Football players are assholes. I know; I'm related to their king. My older, and annoyingly overprotective, brother Jake is the star quarterback at Santa Cruz High School. I love him but hate living in his shadow. Everyone worshiping the air he breat...
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About an hour before tonight's game started, the locker room's airspace was crammed with busy but quiet sounds. Pads were shucked on and off, adjusted, and readjusted to the perfect fit. Ankles, wrists, fingers, and even toes were taped up. Cleats were tied up tight, then habitually stomped on the concrete floor until comfortable. Finally, an eerie silence of anticipation descended around the room like a class that waited before an exam.
And my eyesocket fucking tripled from swelling. Pain and heat fought over who rose to the surface of my skin, and I didn't want an ear bark from Coach, so I put on my helmet and kept my head down.
The stillness was interrupted by Coach Williams' loud stomps approaching in the last waning moments before we took the field. The cerebral part of his job was using the strength of words to inspire and motivate us to victory. None of us needed any motivation to take the pain to Santa Cruz, but every added bite of inspiration sometimes made the difference between victory and defeat.
"Listen up!" Coach barked from his drill sergeant mode. "Normally, I'd start this last little love chat off by telling you all about my 'feelings.' My hopes, my fears, all about how my bedazzled dreams of ice dancing of glory were dashed by a loose lace. A tiny oversight that I forgot to check right before I was about to unleash my big ass whooping triple axel deluxe. But, for an unchecked skate lace, I could have been the king of Icecapades. Instead, I'm stuck here coaching you sorry-ass pansies."
His standard "but for a nail" spiel, an unchecked skate lace in his case, never got old. He earned the usual amount of snorted smirks, lightening the mood before he dropped the hammer on our heads. The mental image of our two hundred and thirty pounds, straight-laced, near-militant l coach spinning around on the ice in a bedazzled leotard always produced a round of laughs.
"But, today is not the day for me to relive my failed dreams of Olympic ice dancing glory! No. Today is the day we face those bastards from Santa Cruz." Coach's mood darkened back into his standard scowl. "There's no laughing happening in their locker room right now."
"I'm going to do something different and turn my motto mojo to your team captain." He waved a heavy hand at me. "Who has some pearls of wisdom that are supposed to make the drag-ass bullshit that's plagued this team all week magically disappear and get everyone back into their happy-hate place before we take the battlefield and beat Santa Cruz."
Coach stepped back to the wall behind him, which he leaned against. A 'prove it' look crossed his face, eyebrows raised, and teeth clenched. His arms crossed over his trademark Salesian maroon polo shirt.
I suppressed an urge to roll my eyes. Thanks for the vote of confidence, Coach. "Thanks, Coach. Big, uhh, skates I'm stepping into." After riding their asses all week, scolding them like fucking children because that's how they'd acted, I wanted to smooth over any friction. They needed to know I had their back for every blade of turf grass. We needed this party started on the right foot, with a room of amped-up, testosterone-fueled warriors before I led them into battle.
