Page 3 of The Coach

I knew they thought I was being a jerk. At their age, I would’ve thought the same. But I wasn’t here to be liked. I had a job to do and I didn’t need to be their friend to do it. “All right. Now that we’re all here, let’s start with a weigh-in. I see we have six first-year students who are joining the team. We need to put you boys in the right weight category. As for the rest of you, who knows what y’all did to yourself during the summer. Before we begin training, I need to confirm you’re all still within the limits of your weight class, okay?” They voiced their assent in a collective murmur, and I moved to the scale in the corner, clipboard still in hand. “All right. When I call out your name, come up and step onto the scale. You can leave your unitards on, but I recommend you take your shoes off.”

The boys lined up and, one by one, got up on the scale while I wrote down their weight beside each of their names. It helped me not only to check up on their level of fitness, but also to put a face beside the name. The six new additions all met the requirements and officially became a part of the team. Most of the old gang managed to keep the same weight as last year, but when I came to Dean Miller, the scale suddenly went up. The boy went from 215 to almost 220 pounds.

“Looks like someone has been munching on too many brownies,” said that kid who was late, Finn Collins, eliciting a chorus of chuckles from the rest of the team.

“No, that can’t be!” Dean complained and started to strip. “Let me take this off and try again.”

Noting the kid’s stocky build, I said, “I think the singlet’s the least of your problems, Miller.” The boys chuckled again, but one of them—Tyler Davidson, the other boy who was late—looked at me with something akin to resentment in his dark eyes. Was he still mad at me for berating him in front of his buddies? His eyes turned sad when he looked at Dean struggling to get out of his jersey, and I realized it was not that. He didn’t approve of my making fun of his teammate’s weight. And by God, he was right. The neutral insults and impartial name-calling were one thing—they were commonplace in any competitive sport, and every player knew that they meant nothing. But I should’ve known better than to fat-shame a young, impressionable kid. I made the cardinal mistake of making it personal. That was the difference between good coaches and bad ones. And that little shit, Tyler Davidson, called me on it without saying a word.

Dean stepped onto the scale again, wearing only a jockstrap. But when the machine showed the same result, he peeled it off in desperation and tried his luck for the third time, buck-naked.

“At least we know your dick’s not adding to the weight,” one of the boys said, and the whole team laughed. Except for Tyler.

“That’s enough,” I said, not too harshly, allowing them a moment to bond over poor Dean’s misery. Boys will be boys and all that. How hypocritical to reprove them for doing the same thing I did just a moment ago. But if I apologize now, it might signal weakness. So I did the next best thing and tried to mollify the situation. “Look, Miller, you’re still below the max allowed limit. The only difference is, now you’ll be put in a Super Heavyweight class. Embrace it. Lean into it, and use it to your advantage. You’re our heaviest player, which means you have the most potential to wipe the floor with any of these guys. All right?”

“Yes, coach,” Dean said as he pulled his jockstrap on. I caught Tyler looking at me, his eyes sharp, assessing, like he was measuring me against some internal standard. But the moment our eyes met, he turned his gaze away. I guess I won’t win any Favorite Teacher Awards with him any time soon. Well, who the fuck cared, anyway.

The rest of the weigh-in went by without further surprises. “Okay, you’ll be paired up with the teammate closest to your weight. This person will be your match for this entire semester. After the winter break, when Coach Simmons gets back, we’ll have another weigh-in and make further adjustments, if necessary. Now, I’ll readyour names from the lightest-weighted guy to the heaviest—”

“That would be Dean,” someone said and the whole team snickered, but I chose to ignore it.

“—and when you hear your name, you are to stand next to the person I called out before you. Got it?” After I went through all twenty names on the list, the team was divided into ten pairs. Several of the boys were so close to each other weight-wise that I could switch and mix the pairs up if the need arose. “All right, let’s start with some warm-ups now,” I said, dropping the clipboard on the chair and clapping my hands together. The sound reverberated around the gym, a call to action. “Circle up.”

The boys moved into a formation, their movements fluid and practiced. I started them with a light jog around the gym to raise their heart rate. Next up were the dynamic stretches, focusing on flexibility and mobility, finally easing them into drill warm-ups—shadow wrestling, stance-and-motion drills, and hand-fighting drills to get them prepared mentally. Twenty minutes later, the real practice began.

First, we did Takedowns, Escapes and Reversals, Mat Returns, and Top Control for about half an hour. Then came live wrestling, simulating real match scenarios for another half an hour. Monitoring everything, I provided real-time feedback, demonstrating the moves through example, feeling the rhythm of their breaths,the collective heartbeat of the team. I watched them closely, correcting the form where necessary, noting the strengths and weaknesses, the subtle dynamics of their interactions.

Moving between them as the practice progressed, I began to see them with more clarity, not just as athletes but as individuals. There was Scott Bailey, the de facto leader, his outward confidence masking a fear of failure. Next to him was Alex Rodriguez, smaller but quick, his movements precise and calculated. Derek Ferrelli and Jared Kaminski were two new team members who showed promise. Dean Miller had already made himself hard to forget. And then there were those two, the inseparable late arrivals: Finn Collins, the joker of the team, and Tyler Davidson, the quiet one. I caught his eyes on me a few more times, but I couldn’t discern the emotion behind his gaze.

When I came close to him, I paused and observed him exercise for a few moments. His muscles were taut beneath smooth ivory skin, the singlet clinging to his sweat-slicked body. The kid was skilled, no doubt about it, but his skill was matched by a deep-seated control, a caution in his grapples that spoke of an inner restraint. Why did he hold back?

Realizing I’d lingered a moment too long, I kept going. “Good, keep it up!” I encouraged them, moving across the gym, offering further pointers, corrections. My voice became part of the rhythm, a steady pulse guiding themthrough the motions. The last half an hour was reserved for Conditioning: sprints, circuit training, and high-paced drills to improve endurance. Their breathing became loud and labored, fatigue clearly setting in, but they kept pushing their limits.

“All right, time for cool-down,” I announced at last. Showing them static stretches to improve flexibility and reduce muscle soreness, I finished them with a few basic exercises, planks and leg raises, for strengthening the core.

Two and a half hours after we began, the practice was over. The boys were panting, sprawled across the mats, their faces flushed with exertion. I think I saw a new respect in their eyes, a tentative acceptance. They had tested me, as much as I had tested them, and I believe we had passed each other’s scrutiny.

“Listen up, gang,” I said, as they gathered on the mats before me. “You did good. But if you want to go pro—if you want to win championships—you need to be the best! I want to see commitment and drive, I want to see the fire in your eyes! If you’re not serious about this, then do us all a favor and drop the fuck out now, before I kick your sorry ass off the team myself!” Since nobody took me up on that offer, I continued. “I only train winners, so if you stay, I presume you want to be one. All right? All right. We’re in this together now. We’ll push harder, go further. And come Championship Season, we’ll win the fucking NCAA nationals!”

“YEAH!” a thunder of shouts exploded all around me.

“Now hit the showers! See you tomorrow, same time.”

They cheered, a chorus of delight, and as they scurried to the locker room, I noticed the spark of something new in their expressions. Excitement, perhaps, or a renewed sense of purpose. Today was just the beginning, the first step on a path that we would carve together. The road ahead might be tough, the challenges great, but there was strength in unity, in the shared pursuit of a common goal. That was always the best part of being an athlete for me. I was no longer an outsider. I was their coach, and we were a team.

As they left, I lagged behind for a moment, looking around the empty gym. The mats lay silent, but the echoes of our practice remained, a promise of what was to come. After everything that happened in the last few years, this was a clean break I needed so desperately. A new start. My old life in Boston already seemed a galaxy away, faded like an old photograph.

Yet I could almost feel Jen beside me, see her in the corner of my eye, smiling like she always did when she wanted to push me into something I wouldn’t normally do. Clenching my fist, the wedding ring digging into my flesh, I took a deep breath and willed the ghost away. Maybe this job really was meant to be my salvation. Or that’s too much to hope for?

3. Tyler

Someone fumbling with the door handle woke me up. There was muted laughter and some whispering before the key turned, a sharp click cutting the nighttime silence, and the doors swung open. A strip of bright yellow light spilling from the hallway pierced the darkness of my dorm room. I squinted, lying still and peeping through my eyelashes at the two figures that slipped inside. Then the door shut, and all was black again.

“Shhh,” Finn’s voice came from nearby. His steps were light and measured as he navigated through the dark room. “Ty gets cranky if he doesn’t get his beauty sleep.”

A female voice giggled. It was Sandra, a girl Finn had been hooking up with. He never had a problem bringing chicks to our room and banging them with mearound, but he rarely brought the same girl twice. Until Sandra. This was the third time she was here, stumbling over the boxes and shoes scattered across the floor. By Finn’s standards, that was practically going steady. Sandra turned on her phone’s flashlight and pointed it at my bed. “Maybe he could join us?”

“What are you doing?” Finn hissed and grabbed the phone from her hand, aiming the light away. “You’ll wake him up!”

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