"Yeah," Callie swallows so loud I think I hear her gulp. "There was a . . . crack . . . in the . . . floor . . . in my . . . classroom. And Garrett was helping me find spackle to . . . fill it. Don't want to risk a lawsuit."
David smacks his lips together. "Wow, that was lame. Are you sure you two went to college?"
McCarthy holds up her finger to David. "Zip it." Then she turns the finger on us. "You're already on my shit list, Daniels." She pins Callie with her beady eyes. "And now you're on my radar too, cupcake. There will be no filling of cracks on school grounds, am I clear?"
"As crystal."
"Yes, Miss McCarthy." Callie nods.
She shoos us with her hand. "Now get to class."
After one last glance at each other, Callie and I head off in opposite directions.
And I think I just discovered the fountain of youth--getting busted by your high school principal. Cause, god damn if I don't feel sixteen again.
~
Here's the thing about teenagers--they have the ability to turn even the simplest event into a major production. A life or death type of drama.
Case in point: two of my team captains, John Wilson and Anthony Bertucci, and my receiver, Damon John, approach me in the hallway just after fourth period. They're wearing their suits and ties--and serious as hell expressions.
"We've got a problem, Coach," Wilson tells me.
I step back into the classroom and the boys converge around me in a huddle.
"What's up?"
Bertucci tilts his head towards Damon John, and his voice goes low.
"DJ's gotta take a shit."
I blink at them.
Then I glance at DJ. "Congratulations. Why is this a problem?"
"I gotta go home," DJ says.
"There's a bathroom in every hallway in this building."
DJ's already shaking his head. "I can't go here. I get like . . . stage fright . . . the pipes lock down, you know?"
"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."
I watch their gazes intensify and their heads nod as the words penetrate. I step towards Parker and tap his shoulder. "Parker made a choice too. And it wasn't easy. We've asked a lot of him--a shit-ton of responsibility is riding on his shoulders. But he stepped up for you, for this school, for this team!"
My voice rises and my players get to their feet. "So, we're gonna go out there, together, and play our fucking hearts out--together. You'll make me proud and you'll make yourselves proud and we'll leave it all on the field--because that's who we are! That's what we do!"
"Hell yeah!" someone yells.
And then they all start yelling, stomping their feet and clapping their hands--fired up, like gladiators in the bowels of the Colosseum.
Wilson yells, "Who are we?"
And the answer bounces off the walls and rattles the lockers.
"Lions!"
"Who are we?" Bertucci bellows.
"Lions!"
"God damn right you are!" I point towards the locker room door that leads out to the field. "Now go be fucking heroes."
~
They end up being heroes, all right. The kind of heroes who get slaughtered--300, Spartacus kind of heroes. It's a bloodbath.
Ninety percent of football is mental, and with the shake-up in our team's leadershi
p, their heads are messed up. Parker Thompson only had two completions and even our defense played like dog shit.
I hate losing. It leaves a black, twisting feeling in my gut--an awful mix of frustration and embarrassment. Coach Saber used to tell us, "Losers lose and say--I can't do it. Winners lose--and figure out what they did wrong, so they can do better the next time."
It's a principle I try to live by . . . but it still blows.
The next day, Saturday afternoon, I lie on the couch with the shades drawn, the lights off, and Snoopy curled in a depressed puddle of fur around my feet.
He hates losing too.
There's a knock at the door and I know immediately it's not a member of my family--they know better than to disturb me in my period of mourning. I drag myself to the door and open it . . . to find Callie on my front step, graceful and glowing, looking like a ray of sunshine made flesh.
I sent her a text when I got home from the game last night--and it wasn't even dirty. I'm ashamed.
"Hey!" Her glossy, strawberry lips smile.
Callie was always beautiful, she doesn't know how to be anything else, but there's something extra now--a boldness, a womanly confidence that turns me right the hell on. Even in my sad, loser bubble--my cock perks up. He has all kinds of ideas on how sweet Callie could comfort us, each one filthier than the last.
I lean down, pecking her lips hello.
"Hey."
She runs her hand over the stubble on my jaw. "How are you doing?"
She's wearing snug jeans that hug her hips, high brown boots, a burgundy V-neck sweater that shows off her creamy neck, and her blond bouncy hair is held back by a thick black headband--giving her a sexy, Mod-Squad, '60s kind of look.
"Fine."
Yes, I grumble. And I'm probably pouting too.