Coach Book – Chapter 1
The rain is so thick and heavy tonight, the wipers slap it across the windshield like a spatula spreads frosting on a birthday cake.
Hazy red comets trail the cars in front of me.
Bright white starbursts from oncoming vehicles force squints as they penetrate the violent aquarium I’m trying to drive home.
The yellowish hue of street lights line my way like a pair of pearl necklaces whose stained gems turn from spheres to oblong cotton balls though ever increasing speed and precipitation.
Dark green signs with white, unreadable lettering whiz by.
Which exit was that?
I don’t know.
It’s not mine.
The steady pounding of rain on the roof, loud crackling belches of thunder, and the occasional swoosh of my car passing another are the only sounds I notice … except for the thoughts blasting through my head one after another like automatic-weapon fire.
I turned the radio off as soon as I got into the car. There was already too much for my brain to digest.
How do I break the news to the team that Ron is out for the season? He wasn’t at practice today and I stuttered something about … ah hell… I don’t even remember. They probably know already. I’m going to have to tell them tomorrow or I’ll look like a complete fool.
I warned the kids about celebrating the conference championship. I tried to tell them to stay away from parties where there may be beer … and for God sakes, don’t ever drink any!
This could have been a state championship year at Westwood High. Now, forget it.
I should have made it plain with Ron. He’s one of those kids who has a tendency to go along with whatever anybody says.
After his dad died, his mother clung to him and he didn’t have many friends. Now he thinks the only way to keep friends is to do everything they tell him to do.
I should have known better. And he’s a senior. That’s the end of his career. I can’t believe I screwed that up.
Swoosh… another exit. I think I’ve got about three more to go.
How do I get a little more out of Chuck? He’s got all the tools. If I could just squeeze a few more ounces of sweat out of that kid, this basketball team could really do something next year.
I wish I knew more about Chuck’s head. I don’t know how hard I can push before he turns on me. He only moved into the district three years ago and his parents don’t come to any of the games.
Darn it! If I’d made a better effort to get to know his folks, maybe I’d know when enough is enough with their kid. How much trouble would that have been? The payoff could have been huge.
And then there’s Antoine, whose parents think he deserves special treatment because he’s one of the few blacks in the school and the only one on the team.
Jimminy Chrstmas! I try my damndest to treat everyone the same. Antoine is a great kid, and I’ve never had a problem with him.
But his folks think he should start. Yeh? Well, stand in line, mom and dad! You’re not the first parents who over-evaluate their kid’s athletic skills.
The only difference here is they bring race into it.
Look, I’m sorry you think the only way you’re going to get out of debt is by riding your son’s coattails to a pro basketball salary. Deal with it.
So here’s Mike Brinson, the stupid, ignorant, bigoted coach, driving his car home after a particularly bad night of practice.
Crap … was that my exit? I strain my neck back to try and catch a glimpse of the fuzzy sign.
“That’s the last thing I remember,’’ I say as a doctor stares down at me.
Man, I’ve got to stop coaching. This is driving me nuts.
