2. Landon
Coach Ramirez liked to say football built character. I always figured it revealed it.
By the time I crossed the fifty-yard line Sunday morning, Langston’s practice field was already operating like the sun had given us permission to be productive before everybody else woke up.
A groundskeeper eased a mower along the far sideline, two graduate assistants stood beside the equipment shed, arguing over Saturday’s film like one of them had personally invented defensive coverage, and Ramirez was fighting with a blocking sled that had clearly decided cooperation wasn’t part of its preseason goals.
July heat hadn’t reached full disrespect yet, but Texas didn’t believe in easing into anything.
The back of my polo was already warm before I made it halfway across the field.
Ramirez looked up from the sled. “Took you long enough.”
I checked my watch. “I’m seven minutes early.”
“Exactly.”
I grabbed the other end and helped him drag it into position. “You ever consider maybe your clock the problem?”
“My clock ain’t never lost a football game.”
“Nah. Your offensive coordinator almost did.”
He stopped walking long enough to look at me. “You woke up choosing disrespect.”
“I woke up committed to accuracy.”
“Run some laps.”
“You can’t fire me, and you can’t beat me.”
“I can make your life difficult.”
“You been conducting that experiment for three years.”
His laugh got away from him first, and mine followed. That was usually how mornings with Ramirez went. He talked like every inconvenience required discipline, I reminded him I was grown, and somewhere in the middle, we managed to run a football program.
A mesh bag full of footballs hit the grass behind us.
“Damn. Y’all flirting already?”
I looked over my shoulder and found Malcolm Reed standing there in a black Langston polo and athletic shorts, wearing the pleased expression of a man who had intentionally said something irritating before seven in the morning and considered the day successful because of it.
Malcolm had been my best friend since high school, my brother from another mother, which unfortunately meant he’d had entirely too many years to study my nerves and learn exactly where to tap dance on them.
He coached our defensive backs, was good enough at it that nobody could reasonably tell him to shut up permanently, and treated minding his business like a character flaw he’d successfully avoided developing.
Ramirez pointed at him. “Reed, shut up.”
Malcolm frowned. “See, this why morale low.”
“Morale ain’t low.”
“Mine is.”
“You been here twelve minutes.”
“Twelve hostile minutes.”
I laughed and caught one handle of the football bag. “You need help?”
“Nah. I’m strong.”
“You complained about your shoulder yesterday.”
“That was yesterday’s shoulder.”
Ramirez stared between us. “Ain’t no way y’all got this much education between you.”
Malcolm looked at me. “He disrespects degrees when he insecure.”
“I heard that.”
“You were supposed to.”
He grabbed the bag and started toward the defensive stations before Ramirez decided conditioning applied to staff too. I watched him go, shaking my head. Malcolm had been my boy long enough for me to know there was no cure for him. Best we could do was manage the symptoms.
Players started filtering onto the field a few minutes later, some fully awake and others negotiating with consciousness.
A couple headed toward the equipment cart for gloves they should’ve remembered themselves, while everybody else found their position groups with varying levels of enthusiasm.
College athletes liked to believe coaches had forgotten what being twenty felt like.
We hadn’t. We’d just developed enough discretion not to ask questions when everybody showed up on time and functional.
Malik crossed the field alone.
I noticed the difference before I had a reason for it.
His backpack hung from one hand instead of sitting over both shoulders, his head stayed lower than usual, and the bounce normally built into his walk was missing.
Malik was usually talking before he reached the field, cracking jokes with teammates or arguing somebody down about music before practice had officially started.
That morning, he looked like he’d spent his words somewhere else.
Could’ve been nothing.
Still worth noticing.
I waited until the team split into position groups before walking over. “You good?”
Malik looked up like I’d interrupted a conversation he’d been having with himself. “Yeah.”
“Aight.” I nodded once and started away. If he wanted to leave it there, I was going to let him.
“Coach.” I turned back. He looked toward the field for a second before meeting my eyes. “My mama started chemo yesterday.”
That explained the walk.
“How’d she do?”
“Tried to act tough. Slept most of the evening.”
“My pops did the same thing after shoulder surgery. Told everybody all week he was fine, then fell asleep during the third inning of an Astros game.”
Malik gave me half a laugh. “That’s a little different.”
“It is. Tired still tired, though.”
He looked down again, and I left the space alone.
I didn’t ask if he was scared, didn’t give him a guarantee I had no authority to make, and damn sure wasn’t turning one sentence into a counseling session because he’d trusted me enough to say it.
Sometimes, a man told you exactly as much as he was ready to tell you.
Paying attention meant knowing when not to ask for more.
I reached into my duffel bag and pulled out a Hershey’s bar with almonds.
Malik stared at it. “You serious?”
“I look unserious?”
“It ain’t even eight.”
“Chocolate knows what time it is?”
That got a real laugh from him. He accepted the bar and looked at the wrapper. “You always got candy?”
“I stay prepared.”
“For what?”
“Adversity.”
“That don’t make no sense.”
“You holding the chocolate, though.”
He nodded. “Fair.”
Malik slid it into the front pocket of his backpack. “Appreciate you, Coach.”
“Appreciate me after you eat some real food too. Chocolate is morale support. Don’t misuse the intervention.”
His smile looked closer to normal. “Yes, sir.”
“Go work.”
He jogged toward his group, and I was still watching him when Malcolm appeared beside me carrying three cones beneath one arm and two footballs beneath the other.
“You handing out candy?”
“Why you in my business?”
“Because your business apparently got snacks.”
“It was for Malik.”
The joke left Malcolm’s face before I said anything else. His attention followed Malik across the field. “What’s up?”
“His mama started chemo yesterday.”
Malcolm watched him another second, then looked back at me. “Damn. He need anything?”
“He hasn’t asked.”
“Aight. If he does, let me know.”
“I will.”
That was one thing people missed about Malcolm if they paid too much attention to his mouth. He knew exactly when to close it. The seriousness lasted approximately four seconds before his eyes dropped toward my open duffel, and I knew I was about to regret letting him stand near me.
“So what else you got in there?” I stared at him. “I’m asking because I, too, have experienced hardship.”
“You walked from the parking lot.”
“In July.”
“That’s geography, Malcolm.”
“Lando, I been outside since six thirty. My testimony valid.”
I reached into the side pocket and tossed him a pack of peanut M&M’s. He caught them against his chest and immediately looked moved.
“See? This why you my brother.”
From midfield, Ramirez yelled, “Reed, quit begging!”
Malcolm tore open the package. “I ain’t begged for shit! Blessings found me!”
I laughed before I could help it.
Ramirez turned toward me. “Stop encouraging him.”
“I gave him candy, not a microphone.”
“Same thing.”
Malcolm poured several M&M’s into his palm. “These peanuts say mild adversity, though. What you passing out for heartbreak?”
“Go coach.”
“I’m trying to establish the scale.”
“Malcolm.”
“Aight.”
He jogged toward the defensive backs, still eating my candy, while Ramirez muttered something that probably required forgiveness before church service ended.
I stepped toward midfield and clapped once. “Bring it in.”
Twenty-four helmets turned in my direction as conversations died and players moved into a loose semicircle.
I waited until everybody settled before speaking.
I’d never seen much value in training grown men to respond only when somebody got louder than them.
If they knew the standard, volume shouldn’t have been the thing making it matter.
“Yesterday’s film told on us. We got tired, feet got lazy, eyes started wandering, and assignments became suggestions.”
A linebacker lowered his head.
I pointed toward him. “Don’t look at the grass now. The grass ain’t do it.”
A few laughs moved through the group.
“Fatigue doesn’t change the assignment. It tells me whether you learned it well enough to execute when your body starts negotiating with you. So today, we clean it up. I don’t need pretty. I need repeatable. If you can only do it right when you’re fresh, you don’t own it yet.”
Malik’s attention stayed on me.
“Questions?” Nobody spoke. “Good. Work.”
The huddle broke, and Malcolm immediately pointed toward his position group. “DBs with me. Whoever backpedaling like his cleats got student loans today need to fix that before I embarrass you.”
One of the sophomores yelled, “Coach, my mama like you!”
“That’s why I expect better from her son.”
The field cracked up.
Ramirez looked at me.
I shrugged. “You hired him.”
“You recommended him.”
“Because he can coach.”
“That ain’t all he do.”
From across the field, Malcolm yelled, “Stop talking about me, and come help these safeties!”
Ramirez closed his eyes for a second.
I laughed. “He got excellent hearing.”
“He got an excellent ability to get on my nerves.”
“Also documented.”
We went to work.