Page 101 of The Coach

The mood changes.

Guys straighten up.

The tension in the room is exactly what I want.

I click to the next play. A busted third-down conversion.

“Explain this to me.” I point at the screen. “Why the fuck are we running secondary routes like we don’t give a damn? You think this is high school? Do you, Travis, think that the play might not break? Are you a damn fortune teller now?”

Silence.

I turn to Dallas.

“What’s our third-down conversion rate?”

He doesn’t even look at his notes. “Thirty-eight percent.”

I nod. “Thirty-eight percent.” I look back at the players. “That’s garbage. Our defense bailed us out with those interceptions. And we can’t depend on that.”

No one moves.

I continue, “You better be ready to work. Because I don’t give a shit what the scoreboard says—we’re not good enough yet.”

I grab my coffee. Meeting over.

I should let it go.

But I don’t.

I push my players harder than usual.

Louder. Sharper.

I don’t let up. Not for a second.

And when practice ends?

I stay behind.

I hit the weight room alone, forcing myself through an extra set of deadlifts, sweat dripping, muscles screaming.

I need to burn this off.

The frustration. The restlessness. The thoughts that won’t leave me alone. Ivy.

I can do both, right?

Be locked in. Be focused. Keep my job first.

But why the fuck does it feel like I’m already losing control?

I’m mid-set, lifting heavy as hell, when I hear someone behind me.

Drew.

This motherfucker.

“Jesus, Coach,” he whistles, leaning against the squat rack. “Trying to bench press your problems away?”

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