articulate what I really wanted to know—which was how he felt about his team collapsing after such a pivotal call.
“It was the official’s call. And, as you well know, I had already used my challenge on an earlier play. So. They ruled it a turnover, and that was that. It really doesn’t make any difference what I think.”
I looked at him, thinking it made every difference what he thought about that call, the game, and everything else, too. He stared back at me, waiting, as I forced myself to ask one final question. “Do you think that changed the tide of the game for …” In the nick of time, I stopped myself from saying “us” and finished the sentence with “you.”
Coach crossed his arms and heaved a weary sigh. “There were a lot of plays in this football game. A lot of things we could have done better. Bottom line, we were lucky to get a win. Damn lucky. Okay. That’s all.”
He got up abruptly and, without another word, walked off the platform and out the side door, back to the visitors’ locker room.
That night, I was in a mood as foul as Coach Carr’s and ignored the phone when it rang, not picking up for Lucy, or for Ryan, who was at the Four Seasons in St. Louis, preparing for the Rams game tomorrow. The only person I wanted to talk to was Coach, but I didn’t dare call him, knowing the last thing he wanted to do was hear from a reporter who asked him annoying questions. At some point, though, after I had filed my story, I broke down and decided one little text wouldn’t hurt. After drafting and deleting at least a dozen versions, I wrote: Sorry about the game and also for the dumb question.
I didn’t expect to hear back from him at all, and certainly not right away, but he replied almost instantaneously: It’s ok. I’m sorry for snapping at you.
Then, before I could respond, the phone rang. It was him. Shocked, I fumbled it Rhodes-style, then scrambled to scoop it up and answer before it went to voice mail.
“Hey,” Coach said. “How are you?”
“Probably the same as you,” I said, though my frustration over the game was suddenly supplanted by relief that he wasn’t angry at me.
“That was one hell of a hollow win,” Coach said.
“It was still a win,” I said.
Coach made a disgusted sound, then said, “I’d rather play well and lose.”
I wasn’t sure if I believed him, and I know I didn’t subscribe to the notion, especially during a year like this one, but I still murmured my agreement, adding, “That was a terrible call, though.”
“Even shittier on the replay. That ref is a joke. And yes, to answer your question, I think that was a game changer. It definitely changed things for those boys. Got in their heads. We do that against a better team, and we’re done for.”
“Yeah,” I said, letting him vent.
“Beyond the painfully obvious fact that we couldn’t establish our run,” he said, “we just missed a lot of opportunities. What were we in the red zone?”
“O for three.”
“You can’t win many football games when you’re O for three in the red zone.”
I murmured in agreement, surprised that Coach was discussing the game with me, when he typically didn’t even talk to his staff immediately after poor performances.
“So what are you doing?” he asked suddenly.
“Right now?” I asked.
“Yeah. Now.”
“Nothing. Why? What are you doing?” I asked, wondering why I was so nervous.
“About to go for a run,” he said.
“At eight-thirty?”
“If that’s what time it is … then yes. Wanna join me?”
Stunned by the invite, I said okay, my heart beginning to race.
“Good enough. Meet you at the track over at school in fifteen?”
“Okay,” I said again, marveling that I could feel this good, this happy, so soon after a bad game.
Fifteen minutes later, I pulled into the lot closest to the track, adjacent to the tennis courts and our original field house. I was wearing gray sweats, a standard issue from the equipment room, and an ancient Walker baseball cap, my long ponytail threaded through the back. A pale light shone on the track, a mix of moonlight and halogen, but a fog had rolled in, and at first I didn’t see the lone figure stretching near a high stack of pole-vault mats. It was Coach, and my heart stopped for a second as I stood at the top of the brick staircase and watched