“LIDO!” COACH SWANSON HOWLED. “You get that mess off of home plate!”
Benji rolled over on his back and flopped his arms out to the sides. “I can’t move, Coach. I can’t move. Aw, the ham and cheese . . . gone.”
“Clean that up, Lido.” The coach glowered at the puke. “Get some cardboard and the rake from the equipment shed to clear it. You’re gonna need some fresh dirt. Before you’re done, douse the plate with water—and get yourself cleaned up too.”
Coach Swanson stomped off to the outfield. He marched around the grass and kept a surprisingly watchful eye on the team, barking out commands sometimes to the players right in front of him or sometimes to the ones halfway across the field.
Josh kept stealing glances at Benji as he struggled with the infield rake and shoveled the mess onto a piece of wet cardboard. Dejectedly, he dumped it in a garbage barrel before raking some fresh dirt into the ground.
Swanson barked, “Lido, now water it down!”
Benji staggered back from the bathroom, struggling with both hands to control the sloshing water in the bucket. He finally made it to home plate and doused it with the water.
“Get to work, Lido!” the coach shouted. “Put that bucket back and come out here!”
Benji stalked off with the bucket and got his glove. Halfway to the outfield he shouted, “Where you want me, Coach?” as if nothing was amiss.
“Shag balls with LeBlanc and Zigmansky!”
“Are you okay?” Josh whispered at Benji when he arrived.
“You two!” Coach Swanson shouted from two drills away. “Stop talking gumdrops and lollipops and get to work!”
“I’ll give him a gumdrop,” Benji muttered beneath his breath.
“What’s that, Lido?” Coach Swanson headed their way with his hands on his hips and shouting like he meant it. “You got something to say, or is that just more barf leaking from your piehole?”
“Nothing, Coach!” Benji shouted, scowling at Josh like it was his fault.
Josh didn’t know if it was because Benji made a mess on home plate or if every practice was going to be as brutal, but brutal it was. They worked nonstop for two hours and ended with baseline sprints, and Benji catching a tongue lashing for lagging behind. Finally, the coach brought them in and answered Josh’s question.
“Well, I took it easy on you tonight, but we’re going to have to work a lot harder if we want to sweep this season.” Coach Swanson stared around at them all as if daring someone to deny that they were going to win every single game they played. “That’s how you gotta look at it, men. You gotta believe you’re gonna win every time you walk onto that field. The ones who don’t? You’ll weed yourselves out. I’ve seen it before. Now bring it in for a break.
“‘No guts, no glory’—that’s our chant. Let me hear it on three! One, two, three!”
“NO GUTS, NO GLORY!” they all shouted, even Martin.
“All right,” Coach Swanson said, “everyone take two handouts from Martin. One has his email and cell phone info. The other asks for your information. Fill it out carefully. If you’re old enough to play for the Syracuse Titans U13 Travel Team, you are old enough to be responsible for yourselves. All practice announcements and team business will be emailed and/or texted to you and your parents by Martin. If this doesn’t work for you or your parents, good luck finding another team. I’ll give you a glowing recommendation.”
Josh took a handout from Martin. “Hey, thanks, Martin.”
Martin didn’t even look up but handed a paper to Benji.
Josh let the others drain into the parking lot before he doubled back to speak with Coach Swanson. Martin was in the dugout, struggling with a latch on the equipment bag. Josh went to help him, but Martin just mumbled, “I got it.” Josh sighed and let him alone.
Coach Swanson hadn’t moved, and he looked up from his clipboard. “What can I do for you, LeBlanc?”
Josh cleared his throat; the cold look on his coach’s face made him wish he hadn’t come back. It was a bad thing to ask. It didn’t have anything to do with winning. This wasn’t Coach Moose or Josh’s dad. This was an ex-soldier who’d probably killed people with his bare hands.
Josh opened his mouth and gurgled.
“Well?” Coach Swanson’s thick eyebrows knit together above his nose. “I’ve got work here, LeBlanc. Spit it out.”