Page 227 of Coach
Would he be too soft? Too hard on them?
Was he a good coach or one of those teachers who’d been forced to wear a whistle because no one else wanted the gig?
I doubted the last held weight. Mateo had played ball at a pretty high level, I’d gathered from the banter the other night. Still . . .
I’d pictured him as the nice-guy coach—the one who got walked over, the one the kids joked about behind his back.
But what I saw didn’t match that picture, not even a little.
Clipboard in one hand, whistle around his neck, Mateo paced the sideline like a man born for it. He wasn’t yelling, not exactly—he coached like he spoke, with his whole body, bouncing on the balls of his feet, gesturing wildly. The few times he turned toward his bench to grab another player or coach his second team, his eyes were alive, sharp, and focused.
And somehow, throughout it all,he was smiling.
His team moved like they knew he expected everything from them, like they wanted to give it their all, even when they stumbled, even when they missed.
He clapped when someone boxed out right,barked praise when a kid made a clean steal, shouted encouragement without fluff, without apology.
And when they screwed up?
He didn’t tear them down.
He corrected—firm and direct—but never cruel.
He didn’t coach like he wanted to be in the spotlight. He coached like he wantedthemto shine brightly, to believe they could be better than they were yesterday.
And damn it, it was working.
The scariest part was that it might’ve been working a little on me, too. The longer I watched, the more my nerves settled into something far worse than anxiety.
It felt like . . . hope.
I sat there for a while, elbows on my knees, watching the chaos settle into rhythm.
Every time he laughed—really laughed—I felt it, right in the center of my chest.
It wasn’t just that he knew the game.
It was the way hesawthem, his players.
Every kid on that court got a piece of him, not just instructions, not just drills—but attention, patience, and respect. When one of the younger guys fumbled a pass and looked like he might dissolve from shame, Mateo was already there, crouched beside him, voice low but steady. He didn’t coddle, buthe didn’t scold, either. He was just . . . steady, like he was anchoring the kid, while the rest of the world moved around them too fast.
And he knew them, knew who needed pushing and who needed pulling, who needed an arm around the shoulder and who needed a barked command.
What Mateo did wasn’t coaching, not really.
It was mentoring.
It was teaching.
It wasseeingthem.
And they gave it back.
I could see it in every nod, every set of shoulders pulled back into place, every kid running harder the next play because Mateo said their name and meant it.
I hadn’t expected that.
I’d expected charm and jokes, the fast-talking guy who befriended old ladies in checkout lines and made me forget how to use my words.
