Chapter Thirty-nine Vaughn
Chapter Thirty-nine
Vaughn
We arrive at the showcase just outside of Detroit Thursday evening. We drive straight to the fields to check it out. They have an indoor and outdoor complex, and we file into the indoor field for a welcome meeting.
They give us the schedule for the next two days, and several coaches talk about how excited they are to be here and what they’re looking for in players.
I’m not surprised at all to see some guys from Michigan. Two guys from Pacific are here and Thomas Rex of Springfield, fresh off his team’s State Championship.
When we head back to the hotel, Dad falls asleep right away, and I lie in bed, staring up at the ceiling. I think about Lacey.
I wonder what she’s doing. If she’s working on homework or maybe preparing for the homecoming game tomorrow night. Is she going to the dance? Did someone ask her at the last minute? And if they did, did she say yes?
It’s a long time until I finally doze off, but when the alarm goes off in the morning, I’m filled with energy. Dad looks at me curiously when I’m ready to go before him, but he doesn’t say anything.
At the fields, they have breakfast for us, and then we head outside to warm up. The wind is blowing hard today with the kind of gusts that feel like they might knock you over.
I’m just glad it’s not snowing or raining. Not because I couldn’t handle it, but because I want the conditions to be as good as possible so I know how I stack up against everyone here.
We’re put into groups and rotated around the different skill stations. The ages range as much as the skill level, with a majority being seniors about to finish high school.
“Collins,” the coach from Dublin calls my name, and I step up to the line for a thirty-meter dash. It’s the shortest of three running drills to test speed, direction, and endurance.
“That wind is wicked,” the guy before me mutters to no one in particular as he shakes his head and moves to the back of the line.
“Patrick Cooper,” the Dublin coach introduces himself to me while we wait for the timer to be ready to go again.
They triple check everything between three people and the times are entered with an official, so it takes them a minute between each of us.
“You were just a little thing the last time I saw you. I played with your dad during his second World Cup win.”
“I’ve heard. He said you had the nastiest step over he’s ever seen.”
Patrick lets out a hearty laugh. He’s still broad and muscular like the pictures I’ve seen of him when he played, but now he’s got a gray beard and some extra weight around his middle. Despite that, he looks like he could still jump into a scrimmage and beat most of the guys here.
“Let’s see what you got,” he says as he brings the whistle to his mouth.
My muscles are warm and loose, but as I get into position, I feel everything tighten and coil like a spring ready to pop. As soon as the whistle sounds, I’m off. My legs and arms pump as I focus on the cones thirty meters away. When the wind pushes against me, I push back harder.
It’s over in just a few seconds. So fast, it’s hard to have any notion of where I’ll place among the others.
Next up is the vertical jump. My dad has been stressing the importance of this one for as long as I can remember. The jump is the best representation of the explosiveness of a player. Speed is important too, but don’t overlook the jump. And we haven’t.
I spot my dad at the front of the line with the coach running this test. I think he’s a coach for Denmark. Undoubtedly Dad knows him. He knows everyone.
I try not to spend too much time watching everyone else. I don’t want to get in my head about it, but it’s hard not to watch. Especially when it’s clear a lot of guys didn’t train for this.
Dad finds me in the line and gives me a knowing glance when the senior from Pacific barely manages to hit the first bristle. He’s short, so he has that working against him, but even so his score is going to put him at a disadvantage. At least if the other coaches think anything like my dad.
I glance over to the sideline where several coaches from different teams are gathered to watch. The expressions on their faces seem to indicate they’re not impressed. Adrenaline fuels me. I’m ready and eager.
When it’s my turn, I wait for the signal and then explode up, jumping with one hand raised. The chorus of surprised murmurs feels good. Dad’s nod of approval feels even better.
The rest of the morning goes by in a similar fashion until we’ve finished four or five more drills.
They serve lunch in the same area they had breakfast. Dad is eating with the coaches, so I grab a tray and take a seat at an empty table. Before I’ve taken a bite, the Thomas Rex comes to stand across from me.
“Mind if I join you?” he asks.
I shake my head, and he takes a seat.
“You’re Jude Collins’s son,” he says as he opens his Gatorade.
“Yeah.” Sometimes I forget how big of a fan some of the guys my age are. Dad was at the end of his career by the time most of them were old enough to remember watching, but he has one of those legacies that seems to transcend his generation.
“I was looking forward to playing you guys at State. Pacific got lucky that day. Not so lucky when they played us.” He has a cocky smile, which he flashes, showing off a full mouth of black braces.
“No one wishes it had been us more,” I say to him.
“I’m Thomas Rex. People just call me Rex.” He sets his drink down and extends his hand across the table.
I stare at it a beat before shaking it. “I know who you are.”
“Then you know I’m your biggest competition here.”
It isn’t that he’s wrong, it’s just such an arrogant thing to say in a room full of talented players that it catches me off guard, and I laugh. He reminds me a little of Austin, and I decide I like him. I’m going to do everything I can to beat him in every category this weekend. But I like him.
“Which team are you thinking?” he asks like we get to take our pick.
“I just want to play. Besides, I have another year left at Frost Lake. A lot can change in a year.”
“You wouldn’t go to one of their training squads now if they offered?” he asks. Most major league teams have training programs or minor league teams. It’s how my dad got his start. He was fifteen or sixteen when he caught the eye of pro scouts.
“I want to finish out high school first.”
Rex shakes his head. “I’d leave today if they offered me a spot. I’m so ready.”
He practically vibrates with his excitement and anticipation.
I’ve always wanted to finish out my high school career playing under my dad.
There are few coaches anywhere else who have his knowledge and skill.
And that includes those in charge of major league teams. Dad wasn’t just a great player.
He’s a great coach. We might not always agree, but I’ve never hesitated to believe I’m learning from the best there is.
Rex and I chat through the lunch hour. Despite his initial arrogance, I enjoy talking with him. As we’re getting ready to leave, he says, “I heard there’s a college bar a couple blocks from the hotel. You want to check it out tonight?”
My surprise must be written all over my face.
He adds, “I told my parents I’m going to hang out with some other players. We won’t be back too late. The girls at this college are supposed to be on a whole other level of hot.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You got a girlfriend or something?” He runs his tongue over the front of his braces like he’s checking for food.
“No,” I reply, maybe a little gruffer than I intend.
“Me either. With so many girls out there, why settle down at our age, right? And when we go pro, it’ll open us up to even more women.
They’ll be screaming our names and wearing our jerseys to get our attention.
” He paints a picture that every young kid fantasizes as part of becoming a world-famous athlete.
But I know from the stories my dad tells that it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. Then again, I think he’s jaded by how things ended with my mom.
After lunch, we’re broken up into ten teams, and we finally start playing. It takes a beat to get used to a new set of teammates and a different coach, but by the end of the first game, most of us have found our rhythm.
There’s one guy who hogs the ball every time he takes possession, causing us more turnovers than necessary, but it doesn’t last long after our coach, a big Irish guy with a thick accent, yells, “Pass the fecking ball, ye gobshite.”
On the final game of the day, I finally get a chance to go up against Thomas Rex. He grins as we take the field.
“I’m having a great day. Are you sure you’re ready for this, Collins?” he asks, wiping his face with the hem of his shirt.
He has had a good day. I caught one of his games during our break, and he looked sharp out there. His conditioning is good, he’s fast, he sees the field well. If I were looking for a teammate instead of a competitor, I’d be thrilled.
But I have one thing going for me that he doesn’t: an all-consuming need for redemption. He was State MVP when it should have been me. His team hoisted the trophy up when it should have been mine.
“I’ve been ready,” I say as I get into position.
Rex chuckles and looks to the stands. “A little different with a bunch of coaches watching instead of fans, huh?”