Scramble
Copyright© 2025 by Lumpy
Chapter 16
On Friday, I was unfocused all through track practice. Like, really unfocused.
So much so that before we started the final drills, Coach Greer pulled me aside and said, “Just go. You’re not even trying to do what you need to.”
“Sorry, Coach,” I said, not feeling sorry at all.
“Yeah, yeah. Just don’t let this happen again, or I’ll have to talk to this coach of yours about changing the arrangement.”
‘This coach of yours’ was Coach Moreno, who’d shown up about ten minutes after track practice had started, spending the whole time setting up something that was much more elaborate than what he’d done during my tryout or what he’d had Coach Holloway do with me while he was gone.
I’d been excited all day to get another real day of training with Moreno, but seeing him setting up had really sent my brain into overdrive as I tried to figure out what everything was for and what we were going to do.
Coach Greer was right to be annoyed that I’d let it affect my performance during track practice, but to be fair, I’d made it clear from day one that track was never going to be my priority.
Hell, I’d even tried to say no to track a bunch of times for that reason, but he’d pushed through anyway.
However, I was properly contrite when I said, “Sorry, Coach. I won’t let it mess me up again, I promise.”
Coach Greer kind of harrumphed as he waved me off and turned back to the rest of the track team. I didn’t even try to hide my smile as I jogged over to Moreno and Holloway, swinging by my backpack to grab my shoes for football.
“Coach Moreno, thanks for...” I started to say as I plopped down on the section of track where he was standing and started switching my shoes.
“Stow it. We’ve got a lot of things to do today and not a lot of time to do it in. I’ve been watching the videos Holloway’s been sending, and you’re sloppy. Real sloppy. If you can’t make the changes I need to see today, then we’re both wasting our time.”
That shut my mouth. I thought I’d been doing a good job, so I was honestly shocked to find out this was almost like a second tryout. If I was screwing it up, I could understand his annoyance, but at the same time, I wondered if I was going to have to keep proving myself every time I worked with him?
Coach Holloway gave me a slight nod, but his expression stayed neutral.
“Get your cleats on,” Moreno said. “We’re starting with your footwork. Everything else falls apart when your base is shit.”
I finished changing shoes and threw my other pair over to where my bag was sitting while Moreno pulled out a bag of footballs. I was barely on my feet when he tossed one to me harder than necessary.
“Show me your standard drop,” he said.
I ran out onto the field, took my position behind an imaginary center, executed a three-step drop, and set up to throw.
“Stop right there. Don’t move,” Moreno said, coming out to where I was standing and stalking around me while I froze in place. “Look at your feet. See how your back foot’s turned out? And your base, it’s too narrow. No wonder your throws sail when you’re under pressure.”
He kicked my right foot wider. “There. Feel the difference?”
I did. The wider base felt more stable, more grounded.
“Again. Three-step drop.”
I repeated the motion, focusing on keeping my feet positioned correctly.
“Better. Now, five-step.”
Again, he was unhappy with how I did it. We continued to work on that, with Moreno having me go through every drop again and again. Three-step, five-step, seven-step. He stopped me constantly to adjust my foot placement. Each time, he found something wrong. My steps were too long on the five-step. My plant foot landed at the wrong angle on the seven.
“When you’re scrambling, your base goes to hell,” Moreno said. “That’s when you need it most. Run to your right, set up to throw.”
I rolled right, planted, and prepared to throw.
“Terrible. Your feet are all over the place. It’s like you forgot everything I told you five minutes ago. Again.”
We repeated the drill over and over. Roll right, plant, check feet. Roll left, plant, check feet. Moreno’s criticism was non-stop as I seemed unable to do it right.
“Too narrow ... Back foot’s lazy ... You’re leaning ... Square up.”
We never slowed down. I already was a little tired from track, but now, after twenty minutes of footwork alone, my shirt was soaked through with sweat in spite of the somewhat cool February air.
“Well, that’s a little better,” he finally said. “But you still need to drill on that every day. It needs to be muscle memory. Second nature.”
I just nodded as I caught my breath.
“Now let’s talk about your hips,” he said, not even pausing as he demonstrated the motion himself, his movements still really fluid despite his age. “You’re all arm, which is fine for high school, but too limiting to go beyond that level. You need to change where your power is coming from. It needs to come from your core, from the rotation. Watch.”
He showed me the proper hip rotation, the way the throwing motion should start from the ground up. “See how my hips lead? My arm’s just along for the ride.”
I tried to mimic the motion.
“No. You’re still throwing with your arm. Think of it like a whip. The handle moves first, that’s your hips. The tip follows, that’s your arm.”
I kind of understood what he was saying, but getting my body to follow through with that was a lot harder. We worked on hip rotation for fifteen minutes, with Moreno having me throw without using my arm at all, just rotating my hips while holding the ball. Then gradually adding the arm motion back in.
“See how much more velocity you get when you use your whole body?” he said, catching my throw and firing it back. “You’ve been letting yourself get away with arm throws. That’s fine some of the time, when you’re not really under pressure and there isn’t anyone in your face, but when they really start pushing in on you, not giving you time, you’ll have nothing.”
“It feels different,” I admitted. “Like I’m throwing harder with less effort.”
“Because you are. Efficiency. That’s what separates good from great. This is just the beginning. You’re kind of seeing it, but it’s going to take a lot of work and drilling every day to make this all second nature. I’m just trying to give you the breakdown while I’m here so you can work on it on your own and hopefully fix this mess. Now, let’s fix your release point.”
He had me stand next to a goalpost and throw passes, using the crossbar as a reference point.
“Your release is too low. Makes it easier for linebackers to tip your passes. Get it up here.” He held his hand about six inches higher than where I’d been releasing the ball. “And keep it consistent. Every throw, same spot.”
This adjustment felt the most unnatural. I’d been throwing the same way for years, and changing my release point threw off my timing.
“This feels weird. It’s messing me up,” I said after sailing another pass over Coach Holloway’s head.
“Of course it’s messing you up; you’ve been doing it wrong your whole life. Muscle memory’s a bitch to break, but you either break it now and do it right or you’ll never play beyond high school.”
I frowned at that. I was pretty sure I was good enough to get into some college, even with how I was playing now.
Although I guess ‘some college’ wasn’t really the goal.
We drilled the release point endlessly. Short passes, long passes, touch passes, bullets. Moreno watched every throw, calling out when I dropped back to my old habits, which was almost every time.
“Higher ... be consistent, damnit ... no, you’re doing it wrong again. Same spot every time.”
Over and over and over, I threw until my arm started to burn. Unlike the first two changes that made sense and felt like I was kind of understanding them, it felt like I never once did this one to his satisfaction.
It was bad enough that I was worried he’d just declare me unfixable and walk away, but after about twenty minutes he said, “Close enough for now. Last thing, your follow-through. You’re falling off to your left after you throw.”
After being so focused during the previous drill, I almost missed what he did when he demonstrated proper follow-through.
“Stay centered. Let your momentum carry you forward, not sideways.”
I tried again, focusing on staying balanced after the throw. This, at least, still felt natural, although I could tell as soon as I stopped paying attention to it, my release point dropped again. Coach Moreno saw it too the way he grimaced when I released the ball, but he kept focused on this new drill.
“Better. But you’re thinking too much. It needs to be natural. Again.”
We worked on follow-through until the sun started dropping. My entire body ached, and I’d thrown more passes in two hours than I usually did in a week.
“One more set,” Moreno finally said, putting a halt to the repetition. “Put it all together. Footwork, hips, release, follow-through. Twenty passes. If you screw up more than five, we start over.”
I took a deep breath and began. Three-step drop, check feet. Rotate hips, high release, balanced follow-through. The ball spiraled to Coach Holloway.
“One,” Moreno counted.
Five-step drop. Wide base. Hip rotation leading the throw. Follow through forward.
“Nope. Your release point dropped. Start over.”
It took me almost fifty passes to get twenty correct throws in a row. I was focusing hardest on the release. I could tell that he was right; the better release made for a better pass, and I hoped he was right about it becoming muscle memory because there was no way I was going to be able to focus on it and go through my reads.
It was all I could do to get twenty in a row without anyone else on the field. Once other people were playing, I’d be screwed.
“Twenty. That was adequate. Barely. You’ve got a long way to go before those mechanics become second nature. But at least you can be taught.”
I bent over, hands on my knees, catching my breath. Coach Moreno didn’t ever end practice officially; he just started packing up. It was my job to figure out that he was done with me. Instead of running off to grab my things and head home to take a long shower and try to get the pain out of my arms, I followed him out onto the field.
“What?” He said, stopping and turning to me when he heard me coming up behind him. “Isn’t that enough for today? If you want more, I’ll get Holloway to have you run you some laps while I go back to my hotel.”
“No, Coach, I’ve had plenty. It’s just ... I wanted to ask about the seven-on-seven again...” I started to say.
I honestly didn’t want to ask, but today was the last day for sign-ups and the pressure from the guys was starting to reach a boiling point. Actually, it had gone well past the boiling point. They were starting to get a little pissed at me for leaving them high and dry, which wasn’t fair since I’d never promised anything, but I could see how much they wanted this.
I was second-guessing that decision, however, almost as soon as the words were out of my mouth.
“Yeah, I heard you went to the meeting. It’s like you didn’t hear a word I said and did what you wanted anyway.”
“No, I heard you, Coach, I really did. My teammates were really pressuring me so I went to just shut them up, but I’ve told them again and again that was all I could do until you gave the okay. I haven’t signed up, but today is the last day to sign up and so I just wanted to ask.”
I glanced at Coach Holloway for some backup, but he just stood there, mute.
“The thing is,” I continued when I got no help from Coach. “They need me to help them have a good showing. They want to make varsity next year and they all think that if they win at seven-on-seven, Coach will take that into account. Plus, they want to win ‘cause that’s what we do. I know the mechanics you’re teaching me are important and I don’t want to mess that up, but that’s not my whole job as quarterback, right? Coach Holloway is always telling me it’s about leadership, that it’s my job on the field to keep the guys together and working as a team if we’re going to win, and this kind of feels like a part of that. To make it at the next level, I can’t just look good in drills. I need to show performance, and for that, I need to lead my team. No matter how much training I get, a quarterback can’t do his job without the rest of his team. So yeah, I know it’s going to mean I have to work hard not to develop bad habits, but I need to do it for the guys. To take us to state next year and put our names up on the board.”
Moreno shook his head slowly. “You’ve got all the angles figured out, don’t you?”