Getting Schooled (Getting Some #1)(12)

Watching them reminds me of why I love this game. Why I always have.

It’s those seconds of perfect clarity—when time freezes and even your heartbeat stops. The only sound is your own breath echoing in your helmet and the only two people on the field are you and your receiver. Your vision becomes eagle-focused and everything snaps into place. And you know—you feel it in your bones—that now, now is the time. The raw energy, the strength, rushes up your spine, and you step back, pump your arm . . . and throw.

And the ball flies, swirls beautifully, not defying gravity but owning it—landing right where you’ve commanded it to go. Like you’re a master, the god of the air and sky.

And everything about it is perfect.

Perfect throw, perfect choreographed dance . . . the perfect play.

I clap my hands and pat DJ’s back as he comes in. “Nice!” I tap Lipinski’s helmet. “Beautiful! That’s how it’s done.”

And Lipinski . . . rolls his eyes.

It’s quick and shielded by his helmet, but I catch it. And I pause, open my mouth to call the little shit out . . . and then I close it. Because Lipinski is a senior, he’s feeling his oats—that cocksure, adrenaline-fueled superiority that comes with being the best and knowing it. That’s not necessarily a bad thing. I was an arrogant little prick myself, and it worked out well for me.

A kid can’t grow if he’s walking around with his coach’s foot on his neck 24/7. You have to give the leash some slack before you can snap it back—when needed.

My players huddle around me and take a knee.

“Good practice today, boys. We’ll do the same tomorrow. Go home, eat, shower, sleep.” They groan collectively, because it’s the last week of the summer. “Don’t go out with your girlfriends, don’t frigging drink, don’t stay up until two in the morning playing Xbox with your idiot friends across town.” A few of them chuckle guiltily. “Eat, shower, sleep—I’ll know if you don’t—and I’ll make it hurt tomorrow.” I scan their faces. “Now let me hear it.”

Lipinski calls it out, “Who are we?”

The team answers in one voice: “Lions!”

“Who are we?!”

“Lions!”

“Can’t be beat!”

“Can’t be beat! Can’t be beat! Lions, lions, LIONS!”

And that’s what they are—especially this year. They’re everything we’ve made them—a well-oiled machine. Disciplined, strong, cohesive—fuck yeah.



~



Before I head home, I put Snoopy in the Jeep and walk down to my classroom, where I’ll be teaching US history in a few more days. I have a good roster—especially third period—a nice mix of smart, well-behaved kids and smart, mouthy ones to keep things from being too boring. They’re juniors, which is a good age—they know the routine, know their way around, but still care enough about their grades not to tell me and my assignments to go screw myself. That tends to happen senior year.

I put a stack of rubber-band-wrapped index cards in the top drawer of the desk. It’s for the first-day assignment I always give, where I play “We Didn’t Start the Fire,” by Billy Joel and hang the lyrics around the classroom. Then, they each pick two index cards and have to give an oral report the next day on the two people or events they chose. It makes history more relevant for them—interesting—which is big for a generation of kids who are basically immediate-gratification junkies.

Child psychologists will tell you the human brain isn’t fully developed until age twenty-five, but—not to go all touchy-feely on you—I think the soul stops growing at the end of high school, and who you are when you graduate is who you’ll always be. I’ve seen it in action: if you’re a dick at eighteen—you’ll probably be a dick for life.

That’s another reason I like this job . . . because there’s still hope for these kids. No matter where they come from, who their parents are, who their dipshit friends are, we get them in this building for seven hours a day. So, if we do what we’re supposed to, set the example, listen, teach the right things, and yeah—figuratively knock them upside the head once in a while—we can help shape their souls. Change them—make them better human beings than they would’ve been without us.

That’s my theory, anyway.

I sit down in the desk chair and lean back, balancing on the hind legs like my mother always told me not to. I fold my hands behind my head, put my feet on the desk, and sigh with contentment. Because life is sweet.

It’s going to be a great year.

They’re not all great—some years suck donkey balls. My best players graduate and it’s a rebuilding year, which means a lot of L’s on the board, or sometimes you just get a crappy crop of students. But this year’s going to be awesome—I can feel it.

And then, something catches my eye outside the window in the parking lot.Someone.

And my balance goes to shit.

I swing my arms like a baby bird, hang in the air for half a second . . . and then topple back in a heap. Not my smoothest move.

But right now, it doesn’t matter.

I pull myself up to my feet, step over the chair towards the window, all the while peering at the blonde in the navy-blue pencil skirt walking across the parking lot.