Second Down
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 31
Everyone was ecstatic as we got back into the field house to get changed, roughhousing and joking, sailing high on our victory.
Well, almost everyone.
“Blake! In my office. Now!”
Coach yelled a lot, even when things were going well, so it took me some time to adapt to his tone. I was starting to get the hang of it, at least enough to know that this wasn’t his ‘I need to see you a minute’ voice. This was his ‘you’re in deep shit’ voice.
I didn’t really have to work hard to guess what I’d done this time.
He was standing at the door and slammed it behind me when I walked through with enough force to rattle the framed photos of past Wheaton teams on the walls. I didn’t take a seat. I just stood there, put my hands behind my back, and waited for the shit storm I knew was coming.
“What in God’s name were you thinking out there? You completely abandoned the playbook. You ignored every single play I called, and did whatever the hell you wanted instead!”
I kept my mouth shut. The way the vein was pulsing in his forehead, I knew this was just the beginning.
“We have a system here, Blake. A system that’s worked for twenty years. You don’t just throw that out because you think you know better than your coaches!” He walked back behind his desk, jabbing his finger at me for emphasis. “What if those passes had been intercepted? What if their defense had figured out what you were doing or your teammates didn’t pick up on the changes you alone had decided to implement? You put the entire team at risk with that cowboy routine!”
Coach stopped pacing and planted both hands on his desk, leaning forward. “This is what audibles are for. That’s your safety valve if something’s not working. That you’re allowed to do. But completely ignoring my calls? I will not tolerate that kind of disobedience.”
Coach had worked himself up something good and after he stopped yelling his chest was still heaving as if he’d just run a sprint, apparently waiting for my response. I kept my mouth shut, waiting until he actually asked me to say something.
“Well? You got anything to say for yourself?”
“No, sir. You’re absolutely right. It’s your team, and you’re in charge.”
That seemed to catch him off guard. He blinked, some of the red draining from his face. I may not have the feelings of the person I was in the dream life, but I remembered some of the lessons I’d learned.
Dream me had been chewed out by coaches, by bosses and foreman, and on two occasions by judges. Those experiences taught me something that most people, let alone kids, never seemed to learn. When someone is in a position of authority over you, and they’re pissed at you, no amount of reasoning or facts or good points are going to win you the argument.
Trying to get respect or save face was just going to piss them off more and make things worse.
The best thing you can do is admit what you did was wrong, even if it’s only wrong in their eyes. And that’s it. Don’t beg for forgiveness, don’t try to make them see reason, and don’t try to save face. Just eat the shit you are being handed and shut up.
If you give them a few minutes and don’t escalate things, they will calm down enough to be reasonable. Eventually.
“I knew I was disobeying your calls when I did it,” I continued. “I did it knowing there would be consequences. There’s no excuse for that. While it worked out and we got the win, I recognize it could have gone wrong.”
Coach Holloway sank into his chair, deflating slightly. I don’t think he expected that, and it took the wind right out of his sails.
“Oh. Well ... okay then. Good. Just ... Don’t do it again.”
“May I say something, Coach?”
He waved his hand. “Go ahead.”
“While what I did was wrong, and I do recognize that it’s important to play inside your rule book and not go rogue, I would like to ask if it’s possible that we use what we learned tonight.”
“And what is that, exactly?”
I chose my words carefully. He might have calmed down, but if I tried to throw it in his face, or make this a me versus him thing, or tried to come in with an ‘I was really right,’ it would just set him off again.
“I think it’s clear that using the same playbook every game has made us predictable. We saw that in the first half when they shut us down, completely.”
Coach’s jaw tightened, but he didn’t interrupt.
“I know you believe in your playbook, sir, and I’m not saying it’s wrong. I’m just saying we might be sticking to it a little too closely. I promise I won’t go rogue like that again, but I thought it might be worth just looking at ways we could be a little more versatile and expand our options.”
“Our system has worked for two decades,” he said again.
“Yes, sir, I know. But is it possible our opponents know that and are using it against us?”
Coach drummed his fingers on his desk, considering. He was really tied to the way he’d always done things. Really, really tied to it. Had tonight not been a near miracle of a comeback, I don’t think this argument would have worked, even if we’d managed some success in the second half. The way it played out, though, I hoped it would be enough to finally get him to budge.
After what felt like an eternity, he let out a long breath of air and said, “I’ll think about it.”
It wasn’t a yes, but it was better than an outright rejection. Sometimes, that’s the best you can hope for with authority figures.
“That’s all I’m asking. Am I excused, Coach?”
“Yeah, get out of here.”
He waved me toward the door, already lost in thought.
I pulled open the door and had half-stepped through when he said, “Blake. That was a damn good game tonight, even if you did give me an ulcer. Don’t ever do it again.”
“Yes, sir.”
It was freezing and dark as I walked from the side street and into the school parking lot, on my way to the outdoor track. It was wild seeing the lot almost completely empty. School didn’t start until eight, and most kids tried to cut it as close as possible to get those extra few minutes of sleep.
I looked forward to the middle of next year, when I’d have my license. If I could talk Dad into getting a clunker, then I could drive to school and turn my twenty-minute walk into a two-minute drive. Plus, it would make all the difference on the days it rained.
I was surprised to see not only Coach Greer, but also our conditioning coach, Coach Kerr, standing on the track, both holding coffees and looking none too pleased to be up this early either.
“Morning, Coaches,” I said. “Surprised to see you here, Coach.”
“I wanted to see what Coach Greer has planned for you so we can coordinate your conditioning program to match it,” Coach Kerr said, standing there in a t-shirt, seemingly immune to the cold.
“Let’s warm up first,” Coach Greer said. “Two easy laps, then stretching.”
I dropped my backpack and duffle bag but left on my letterman jacket and jogged around the track, letting my muscles loosen gradually. The cold made everything feel stiff, but by the second lap, I’d found my rhythm. After stretching, Coach Greer called me over to the straightaway. I’d even gotten warm enough to dump my jacket on my bags.
“We’ll start with fundamentals,” Coach Greer said. “Has anyone ever shown you proper arm movement technique for running?”
“Arm movement? Uhhh, I don’t think so.”
“Watch.” Coach Greer demonstrated, his arms pumping smoothly at his sides. “Elbows at ninety degrees, hands moving from cheek to cheek, face to back pocket. Keep those shoulders relaxed.”
I tried mimicking his motion, but Coach Greer shook his head.
“You’re too tense up top. Like I said, relax. You’re pumping your arms, but you’re also letting gravity do a lot of the work. Keeping it smooth will help. Your coaches taught you about coiling the muscle, right? Like a spring? I know a lot of guys feel like they have to tense up when they’re going for power, but there’s more than one way to tense your muscles up. There’s compression that helps explosion, and there’s tension that fights against it. You’re fighting yourself.”
“Even carrying the football, your free arm needs to move right. Efficiency matters,” Coach Kerr added.
I tried again, focusing on keeping my shoulders loose while maintaining the arm drive.
“Better,” Coach Greer said. “But you’re crossing the midline. Arms straight back and forward, not side to side. Every bit of sideways movement is wasted energy.”
We spent fifteen minutes just on arm mechanics. Coach Greer stopped me repeatedly, tweaking small details I’d never considered before. By the end, my arms felt different. More controlled but somehow freer. Of course, we’d see how that translated when I was running with a football in my arms.
“Next, let’s look at your basic leg mechanics,” Coach Greer said. “High knees are crucial. You need to get that lift, then drive it down and back into the track. That drive down lets you get extra force when you push off, pushing you forward faster. Good leg mechanics are an easy way to add some speed.”
“Like this?” I demonstrated what I thought he wanted.
“Close.” Coach Greer positioned himself next to me. “Watch my knee height. Each step should bring your thigh parallel to the ground. Then snap that foot down. You’re pushing the track behind you, not just running on top of it.”
I tried matching his movement, focusing on driving my knees up high.
“There you go,” Coach Kerr called. “That’s the explosive power we want. Use your whole leg, hip to toe.”
Coach Greer had me alternate between high knees and butt kicks, drilling the movements. Again, I wasn’t sure how this would apply, but if I did get into the open field and was trying to outrun their safety when scrambling, I guess it could come in handy to really put on the speed and outrun everyone.
“Remember,” Coach Greer said between sets, “speed isn’t just about how hard you push. It’s about directing that force the right way. Wasted movement means wasted energy.”