Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
Coach Panella barks at us in the weight room. The baseball team is crowded into this too-small space, stale sweat and body odor combining with the rising humidity of thirty-two young males lifting and grunting. The clanking of iron resounds, along with the screech of weights being added or removed.
My friends and I hope to make varsity this year, even though we’re sophomores, and I’m doing my damnedest to make it happen.
After several weeks of workouts, my aggrieved, inflamed muscles are finally acclimating.
I’m not typically vain but can’t help scrutinizing the differences in my physique in the bathroom mirror at home—and digging them.
My girlfriend praises these changes too, rubbing her hands over my burgeoning biceps, forearms, and pecs. Bonus.
Through winter, we’ve gotten in some practice outside, and other times, we’re in the main gymnasium working on fielding, pitching and catching, and batting in the makeshift cage.
The conditioning portion—running, sprints, and footwork drills—is a daily grind, but even there, my improved stamina translates to…all things. Maybe it’s the testosterone, but my body seems hyper focused on two acts: sex and baseball.
Our session ends, and Coach corrals us together.
“We’ve got a few more weeks until tryouts begin.
There are no reserved spots. Let me repeat that.
There are no reserved spots. Capiche? I don’t care if you played like Willie Mays last year, each one of you has the same opportunity to make the varsity or JV team.
My suggestion is you work your asses off at every practice, every workout—and on your own time.
Your performance and attitude are what we’re looking at, not how big you think your swinging dick is… got it?”
Chuckles and hums of acknowledgment resound.
“Coach?” Remy ventures.
Coach Panella gives him a hard stare.
Don’t do it, Rem.
“What if we really do have a giant dick?” He breaks into a huge smile, blue eyes lighting up.
I mash my lips together and suppress the laugh rising in my throat. The balls on Remington continuously floor me, but I love his gutsy spirit.
Coach shakes his head, tilts it toward the heavens, then levels Remy with another glare. “Kid, the only giant apparatus you’ve got is that mouth.” Guffaws ring out, but he’s quick to follow it up with a loud grumbling, “Go on and get outta here, all of you, before I make you run the bleachers.”
Everyone scuttles faster than they can spit. As I near the exit, Coach lifts his chin in my direction. “Hang back a minute, Callahan.”
Am I in trouble? I pause, and Jeremy casts me a curious glance as he exits.
Once the room empties, Coach Panella clears his throat. “Everything okay at home?”
Wasn’t expecting that. I do a quick mental inventory, confused why he’s asking. “Yeah?”
“That’s a question. You answering a question with a question?”
“No sir. Things at home are…” Never fine. “Fine.”
He stares at me, eyes searching. “Kid, I see the bruises. I see the scars. I’m not stupid. You got trouble at home?”
Fuck. This isn’t the first time a teacher has noticed, but most don’t utter a word.
And here’s the rub. What’s coach going to do about my trouble at home?
Not a fucking thing. And if he reports my father?
That sounds like a definitive reason for an ass-kicking.
So, thanks, but I’ll pass. “It’s not a tropical paradise, but I manage. ”
He nods incrementally. “Listen, you need to talk about anything…come find me. School, your parents, hell, girl trouble maybe.” He chuckles and rubs the back of his neck like he’s not sure he should’ve said that last part.
His tone turns gruffer as he places a hand on my shoulder.
He’s not a tall man, putting us practically at eye level.
“I’m just saying if you have a problem, I’m here for you.
I’ll try and help you and won’t blow smoke up your candy ass. ”
One side of my mouth lifts. “Thanks, Coach.”
He nods, the conversation over, and I’m summarily dismissed.
As uncomfortable as that was, something buried deep in my recesses appreciates that he cares.