Page 244 of Coach
In fact, his cursing had become so infamous that our players standing on the sideline, those notrunning the current drill, would clap three times in unison every time he cursed, earning sideways glances and grins from those on court—those who weresupposedto be focused on the task at hand.
Ryan’s almost-F-word earned two claps and a round of teenage chatters and shoulder shoves from the bench. My only reaction was a lowered head and a pinch of the bridge of my nose.
Ryan ignored everyone, bearing down harder on the boys and their faltering drill.
“Gabe, hands up! Stop trying to feel him up. You play defense with your feet, not your hands!”
I pinched harder.
The boys on the sides howled.
Gabe, thankfully, ignored them, his hands shooting up in the universal “Don’t shoot” position as he positioned his body in front of the kid with the ball.
“That’s it!” Ryan shouted. “Don’t let him by!”
For all his bluster, Ryan was a brilliant coach. He had to be, if he wanted to stay anywhere near the game. He was quick, sharp as a tack, and could shoot the ball from anywhere on the court. Still, there wasn’t a college team in America who would put a five-foot-three, slim-as-a-rail man on court with the giants who played the game then. The only jobs left to him were coaching or officiating—and Ryan hated referees with the passion of a jilted ex.
“Switch!” he yelled, giving the team in yellow pinnies a break while those in purple ran to replace them. The squeals of sneakers on wood echoed off the empty bleachers. That was one of my favorite sounds in the world.
“Coach.” A huffing Gabe stumbled up beside me, then folded over as he sucked in breaths.
“That was better, Gabe, but you’re going to foul out fast if you keep groping your opponent.”
The boy’s head whipped up, and his eyes narrowed.
I chuckled, threw up my hands, and lowered my voice. “Easy. Unless you’ve spread the word, no one here knows anything. I was talking basketball, not dating.”
In the waning days of the last school year, Mike and I helped one of his students form an LGBT support group for the kids in the school. On the opening night of the group, Gabe had shocked everyone by showing up. I’d coached the kid since he was in seventh grade and never had a clue he might be gay.
Gabe, already a popular and confident kid around campus, strode through the halls of the school like a weight had lifted from his shoulders. He’d always been a positive light, that guy others looked up to, the one they wanted in their circle of friends; but something clicked inside him after he came out tome, something that had him walking a little taller, smiling a little more. It was something to see, like the dawning of a brilliant new day.
We’d grown close after that night with the club. I was still his coach and demanded the respect one might from any student, but Gabe opened up, shared more, spoke of his life in ways I’d never heard before. There was a bond between us. I believed in him. I had his back—and he knew it.
Gabe’s mom even invited me over to their house for dinner, an attempt at an olive branch in a household still struggling to accept their son’s admission. I hated declining that invitation, but Gabe’s dad made it clear he didn’t support his son’s “deviant ways.” The last thing I wanted was to exacerbate an already tense situation.
As much as he might’ve grown, Gabe still longed for a paternal figure who understood him, who accepted him regardless of his sexuality. In the way only a coach and teacher can, I tried to fill that void while straddling the line of public perception—a very dangerous line to walk.
Gabe glowered a moment before a hint of a smile formed. “Not even Coach Wex?”
“He’s worse than an old woman at church with gossip.” I shook my head. “He’s the last person I would tell.”
Gabe grunted something akin to a laugh and looked through the practicing players at my counterpart. “It’s just . . . I feel like everyone’s watching me all the time, like they know and just aren’t saying anything.”
“Get a drink,” I said. We couldn’t afford that conversation in that moment, not with our first game only a few days away. Gabe looked up, darkness shrouding his eyes. “Let’s talk tomorrow, all right? We can eat lunch in here, if you like.”
“In the gym?”
I shrugged. “Why not? This gym’s our home, isn’t it? We may as well eat here, too.”
“Yes, Coach.” A broad smile chased the clouds away as he nodded once, then jogged around the court to grab a water bottle and jostle with his teammates.
I shook my head and returned my focus on the players running and dribbling and sweating . . . and fouling.
“Marcus!” I shouted. “If you can’t set a good screen, your butt’s on the bench. Run it again.”
Ryan gave me a thumbs-up from across the court as I jotted a note to add screen drills to our next day’s practice. The last thing we needed was for our star players to foul out in the first half of our opening night because they couldn’t get to their spots withoutthrowing a shoulder at every passing opponent.
And so practice went, hour after hour, shout after shout, drill after drill. By the time the final buzzer sounded and the players gathered around in a semi-circle of testosterone and exhausted, stinking bodies, it was nearly seven o’clock.
