Chapter 4 Weston
Weston
The varsity team needed to be in the stands, supporting the junior varsity team, by tip-off.
I also expected my boys to come to the game dressed in a professional but casual way.
I believed appearances were important and hoped to set a standard for those boys when they were older.
I’d noticed that a few of the boys couldn’t afford the luxury of a nice pair of slacks or a button-down shirt, and I made concessions.
Never excuses.
It was my duty as their coach, teacher, and role model to set an example.
During the baseball season, I wore a full uniform.
This was standard among all coaches in every league.
But during basketball season, I opted for slacks and a pullover, or something equally comfortable.
The team got off lucky. They were only dressed up during a bus ride to the game or until halftime, when they left the JV game to get ready for their own, and then it was uniform time.
I, on the other hand, had to wear this getup the entire night.
During the JV game, I stood along the wall next to the admission table, which afforded me the ability to acknowledge each player who walked in. I enjoyed greeting the parents and shooting the shit with some of the dads.
I had never taken the stance as a coach that I should be unapproachable or that my time was off limits.
The one thing I wouldn’t discuss with parents was their sons’ playing time.
If it was a question, it was something the players needed to discuss with me after practice or during my office hours.
Never before or after a game. Emotions ran much too high to have a serious conversation about playing time, especially after a game.
Most of the parents respected my decision, but there was always one in the group who thought their son was the next Michael Jordan. All I could do most days was nod, listen, and store the conversation for later.
Every sport had the parents who scouted other teams for you, whether you’d asked them to or not. It made them feel useful, when in reality, they were living out the dream they’d had when they’d started coaching their sons in rec league.
In the end, it was all good. Anytime a parent came forth with information on another team or player, I took it. I’d be remiss not to.
I nodded at the players as they entered the gym.
Some came over to chat, but most went and sat with their team and classmates.
When Cutter came in, I was momentarily stunned by the woman who followed behind him.
He said something to her and then went to the stands to sit down.
The woman stood at the table to pay and then walked to the end of the gym, which was the visitors’ section, and sat on the bottom bleacher with Cutter’s little sister.
Something about this woman made me lose focus for a moment. I tried to recall if I’d seen her before, but my mind came up blank. I watched the doorway for Cutter’s mom, knowing she’d stop over to say hi and thank me for always looking out for her son.
Throughout the JV game, I found myself watching the woman. Cutter’s sister seemed very fond of her, and instead of watching the action on the court, they were coloring together.
After halftime, my team made their way to the locker room. I used this time to walk to the other end of the gym to talk to the athletic director about absolutely nothing. In hindsight, I wished I hadn’t.
“Hi, Coach,” Cutter’s sister called out. She gave me a little wave, and when I smiled, her cheeks blushed. I hated that I didn’t know her name, or I would’ve stopped and chatted, asked her how school was, and found out who was with her.
But instead, I made eye contact with the woman and then stumbled over my feet, almost falling face-first onto the court.
If people saw, they said nothing, and I didn’t hear any audible laughing.
I was afraid to look behind me, though, out of genuine fear she .
. . this woman . . . had seen everything.
From my new vantage point, I could stare without getting caught.
She sat there, with her legs crossed, wearing jeans and a sweater.
Half her dark-brown hair was pinned up, exposing her high cheekbones, while the rest flowed down her back in soft waves.
She was polished and more put together than most of the parents in the stands, and she definitely stood out as someone who wasn’t from Grove Hill.
Every so often, she pulled her phone from her purse, typed, and then either put it away or brought the little girl toward her and snapped a photo. It made me wonder who she’d sent the picture to. Was it to Cutter’s mom?
Was it for her husband?
I angled myself to see if I could spot a ring and then chided myself for doing so. What did I care? Why did I care?
Every answer failed me because I was attracted to her and didn’t even know her.
It was like she’d heard my thoughts and looked up.
Our gazes met and held. We were maybe two or three feet from each other, and it was like no one else existed around us.
There was something raw and real about her presence.
It was like we were meant to meet in this moment, and yet I had to maintain my professionalism.
I couldn’t ask her what her name was, and there wasn’t a chance in hell I could ask Cutter.
This woman, someone who had my thoughts jumbled and my heart doing things I hadn’t felt in years, smiled. My knees knocked together, and I forced myself to rest against the wall for stability.
“You okay?” the athletic director asked.
“Yeah, a little lightheaded.” This wasn’t exactly a lie, but it also wasn’t the truth. It was more like I had lost the ability to think or function like a human.
“Do you need some water?”
I nodded and accepted the bottle from him. After twisting the cap, I took a big swig, drinking most of it down.
In a flash, the buzzer sounded, and the JV game was over. I shook my head to clear my stupor and made my way toward the locker room, already late for the pregame pep talk. How could I preach to my team about punctuality when I couldn’t even hold myself to the same standard?
When I reached the boys, they were all sitting in their chairs, waiting for me.
“Sorry I’m late, gentlemen.” I proceeded to go over the game plan, which honestly hadn’t changed from the previous games.
We discussed our defensive strategy and reminded ourselves to block out the fans and to have fun.
At the end of the night, it was a game. Someone had to win, and someone had to lose.
As a team, we walked together and waited for the warm-up music to start.
Once it did, Malik led the team out and into formation.
Before I’d even entered the gym again, I told myself I wasn’t going to look across the court and into the stands.
Yet, as soon as I made it through the doorway, I did, and she was still there.
Only now, she had her phone out, and it looked like she was taking videos of Cutter.
It struck me then that I couldn’t recall a time when Cutter’s mom, Miriam, had ever missed a game.
She was his number one fan, always in the stands, cheering for him.
Cheering for all the boys. Most of the parents were like that, which I appreciated.
As a coach, it was important for the boys to see sportsmanship among the parents. When they won, we all won.
“Wes, are you good, man?” my assistant coach and coworker, Jerome Levy, asked.
I nodded and ran my hand over my face, letting out a shallow groan. “Yeah, just . . .” What was I doing? I glanced across the court again and saw Cutter’s sister cheering, even though the boys were still in warm-ups. “Yeah, just thinking,” I told him.
Jerome and I were good friends outside of work. We rarely ever disagreed on game strategy, whether on the court or the field, and we often balanced each other out. Where Jerome preferred structure, I was more laid back. Our styles complemented each other and never confused the kids.
The horn sounded at the one-minute mark, and the boys ran toward the sideline. Jerome and I high-fived each of the guys. Our starters sat on the bench while I crouched in front of them with my whiteboard, where I’d listed who each of them would guard, and went over my half-assed game plan.
When our announcer began introducing the visitors, I handed my board to Jerome, left the rest of the pregame chat to him, and went to greet each player at half-court.
And then it was our turn. While the fans were loud for our opponent, the noise reached a body-vibrating decibel level when our announcer said, “And now your starting lineup for the Grove Hill Timberwooooooooolves.”
The boys made two lines—a tunnel of sorts—for their five teammates.
Jerome and I stood at the front of the line and held our hands out for each of the boys to slap as they ran by.
One by one, each player was announced. They ran through our line, met one of their teammates at the end for a choreographed celebration dance, and then shook hands with the officials and the opposing coach.
After the starting lineup was announced, we all stood for the national anthem, and then it was time for the tip-off.
Before I sent the guys out there, we huddled up.
“This is a big game with big emotions. We’re going up against our friends, and regardless of the outcome, we’ll still be friends.
Go out, play your game the way you know how. ” We raised our fists.
“Timberwolves on three. One, two, three,” Malik said before the five of them walked onto the court.
I sat and set my clipboard on the bench next to me.
After tip-off, I would stand and pace the length of the coach’s box, guiding the boys.
There wasn’t a doubt in my mind they knew the plays and the defensive schemes, but they were kids, and they forgot sometimes.
It was my job as their coach to give them reminders.
The whistle blew, and the official walked to center court and tossed the ball in the air.
Cutter jumped, his fingertips knocking the ball back to Malik.
The game was underway, and while my focus should have been on the boys, my eyes drifted across the court to where the woman with Cutter’s sister was.
She had her camera up, her hand moving along with the action of the game.
Jerome elbowed me. I looked at him, and he motioned toward the other end of the court. The official jogged toward the center, where the reporting table was, and reported the foul. I groaned when he displayed Malik’s number on his fingers.
I stood and clapped. “Let’s go. Hands off and slide your feet.
” I had no idea what Malik had done because my attention was elsewhere.
“No more,” I muttered to myself. If anyone heard me, my statement could easily have been for the team as well.
But mostly, it was for me. Whoever was here for Cutter shouldn’t have been any of my concern.
Despite the wild thumping my heart did each time I looked over at her, I could easily chalk the sensation up to the excitement of game night.
Yep, that’s exactly what it was.