when what I really wanted to do was scream like a maniac.

I had learned that trick after my first three games as head coach.

Still, tonight’s game felt different than any game ever had before. Because as much as everything familiar and comfortable greeted me on that field, there was something else there, something quiet but menacing, soft but blatantly apparent.

Pressure.

The stadium lights felt like spotlights, all of them pointed at me as the residents of Stratford filled the bleachers. Everything in our town shut down on Friday nights during football season. You couldn’t find a place open to get groceries or grab a bite to eat because customer or shop owner — everyone was right here.

I crossed my arms on the sideline, clipboard in hand as I watched the team warm up. My assistant coach and defensive coordinator were on opposite sides of our half of the field, running drills, while the Red Rock Raptors swarmed the other half. I watched them just as much as I watched my own team, wondering if they would be contenders this year. They had given us a run for our money last year, with a group of juniors growing stronger — juniors who were now seniors and ready to lead their team to victory.

“Your boys look good out there tonight, coach.”

I smiled at the familiar voice coming from behind me, and when I turned, I was greeted by a crooked yellow grin.

“Let’s hope they play good, too, eh?”

Elijah Braxton was the town fixer-upper. Any kind of maintenance job that needed done, he could do it. He knew plumbing, electricity, woodwork, and more. Whether it was a broken refrigerator or a tree falling on your house — he was the man to call. He was known for being a bit of a grump — except for when it was Friday night football, of course — and a bit crazy, too. He always wore the same fedora hat, one he’d owned presumably all his life, and he talked to himself while he worked.

Perhaps what really made him crazy was that he only charged what the person could afford for his services. If you were elderly, poor, or just going through a rough time, you could pay him in hugs and a fresh batch of snickerdoodle cookies, and he’d still fix your toilet.

He was a man with gumption, and I happened to like him very much.

I first met him when I played on this very field in high school. It was hard for me not to notice him, especially since there were very few black residents in our small town. I knew, because I was one of them, and especially as a child, I’d noticed the difference in my appearance compared to the other kids I played with in town.

And compared to the kids I watched on television.

And compared to pretty much every source of my cultural exposure.

I didn’t know my exact genetic makeup, didn’t know who my parents were or why my skin was caught somewhere between being as black as Eli’s and as white as my adopted father’s, but I knew I was different.

For a long time, I felt caught in the middle of something I couldn’t quite put a name to.

I stopped trying to figure it out somewhere in my late twenties, deciding instead to just be me and let others put labels on me if they felt it was necessary.

I didn’t need labels.

And I wouldn’t live within the confines of them, either.

The point was that since the day I first saw him there, Eli had stood out in a sea of white in those bleachers. He was a little like me in a way that most other residents in that town weren’t.

Ever since I’d been head coach, he’d been at every home game, and some of the away games, too. He was one of our biggest fans, and he was never shy to tell me what he thought of the team — or of my coaching.