Second Down - Chapter 31

Everyone was ecstatic as we got back into the fieldhouse to get changed, roughhousing and joking, sailing high on our victory.

Well, almost everyone.

“Blake! In my office. Now!”

Coach yelled a lot, even when things were going well, so it had taken me some time to adapt to his tone. I was starting to get the hang of it, at least enough to know that this wasn’t his ‘I need to see you a minute’ voice. This was his ‘you’re in deep shit’ voice.

I didn’t really have to work hard to guess what I’d done this time.

He was standing at the door and slammed it behind me when I walked through with enough force to rattle the framed photos of past Wheaton teams on the walls. I didn’t take a seat. I just stood there, put my hands behind my back, and waited for the shit storm I knew was coming.

“What in God’s name were you thinking out there? You completely abandoned the playbook. Every single play I called, you did whatever the hell you wanted instead!”

I kept my mouth shut. The way the vein pulsing in his forehead, I knew this was just the beginning.

“We have a system here, Blake. A system that’s worked for twenty years. You don’t just throw that out because you think you know better than your coaches!” He walked back behind his desk, jabbing his finger at me for emphasis. “What if those passes had been intercepted? What if their defense had figured out what you were doing or your teammates didn’t pick up on the changes you alone had decided to implement? You put the entire team at risk with that cowboy routine!”

Coach stopped pacing and planted both hands on his desk, leaning forward. “This is what audibles are for. That’s your safety valve if something’s not working. That you’re allowed to do. But completely ignoring my calls? I will not tolerate that kind of disobedience.”

Coach had worked himself up something good and his chest was still heaving as if he’d just run a sprint after he stopped yelling, apparently waiting for my response. I kept my mouth shut, waiting until he actually asked me to say something.

“Well? You got anything to say for yourself?”

“No, sir. You’re absolutely right. It’s your team, and you’re in charge.”

That seemed to catch him off guard. He blinked, some of the red draining from his face. I may not have the feelings of the person I was in the dream life, but I remembered some of the lessons.

Dream me had been chewed out by coaches, by bosses and foreman, and on two occasions by judges. That had all taught me something most people, let alone kids, seemed to never really learn. When someone is in a position of authority over you, and they’re pissed at you, no amount of reasoning or facts or good points is going to win you the argument.

Trying to get respect or save face was just going to do is piss them off more, and make things worse.

The best thing you can do is admit what you did wrong, even if it’s only wrong in their eyes. And that’s it. Don’t beg for forgiveness, don’t try to make them see reasons, and don’t try to save face. Just eat the shit you were being handed, and shut up.

If you gave them a few minutes and didn’t escalate things, they would calm down enough to be reasonable. Eventually.

“I knew I was disobeying your calls when I did it,” I continued. “I did it knowing there would be consequences. There’s no excuse for that. While it worked out and we got the win, I recognize it could have gone much worse.”

Coach Holloway sank into his chair, deflating slightly. I don’t think he expected that, and it took the wind right out of his sails.

“Oh. Well... okay then. Good. Just …. Don’t do it again.”

“May I say something, Coach?”

He waved his hand. “Go ahead.”

“While what I did was wrong, and I do recognize that it’s important to play inside your rulebook and not go rogue, I would like to ask if it’s possible we could use what we learned tonight.”

“And what is that, exactly?”

I chose my words carefully. He might have calmed down, but if I tried to throw it in his face, or make this a me versus him thing, or tried to come in with a ‘I was really right,’ it would just set him off again.

“I think it’s clear that using the same playbook every game has made us predictable. We saw that in the first half when they shut us down completely.”

Coach’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.

“I know you believe in your playbook, sir, and I’m not saying it’s wrong. I’m just saying we might be sticking to it a little too closely. I promise I won’t go rogue like that again, but I thought it might be worth just looking at ways we could be a little more versatile and expand our options.”

“Our system has worked for two decades,” he said again.

“Yes, sir, I know. But is it possible our opponents know that and are using it against us?”

Coach drummed his fingers on his desk, considering. He was really tied to the way he’d always done things. Really, really tied to it. Had tonight not been a near miracle of a comeback, I don’t think this argument would have worked, even if we’d managed some success in the second half. The way it played out, though, I hoped would be enough to finally get him to budge.

Finally he let out a long breath of air and said, “I’ll think about it.”

It wasn’t a yes, but it was better than an outright rejection. Sometimes that’s the best you can hope for with authority figures.

“That’s all I asked. Am I excused, Coach?”

“Yeah, get out of here.” He waved me toward the door, already lost in thought.

I pulled open the door and had half stepped through when he said, “Blake. That was a damn good game tonight, but don’t ever do it again.”

“Good game tonight. Even if you did give me an ulcer.”

“Yes, sir.”

***

It was freezing and dark as I turned off the side street and into the school parking lot, on my way to the outdoor track. It was wild seeing the lot almost completely empty. School didn’t start until eight, and most kids tried to cut it as close as possible to get those extra few minutes of sleep.

I looked forward to the middle of next year, when I’d have my license. If I could talk dad into getting a clunker, I could drive to school and turn my twenty-minute walk into a two-minute drive. Plus, it would make all the difference on the days it rained.

I was surprised to see not only Coach Greer, but also our conditioning coach, Coach Kerr, standing on the track, both holding coffees and looking none too pleased to be up this early either.

“Morning, Coaches,” I said. “Surprised to see you here, Coach.”

“I wanted to see what Coach Greer has planned for you so we can coordinate your conditioning program to match it,” Coach Kerr said, standing there in a t-shirt, seemingly immune to the cold.

“Let’s warm up first,” Coach Greer said. “Two easy laps, then stretching.”

I dropped my backpack and duffle bag but left on my letterman’s jacket and jogged around the track, letting my muscles loosen gradually. The cold made everything feel stiff, but by the second lap, I’d found my rhythm. After stretching, Coach Greer called me over to the straightaway. I’d even gotten warm enough to dump the jacket on my bags.

“We’ll start with fundamentals,” Coach Greer said. “Has anyone ever showed you proper arm movement technique for running?”

“Arm movement? Uhhh, I don’t think so.”

“Watch.” Coach Greer demonstrated, his arms pumping smoothly at his sides. “Elbows at ninety degrees, hands moving from cheek to cheek, face to back pocket. Keep those shoulders relaxed.”

I tried mimicking his motion, but Coach Greer shook his head.

“You’re too tense up top. Like I said, relax. You’re pumping your arms, but you’re also letting gravity do a lot of the work. Keeping it smooth will help. Your coaches taught you about coiling the muscle, right? Like a spring? I know a lot of guys feel like they have to tense up when they’re going for power, but there’s more than one way to tense your muscles up. There’s compression that helps explosion, and there’s tension that fights against it. You’re fighting yourself.”

“Even carrying the football, your free arm needs to move right. Efficiency matters,” Coach Kerr added.

I tried again, focusing on keeping my shoulders loose while maintaining the arm drive.

“Better,” Coach Greer said. “But you’re crossing midline. Arms straight back and forward, not side to side. Every bit of sideways movement is wasted energy.”

We spent fifteen minutes just on arm mechanics. Coach Greer stopped me repeatedly, tweaking small details I’d never considered before. By the end, my arms felt different. More controlled but somehow freer. Of course, we’d see how that translated when I was running with a football in my arms.

“Next, let’s look at your basic leg mechanics,” Coach Greer said. “High knees are crucial. You need to get that lift, then drive down and back into the track. That drive down lets you get extra force when you push off, pushing you forward faster. Good leg mechanics are an easy way to add some speed.”

“Like this?” I demonstrated what I thought he wanted.

“Close.” Coach Greer positioned himself next to me. “Watch my knee height. Each step should bring your thigh parallel to the ground. Then snap that foot down. You’re pushing the track behind you, not just running on top of it.”

I tried matching his movement, focusing on driving my knees up high.

“There you go,” Coach Kerr called. “That’s the explosive power we want. Use your whole leg, hip to toe.”

Coach Greer had me alternate between high knees and butt kicks, drilling the movements. Again, I wasn’t sure how this would apply, but if I did get into the open field and was trying to outrun their safety when scrambling, I guess it could come in handy to really put on the speed and outrun everyone.

“Remember,” Coach Greer said between sets, “speed isn’t just about how hard you push. It’s about directing that force the right way. Wasted movement means wasted energy.”

“And on the field,” Coach Kerr added, “wasted energy means slower cuts, weaker breaks, missed opportunities.”

I nodded, catching my breath. “I get it. It’s like the difference between just throwing punches versus throwing them with proper form.”

I’d seen that on a video online somewhere, a bunch of experts breaking down fight scenes in movies.

“Exactly. Raw power isn’t enough. You need to channel it.” He said, checking his watch. “Let’s do some high knees for thirty yards, walk back, then butt kicks. Focus on form over speed.”

As I worked through the drills, both coaches watched closely, calling out corrections. Coach Greer focused on the technical aspects: knee height, foot placement, timing. Coach Kerr studied my movement patterns, occasionally making notes in a small notebook.

“Good progress,” Coach Greer said after several rounds. “But remember, relaxed doesn’t mean loose. Think controlled power. Every movement should have purpose.”

I wiped sweat from my forehead, surprised to find myself working this hard in the cold. “It feels different when I get it right. Like I’m using less energy but moving better.”

“That’s exactly what we want,” Coach Kerr said.

After finishing learning the mechanics, Coach Greer led me to a set of starting blocks a little ways down the track.

“Coach, we won’t have those on the field,” I said.

“I know, but this is about the mechanics of acceleration. Pushing off hard from a dead stop and building momentum fast. It’ll help with your cuts and direction changes too.”

He checked the blocks and demonstrated the proper “set” position. “Hips slightly higher than shoulders, eyes down the track. You want to build tension in your legs, like the loaded spring we talked about before.”

I got into position, and Coach Greer immediately adjusted my stance. “Hips higher. Head down more, you want to drive forward, not up.”

“Like this?”

“Close. Now feel that tension building in your quads and hamstrings. When I say ‘go,’ explode forward. Push with both legs, drive those arms.”

“Go!”

I launched forward, but Coach Greer stopped me after three steps.

“You’re popping up too fast. Stay low longer, think about driving forward, not standing up.”

We worked on starts for what felt like forever. Each time, Coach Greer or Coach Kerr would point out something new, my arm drive was off, my first step wasn’t powerful enough, I wasn’t staying low enough.

“Again,” Coach Greer said. “This time, imagine you’re trying to push the track behind you with each step.”

I settled into the blocks, tensed, and exploded forward at his command. This time felt different, more powerful, more controlled.

“Much better!” Coach Kerr called out. “That’s the explosive power we’re looking for.”

Once we finished with that, Coach Greer set up cones at spaced intervals as timing gates for short sprints, one set at twenty yards and then the next at forty.

“Now let’s put it all together, doing it how you would in a game. Focus on acceleration through the whole distance.”

My first few runs were decent, but Coach Greer noticed something.

“You’re decelerating before the finish. You’re used to slowing down when you reach your target. It’s a pretty common error for a lot of new runners. In track, you run through the finish line, not to it. Same principle applies when you’re running for the end zone. Never stop until after you’ve passed your target. Don’t even slow down.”

I lined up again, determined to maintain speed through the finish. Push, drive, stay low, arms pumping. This time I focused on accelerating all the way through.

“Two-point six seconds,” Coach Greer called out. “Better. You know, if you could save a few more points off that, you’d be pretty good on the track team. Our fastest runner last year could put up about two-point four seconds for the twenty-yard dash. Okay, one more set, then we’ll move to ladder drills.”

This was closer to what I was used to, a series of connected squares laid out on the track. We used something similar in football practice.

“High knees through each square,” he demonstrated. “Quick feet, stay on your toes. Then we’ll do lateral steps, in-and-outs.”

I felt confident and thought I did pretty good, now that I was back in familiar territory.

“Lighter steps,” Coach Kerr called out. “You’re stomping through it. Think quick and nimble.”

After the ladder came cone drills, another setup I was familiar with. We weren’t spending a huge amount of time on any of these, but I figured coach wanted to get a baseline of where I was at and show me the kind of stuff we were going to be working on.

Even still, I’d felt really pushed all morning. By the time we stopped the sun was up and the parking lot was already starting to fill with cars. I also saw Miguel and Connor standing by the fence watching me. I gave them a small wave, just enough to acknowledge them without coach yelling at me for not paying attention.

“Remember,” Coach Greer said as we packed up. “Everything we did today builds on itself. The arm mechanics help with acceleration, the bounding helps with power, the ladder drills with foot speed. It all connects.”

I nodded, breathing hard. He told me to be back out Wednesday at the same time, and I was honestly looking forward to it. It felt like, finally, we were making progress.

“Good work today,” Coach Greer called as I headed for the locker room. “Keep up this kind of effort and we’ll have you sprinting for real in no time.”

I grinned. I was already looking forward to the next session.

***

Coach hadn’t been wrong about being sore. I ran a lot in football practice, but the level of running we’d done the previous morning had been way more intense than I was expected. Putting football practice with it later that afternoon and some more aggressive conditioning from Coach Kerr in conditioning class, I’d woken up feeling the pain.

It had gotten a little better by mid morning as I switched out textbooks from my locker, although I knew practice today was going to be a challenge.

I’d just closed my locker when a sudden commotion erupted behind me. I turned to find students pressed against the lockers and leaping out of the way to clear a path for a wild-eye’d, six foot Chinese girl barreling down the hallway at full sprint.

“Blake! Blake! Blake!”

I’m glad there’d been enough commotion to get my attention, because I turned just in time to for Li to come at me like a human torpedo. I dropped my bag as she launched herself at me, wrapping her arms and legs around me in a full-body tackle-hug that nearly sent us both crashing to the floor. I staggered back, barely maintaining my balance, my sore legs groaning in protest.

“I made it! I made varsity!” Li squeezed me tighter, practically vibrating with excitement. “The only freshman! Can you believe it?”

“Can’t... breathe...” I wheezed, though I couldn’t help grinning at her enthusiasm.

“Oh! Sorry!” Li unwrapped herself and dropped back to her feet, bouncing on her toes. Her usual reserved demeanor had completely vanished, replaced by pure joy. “But Blake, I did it! Coach Weyland posted the list this morning and my name was there! Right between Maria Braxton and Taylor Stine! I’m a bench player and Taylor’s backup, but I’m still on the team.”

I noticed the growing crowd of students watching us with varying degrees of amusement and curiosity. I would have thought that, at least, would get Li to calm down, since she was usually very congnesent of being the center of attention. She was so caught up in her excitement that she was completely oblivious to it.

“I knew you could do it,” I said, taking a small step back to establish some space. “You worked harder than anyone.”

“I was so nervous at first,” Li continued, words tumbling out rapid-fire. “During the final scrimmage, I kept second-guessing every move. But then I heard you yelling from the bleachers and something clicked. I remembered everything we practiced and just ... played. Like I used to do back in Houston.”

“Pretty sure your coach isn’t my biggest fan for that.”

“I don’t care! If you hadn’t been there...” Li shook her head. “You have no idea how many girls got cut. Toni Martin’s a junior and she’s been playing since elementary school. Cut. Madison Hayes is a senior and on the team last year. Cut. Coach Weyland kept us waiting forever while they deliberated.”

“See? You had nothing to worry about.”

“Oh! And my mother! Get this. I called her from the coaches office she said, in her exact words, ‘Good. Perhaps your friend isn’t an idiot after all.’“

“Wow. High praise indeed,” I deadpanned.

“From her? That’s practically a ticker-tape parade.” Li grinned. “She think’s everyone who isn’t her is an idiot. Being in the non-idiot category is like winning a nobel prize or something. She even said I could keep training with you, as long as my grades don’t slip. Which they won’t, obviously.”

The warning bell rang, causing Li to jump. She suddenly seemed to notice all the eyes on us, her cheeks flushing as her usual self-consciousness returned. 

“I should get to class,” she said, voice dropping to its normal quiet tone. “But lunch later? I’ll tell you everything about the final cuts.”

“Wouldn’t miss it. Congrats again, Li. You earned this.”

She looked around nervously and then, surprisingly, gave me one last quick hug before darting off through the dispersing crowd. I grabbed my backpack off the ground and headed to class, still smiling. It was good to see her let her hair down a little. Being that tense all the time couldn’t be good for a person. I turned and started toward my third period class when I caught sight of Melanie standing by her locker. The smile died on my face as I met her eyes. Cold, narrowed, clearly displeased. Without a word or acknowledgment, she turned and walked away, leaving me standing alone in the emptying hallway.

What the hell had I done?