The Blind Date by Landish, Lauren (suggested reading .txt) 📕

Or Coach B, even?” he asks. I can tell that in his mind, it stands for Brutal and that he really wants to call me that. Like I’m famous or some shit when all I did was crunch a few bodies damn near ten years ago.

“Coach B is fine,” I tell him and the boys. Though everyone calls me Brutal, and I answer to it readily, I’ve never felt right introducing myself that way. The name brings up too many questions when you’re a grown ass man who looks like I do. “I think first things first, I need to know everyone’s name.”

The boys start rattling off their names from their seated positions, and after three, I stop them. “Okay, hold up. Let’s start with the proper way to introduce yourself, especially when you’re looking to impress. Whether that’s a coach, an employer, a girl’s dad . . .” The boys giggle a bit and my lips quirk. “Or whoever. So, you stand up. Never introduce yourself to anyone sitting down. Offer a hand and shake firmly, but don’t do that stupid squeezy thing where you’re trying to break their hand. Look them in the eye and say your name clearly and loud enough to be heard. Like this.”

I turn to Mike, dipping my chin to make sure he’s on board with being an example for the boys. I hold my hand out and clasp his. “Bruce Tannen. Nice to meet you.”

“Mike Kauffman. Good to meet you too.”

We both turn back to the boys and I continue the lesson. “Your turn.”

The first boy stands up. “Johnathan Williams. Nice to meet you.” Seems Mr. Kicks-A-Lot is a fast learner, a plus in his column, especially given the good handshake and eye contact he offers me.

Down the row they go.

Evan Kauffman. Joshua Williams, apparently Johnathan’s fraternal twin brother. Killian Bloomdale. Cooper Meyers. Anthony Mondela. Christopher White. Derek Simpson. Liam Holt. Julio Ruiz. Trey Thedwell. Marcus Stacy.

A better-behaved group of young men stands before me than were on this field just a few short minutes ago. “Nice to meet everyone. Great job, guys.” I turn to Mike, moving on. “What did you have planned for practice?”

He shrugs, admitting, “It’s only our second practice, our first active one because the last one was mostly going over rules and dates for the practices and games. I figured we’d run sprints and do a few drills today.”

I nod. It’s a good start. “Sounds good. Can I make a suggestion?”

Mike smiles warmly. “That’s why I asked you to stay. Please do.” He gestures toward the kids who are watching, waiting for any tidbit I can share.

I search my head for the words I’d heard from one of my favorite coaches. I’ve had many over the years, some great, some good, and some just okay.

I drop down to my knee again and address the kids. “What’s the most important thing about a football team?”

“Touchdowns!” Derek shouts, his arms reaching over his head like a referee.

“Winning!” Killian corrects.

There’s a few more suggestions, so I hold my hands up to stop their guesses and give the answer I was looking for. “Teamwork. Football is the only sport in the world where you need eleven people doing eleven different things, but all of them working toward a single goal. If even one of them is off, the whole thing falls apart. You might be the fastest sprinter, the fiercest linebacker, or be able to throw a perfect spiral and hit a target a whole field away, but without the whole team working together, you’ll never win a game, regardless of what the scoreboard says.”

Tiny bobbleheads all nod as if they’re soaking up the words of wisdom. I say a silent thank you to Coach Stadler for saying them to me when I was not much older than this group and for then teaching me what they meant.

“Let’s do what Coach Mike had planned and run. But with a small tweak. Instead of sprints, we’re going to run as a team. I think three laps around the park should be a good start. This won’t be like the races you do at school or even like the drills you’ll do later where you can show Coach Mike what you’ve got individually. For this, we’ll stay together at a pace slightly faster than the slowest and slightly slower than the fastest. We’ll adjust as needed, but the important thing is . . . no man gets left behind. We cross the finish line together or we’ve already lost. Understood?”

“Yes, Coach B,” they sound out as one.

I nod to Mike, all business. “You up for this?”

He looks surprised, his dad bod already flushing. “Us too?”

“Well, yeah. Team includes the coach. Lead by example.” He looks at my boots and jeans pointedly, making it clear that I’m not dressed for running. I dig my heel into the turf, amused. “I wear boots and jeans in the fields all day, every day. I could run in these for miles if needed.”

Any excuses gone, he shakes his head and chuckles, but he walks over to the gathered boys with me. “All right, this isn’t a ready-set-go type of thing, so I’ll just count us off. We’ll practice this first bit and I’ll call out which foot to run on so we stay together, but the goal is for you to not need me or Coach Mike to set your pace but rather for you to be in tune with the man next to you, on and on down the line. That’s how you become a team. Got it?”

They seem ready to roll, so I call out, “One, two, three . . .” And we’re off, not like speeding bullets but rather like slow-plodding sloths, each kid unwilling to go faster than the one next to him. The lesson is already sticking, but I speed them up a little bit. “Left, left, left, right, left.” It’s not quite military precision, and some of these boys probably aren’t even sure which is right and which is left, but