Page 156 of Coach
“Dribble through the cones. Meet at center court. Give me a good bounce pass: clean, sharp, and under control. Footwork matters. Keep your heads up.And for the love of God, if you travel, don’t make eye contact with me—you’ll feel your soul leaving your body.”
A few of the older returning guys chuckled as a larger number of new tryouts shifted in their overpriced tennis shoes.
They’d learn.
I watched the drill unfold.
Mason and Tyler were speed demons—fast hands, quick feet, but sloppy fundamentals. Jayden? He was built like a linebacker but dribbled like he’d picked up his first ball yesterday. Isaiah, though—Isaiah moved like butter melting over hot pancakes. He was smooth, controlled, and patient without being slow.
I needed that kind of athlete on the floor.
Jessica clapped—at Isaiah, naturally—and I shot the boys a look that promised extra conditioning drills if she distracted anyone else.
Jessica smirked, then blew a bubble with her gum and popped it so loudly a few of the young guys jumped.
Satan in lip gloss, that one.
“Reset!” I barked when Mason tried to showboat a behind-the-back pass and nearly took out Jayden’s kneecap. “Clean passes! This isn’t the Harlem Globetrotters, and you’re not that cute.”
The bench guys snickered.
I blew the whistle again. This time, they gave me a clean run, with sharp feet and crisp passes.
I made notes on my clipboard.
Mason: needs discipline.
Tyler: good instincts, needs polish.
Jayden: promising if I can fix that dribble.
Isaiah: varsity material.
I called the next group of four, then the next, and so on.
Tryouts were fun—and painful. Too many boys who had delusions of grandeur and had never played summer ball or AAU—or even team sports—decided to show up and toss their proverbial hat in the ring. They even had the gall to be upset when they didn’t make the cut. They just glared at me, as though I’d crushed their last hope of surviving a world-ending disaster.
Yeah, that was me, Coach Ricci, crusher of dreams and destroyer of youthful hopes.
The next drill was in full swing. I had the guys running a three-man weave, trying to separate the actual ball handlers from the kids who only showed up for the varsity warm-up jackets.
Sweat slicked the floor.
The sound of squeaking sneakers and bouncing balls filled the gym like music—the aggressive, chaotic soundtrack of my soul.
Everything was—dare I say—running smoothly.
Until I spotted a rogue senior, Benji Collins, edging away from the drill line like he was a cartoon burglar sneaking off with a sack of loot over his shoulder.
Fucking Benji.
He was one of my starting guards from last season, my rock-solid ace from behind the three-point arc, an all-state player with offers from multipleD-I university programs—and a real leader on the team—when he wasn’t flirting with the closest cheerleader.
Benji was a beast on the court, and a total Casanova off the hardwood.
Hardwood.
Hard wood.
