2. Landon #2
Practice moved the way good practices did, fast enough to demand attention and repetitive enough to expose who understood something, versus who had only memorized where to stand.
Footwork, reads, corrections, reset. Again.
Summer football didn’t reward boredom. If a player could only execute while he felt fresh, interested, and comfortable, I didn’t trust the skill yet.
Malik missed his first read during teamwork.
Then another.
I called him over.
He removed his helmet and wiped his forearm across his forehead. “I know.”
“Then tell me.”
“My eyes stayed inside too long.”
“And?”
“Made me late outside.”
“So, fix your eyes.”
He nodded.
That was it.
His mama didn’t need to become the explanation for every bad rep. Sometimes, a player missed a read because he missed a read, and I wasn’t about to teach Malik that being worried made him fragile enough to require different expectations.
“Again.”
He put his helmet back on and ran toward the formation.
The next rep came clean.
I gave him one nod.
He gave it back.
We kept moving.
Practice ended a little after noon with forty-eight tired legs headed toward the locker room and one offensive lineman finding Jesus somewhere during the final conditioning period.
“Coach, I swear I ain’t never missing another conditioning day.”
I zipped my duffel. “I’ve heard your testimony before.”
“I’m serious this time.”
“Monday will reveal the fruit.”
Malcolm walked past us, carrying a bag of equipment. “Man said reveal the fruit. You better stop skipping before Coach Brooks turns conditioning into Bible study.”
The lineman frowned. “Why you always in somebody’s conversation?”
“Community engagement.”
“Go away.”
“See you tomorrow.”
Malcolm kept moving like he hadn’t been dismissed.
Malik caught me near the equipment cart a few minutes later, sweat darkening the collar of his shirt but his shoulders sitting closer to their usual position.
“Coach.”
“Wassup?”
“I ate breakfast.”
I nodded solemnly. “Proud moment for the program.”
He laughed. “You told me to.”
“I tell you a lot of things.”
“Mama texted me too. She’s up today.”
“Good.”
“She said I can call after she eats.”
“Then call her.”
He adjusted his backpack, and I nodded toward the front pocket. “You eat the chocolate?”
“Nah.”
“Take it home to her.”
“You gave it to me.”
“And I no longer own it. Free-market principles.”
He laughed. “You got a degree for everything?”
“Several, actually.”
“Man.”
“Get outta here.”
Malik headed toward the locker room, smiling, and I watched long enough to see him disappear through the door before reaching for my whistle.
“You thinking again.”
Malcolm dropped onto the equipment cart beside me with one leg stretched in front of him.
“I do that sometimes.”
“Dangerous hobby.”
“You should try it.”
“Nah. I protect my peace.”
“You don’t know what peace is.”
“I know enough to recognize when somebody else ain’t got none.”
I looked at him.
He grinned. “See?”
“See what?”
“You doing it again.”
“Doing what?”
“Thinking like the answer might file a report if you stare hard enough.”
“Man, shut up.”
His laugh followed as he leaned back against the cart. We sat there for a minute, watching the last players disappear inside before he nodded toward the locker room.
“For real, Malik straight?”
“As much as he can be today.”
Malcolm nodded, then looked at me. “You good?”
I frowned. “Why wouldn’t I be?”
“’Cause you collect people.”
“I coach people.”
“Mhm.”
“That’s literally my job.”
“Lando.”
“What?”
He studied me for a second, apparently deciding how committed he was to whatever argument he’d been preparing. “Never mind.”
“Excellent decision.”
Malcolm stood and grabbed an equipment bag. “You watching film tonight?”
“Probably.”
“That means yes.”
“And?”
“Nothing. Gathering evidence.”
“Of what?”
“That you don’t know how to sit your big ass down.”
I laughed. “You giving lifestyle advice now?”
“I contain multitudes.”
“That sounded borrowed.”
“I improve material wherever I find it.”
He slung the bag over one shoulder and headed toward the equipment shed.
“Ramirez sending cut-ups later?” I asked.
“Probably. You watching those too?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“Lie.”
“Get outta here.”
He turned and walked backward. “See you tomorrow, Big Dawg.”
“Unfortunately.”
“Love you too, brother.”
I shook my head as he disappeared inside.
I answered two recruiting questions from one of the graduate assistants, talked through Monday’s practice adjustments with Ramirez, and finally headed toward the parking lot.
My truck had been sitting in direct Texas sun for hours, so when I opened the driver’s door, heat came out with enough aggression to qualify as personal.
I stood there for a second. “Disrespectful.”
There was nobody around to care.
I left the door open long enough to release whatever part of hell had gotten trapped inside, slid behind the wheel, and wrapped the towel from my center console around the steering wheel.
The air-conditioning started winning somewhere near the edge of campus, and I was beginning to feel human again when my phone rang through the speakers.
Mama.
I smiled and answered. “Hey, Ma.”
“Where you at?”
“Just left practice.”
“You busy?”
“Depends.”
“On what?”
“If this conversation ends with me on a ladder, yes.”
“Boy, hush. Ain’t nobody ask you to get on no ladder.”
“So the roof’s stable?”
“The roof is fine.”
“Good. Proud of her.”
Mama laughed. “I was making dinner.”
I waited.
She waited.
“Mama.”
“What?”
“You don’t call me after practice to provide menu updates.”
“You don’t know why I called.”
“I know you.”
A pause followed.
Then she sighed. “Your daddy done convinced himself that faucet under the kitchen sink don’t need replacing.”
I smiled. “How long has it been leaking?”
“Ask him.”
“That bad?”
“He said he can fix it.”
“He probably can.”
“He probably shouldn’t.”
That made me laugh. Pops had spent most of my life believing the existence of a hardware store meant calling a professional was an insult to his manhood.
“So which one of y’all called me first?” Silence. “Mama.”
“Your daddy.”
“Knew it.”
“I didn’t ask him to.”
“I know.”
“You coming?”
Their house was less than twenty minutes away. The film waiting on my laptop would still be film, whether I watched it at two or six, and if Ramirez discovered something urgent enough to require me before then, he knew how to call.
“I’ll be there.”
“I’ll keep your plate warm.”
“I haven’t even said how long.”
“You said you coming.”
“That’s enough information?”
“For me.”
I smiled. “Love you.”
“Love you too, baby. Drive safe.”
The call ended, and I changed lanes toward my parents’ neighborhood. My family had never needed an announcement every time love entered the room. Mama cooked. Pops called without admitting he needed help. Lennox usually ate something that wasn’t his. Everybody understood the system.
The Brooks house looked almost exactly the way it had my entire life.
Same white brick. Same wraparound porch.
Same crepe myrtles Mama planted when Lennox was little, only now they were tall enough to throw shade across half the yard.
I parked behind Pops’s truck, walked through the unlocked front door, and got hit with onion, garlic, and something frying before I heard metal clanging beneath the kitchen sink.
I followed the noise.
Pops had half his body tucked inside the cabinet, one grease-stained hand wrapped around a wrench.
I leaned against the doorway and folded my arms. “You winning?”
His voice echoed from beneath the sink. “I was.”
“What happened?”
“You got here.”
I laughed. “Good to see you too.”
Pops rolled backward on the mechanic’s creeper until his face came into view. His eyes dropped immediately to my empty hands.
“You got your tools?”
“In the truck.”
“Good.”
That was his version of asking.
Pops had spent most of his life believing if his own hands could solve something, they should.
Somewhere along the way, we’d built a language that let him keep his dignity while I kept him from destroying household plumbing.
He identified the problem, I showed up with tools, and neither of us wasted time calling the arrangement assistance.
I nodded toward the cabinet. “What’s the diagnosis?”
“Cheap parts.”
“You sure?”
“You questioning me?”
“I enjoy being alive.”
His face threatened a smile before he disappeared beneath the sink again.
Mama entered, carrying two glasses of sweet tea. “I told him leave that sink alone.”
Pops answered from beneath the cabinet. “And I told her I had it.”
She handed me a glass. “You believe him?”
I took a slow sip. “Depends.”
“On what?”
“Whether y’all got running water when I leave.”
Mama laughed hard enough to brace one hand against the counter, while Pops muttered something I couldn’t hear and probably didn’t need to.
Before I could respond, Lennox came down the hallway with exactly zero interest in the plumbing situation. His eyes skipped over me and went straight to the grocery sack near the pantry.
“You brought snacks?”
“I brought tools.”
His whole face dropped. “Damn.”
Mama snapped her dish towel toward him. “Watch your mouth.”
“My bad.”
I looked at him. “That disappointing?”
“Extremely.”
“I just saw you yesterday.”
“Food relationships require consistency.”
Pops snorted. “What you know about consistency?”
“I’m consistent about eating.”
I lifted my glass. “Can’t argue with the evidence.”
Lennox came over and pulled me into a quick hug. “Still my favorite brother.”
“I’m your only brother.”
“And yet you continue to outperform expectations.”
I looked at Mama. “He been talking like this all day?”
“Unfortunately.”
“Y’all hate greatness.”
Pops’s voice came from under the sink. “You got homework?”
“I finished it.”
“When?”
“Earlier.”
Pops slid far enough out of the cabinet to look at him.
Lennox frowned. “Why everybody looking at me like that?”
“Historical data,” I said.
“Man.”
Mama laughed and started toward the dining room. “Food in fifteen. Y’all better have that sink fixed before then.”
A drop hit the basin.
Pops looked at me.
I looked at him.
“Well?” he asked.