15
I reckon I know just enough to be dangerous
Malachi—Saturday, July 2—8:05 a.m.
It was already ninety-four degrees in the shade on my old high school football field. It was early, I shouldn’t have had more than one glass of Middle Mike’s mystery punch last night, and my boys were of no help to me. Pierre, Burke, and Meshach stood on the sidelines, sipping iced coffee beverages while watching me running backward to the twenty-yard line, up to midfield, sideways toward the bench, and then back to the thirty.
“The knee looks good,” Burke said.
“Yep,” Meshach agreed.
“Not bad at all,” Pierre cosigned.
“Any one of you bums care to step onto the field and toss me a few balls or are you just going to watch me sweat for the next thirty minutes?”
“You mean for the next hour, doncha, son?” a familiar voice called out from the opposite end zone. Looking up I saw my dad coming across the field with my high school coach.
“Coach Robinette!” I jogged over and embraced the tall, broad-shouldered, graying man with a booming voice and personality to match. “What brings you out here?”
Earl Raymond Robinette, Earl Ray to his friends, had been coaching high school football in Belle Haven for over twenty-five years. He was like a second father to me. The day after I got hurt, he’d shown up at my door in Houston and said, “Let’s talk about what comes next for you.” He was the first person to tell me that I should attempt a comeback. I hadn’t been ready to hear it then, but I was damn glad he’d made the suggestion and happy as hell to see him here today.
“Now boy, we can’t have you out here half-assing your comeback. The pride of Belle Haven is at stake. I heard you’ve been trying to train on your own and that just won’t do.”
“I don’t want to put anyone out.” Actually I did. I really did need and want the help.
“C’mon now. We go too far back for all of that.” He turned to the side and blew a whistle. Five guys came running out onto the field. “Now these are some of my fellas. Dixon here is at LSU now, Riley is at Auburn, Joe is still in high school even though he’s as big as a barn, and I believe you know these two fellas.” The last two guys were NFL players: Lee played one year with the Stars before finishing his career in Seattle, and Corey and I had played against each other in more games than I could count. He was an All-Pro cornerback in San Diego. We slapped each other on the back and I high-fived the other guys.
“I appreciate this, fellas—I really do. I’ve got this one last shot and you know—”
“—it’s all or nothing,” Lee finished, nodding his head. “Man, if I had a shot to go back and play, even if one more game?”
One of the young guys said, “Hey, I just wanna get there.”
From around the side of the field came some of the production staff from Losing to Win, along with my mom and some other folks from town. Someone brought out a few coolers and it looked like a portable grill was being set up. You had to love Belle Haven. Everything was an excuse for a community get-together.
“This is awesome,” the high school kid who was built like the side of a barn said. “Think they’ll grill some ribs?”
“I’m not allowed ribs,” I mumbled grouchily.
“Man, that’s harsh!” Corey said. “One rib ain’t gonna kill ya.”
“You’re telling me?” Even before I finished speaking, I noticed Darcy, the personal trainer from hell, bounding out of the locker area heading toward us.
Coach Robinette blew his whistle. “You ladies can form a knitting circle later. Let’s get some work done. Meshach Knight?”
“Yes, sir?” my brother answered from the sidelines.
“You suit up and get your ass out here on this field. You still know how to throw a decent spiral, doncha?” Meshach had played quarterback for two years of college before he decided he was happier in a law library. I couldn’t hide my amusement as he resignedly set down his fancy mocha-choco-latte-whatever and headed to the locker room. “Burke Bisset, you get over here and set these cones out, two by two. I know you remember the drill. When you finish that, go on ahead and grab a stopwatch.”
Burke had also played high school football under Coach Robinette. He shook his head and stepped forward with swiftness. “Yes, sir.”
“And who is Fancy Pants?” Coach asked, pointing at Pierre, who did look might fancy in some severely pressed linen pants.
“That’s my agent and business manager, Pierre Picard.” I introduced him with a smirk.
“Picard, you too fancy to record some stats?”
With a deep sigh of the beleaguered, Pierre trotted out onto the field and took one of the clipboards from Coach Robinette.
Coach looked him up and down. “Do you know football, son, or are you only good with facts and figures?”
Pierre shot me a look clearly indicating he was not appreciating the verbal shellacking. He answered politely. “I reckon I know just enough to be dangerous. Are you going to start with warm-up and flexibility or go straight to agility and speed drills?”
Coach gave him approving nod. “You’ll do, Mr. Fancy.”
Meshach walked onto the field in some training gear. He knelt down and retied his shoelace. Then he paused to check out the assortment of Gatorade in one of the coolers.
Coach looked at my dad. “I know you didn’t raise any lol-lygaggers, Henry.”
“Step to, Meshach—daylight’s burning!” Henry hollered.
If looks could kill, the look Meshach sent me would have struck me down immediately. If I could have gotten away with falling down on the field to roll around laughing, I surely would have.
The whistle blew twice to signal the start of practice. “Line up along the forty-yard line, men. We’re going start with flexibility and then go straight into dip and slip, followed by quick foot fire cones. I don’t wanna hear any moaning and groaning. First one to slow us down earns wind sprints for the lot of you. Let’s go!”
Two hours, multiple drills, and three sets of wind sprints later, I dragged my tired body toward the showers. Even though I was dog tired, for the first time I actually felt like I was going to make it back.
“Mal,” Earl Ray called out to me. I almost wept at the interruption, I was so eager to get under that hot spray of water.
“Yeah, Coach?”
“You look good out there. Another four to six weeks and you’ll be back at peak level. Your speed is almost there. Plus you’re smarter now. You’ve started playing with your head instead of putting your body on the line for every play. Your hands are good.”
“Aw, thanks, Coach.” Hearing his validation pumped me up. I was really doing this.
“Don’t thank me yet. Your footwork is sloppy and your timing is off and you still take it personally when someone hits you. You ran a slant when it should have been an out, you ran post instead of skinny post. We’ve got work to do yet. I’ll be out here with you every Saturday until you’re ready to go.”
“I feel like I should pay you and the guys something for your time,” I offered.
“Boy, please—can you not tell when people are having the time of their lives? This here television show kicked in for the supplies. And with the money this little show is bringing in, we’re happy to help out.” He slapped me on the back. “You just get back out there and make us proud, that’ll be payment enough.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”
“You do that.” He nodded and walked away.
I turned back toward the showers.
“Malachi Henry!” my dad’s voice called out. Was I never going to get that shower?
“What’s up, Dad?”
“I didn’t see your girl out here, cheering you on. What’s that about?”
I knew who he was talking about, but I wasn’t going there with him right now. “I don’t have a girl, Dad.”
“You sure as hell do and you better do something to lock that woman down before someone swoops in and snatches her from right underneath your nose. I hear things, you know. There’s another fox in the henhouse and he’s angling for your chick. You might want to step your game up.” He wagged his finger at me.
Having my father preach to me about foxes and hens while telling me to step my game up was for sure going down as one of my least favorite moments in a summer filled with moments I didn’t care to repeat. Anyway, I was not chasing Carissa Wayne. I had made it clear I wanted her; the next move was hers. “If she wants me, she knows where I am.”
He barked out a laugh. “Ha! That hard-to-get shit only works if you don’t give a damn. And you, Mal? You definitely give a damn. Life is short. Football or no football, that’s a good woman. You’re not gonna find another like her and you know it.”
I sighed. “I’m tired, Dad. I’m going to get a shower, pretend I don’t smell those hot links cooking on the grill, and go sit somewhere without a camera in my face for a few hours.”
“All right, son. I hear ya talking.” He patted me on the shoulder. “Just think about it, will ya?”
When I wasn’t thinking about getting back to the NFL, I was thinking about getting back with Carissa. Those two thoughts occupied all my spare time. “You can bet on it.”