Chapter 1

John Edwards sat at his desk and took off his whistle. Outside his door he listened to the normal chaos that surrounded a locker room as his players showered up and got dressed after practice. He smiled to himself, closed his eyes, and just drank it all in. He tilted his head back and let his mind wander, enjoying the sounds and, yes, the smells, of this office. This was his home, and nowhere else felt near as good. The summer had been particularly difficult, for a variety of reasons, but now he was back in the only place where he felt he truly belonged. He opened his eyes and looked at the trophies along his office wall. Coach of the Year had been particularly nice, and occupied it's deserved place of honor amongst various signed footballs and jerseys. He had needed to purchase his own trophy case, since the school had dictated that any case they paid for would be located in the main hall of the school. So he had saved up and erected this monument to his own career, and put it right where it belonged. Down here, in the hell halls, amongst the smells of liniment, teenage sweat, and hunger. It didn't get any better than this, as far as he was concerned.

Practice had been tough, as it was still the first week. All the walk-ons were trying their best to show that they deserved a spot, and John tried hard to make sure they all got a fair shake. The reality of the situation, though, was that there were very few roster spots available. Last year's team had only graduated three seniors, and none from essential positions. They were already favored to win their Division, and most newspapers gave them decent odds at Regionals or even a State Championship. John was quite pleased with the way the previous season had ended, with a series of impressive wins, with only a single loss, to Evansville, who went on to win the Regional Championship. Evansville's quarterback and top cornerback had both graduated, though, and the time was right for John's team to step into their place as the local power.

John looked through the wire mesh of his office door at a young boy wrapping his shoulder. He remembered the hit that this one had taken. The boy had been trying his hand at linebacker and had gone low at a running back. His technique had been all wrong, though, and he was badly off balance when the running back's knee connected squarely with the boy's shoulder. Even from across the field the coach could hear the impact, and watched as the boy rolled around clutching his shoulder. The trainer had been standing right next to John when it happened, and immediately muttered about a dislocated shoulder as he picked up his bag and trotted out to the player. John had been mildly surprised that the boy had refused to come out, demanding to be left in, but the rules simply didn't allow that. The trainer had gotten the boy off the field and told him to go shower up as practice resumed.

John had noticed, though, that the boy hadn't done any such thing. He watched the rest of practice, studying every little detail as he clutched his shoulder. John liked that kind of dedication, that kind of hunger, but the simple truth was that the kid was undersized, injury-prone, and awkward. He was wasting his time, and John knew from 20 years of experience that giving this boy a chance would be a waste of both their time. So immediately at the end of practice, he had approached the boy.

"Son?" He couldn't remember the boy's name. Jeremy or something, but Son always worked.

"Yes, Coach?"

"How's the shoulder?" The coach nodded at the offending body part.

The boy moved his shoulder a little bit, without flinching too terribly much.

"It's not too bad, Coach. I coulda stayed in, I think. I'll go home and rest it, and it'll be good as new tomorrow."

"Son, I appreciate your desire, and how much you're willing to put on the line to make this team. But the simple fact of the matter is that you were horribly out of position on that play, and off balance besides. Now you're injured, and I really don't think you're going to be in top shape to make it through the rest of these tryouts, much less make the team. I'm sorry, Son, but I'm cutting you. See the trainer before you leave and he'll make sure you're wrapped correctly and give you some extra bandages."

It was a similar speech to the same one he had given hundreds of times in his career. This boy had done better than most, not tearing up, not swearing that he'd be sorry. Instead he had politely asked if he would be able to try out again the following year. John had agreed, and shook the boy's left hand warmly before wishing him the best of luck. That's how it went around here. There were ups and downs, but the magic of it all never failed to make it all worth it. John watched as the boy packed his bag and made his way down and out of the locker room. He'd be back, John thought. Maybe next year.

John prided himself on keeping an open mind during these tryouts. These were green players, with little or no experience, or in some cases, athletic ability. They were passionate, though, and would throw themselves at whatever task was set in front of them with reckless abandon. Even after all these years he would cringe at the antics of some of the more fearless, less skilled players out there trying to prove they were Superman. His job was to make sure everyone stayed safe, and keep a constant eye out for the proverbial raw talent. Over the years, though, his mindset had shifted somewhat, and this whole process was just a dry run for him. It was a way to get his head back into coaching, and to get his thoughts set for the new season. All the terminology would come roaring back, and he would fall back into the comfortable daily routine of practices, meetings, and long hours staring at various charts and graphs. John truly loved the game of football, and he considered it his duty to teach these boys how to play it right.

He sat back at his desk and crossed his hands behind his head. He stretched out his legs until they shook slightly and relaxed, closing his eyes. He mentally reviewed the highlights of the practice in his usual manner. He was by no means possessed of a photographic memory, but over the course of a practice, he had found, there were always a few plays that stood out at the end of the day. Those plays were worth remembering, and contemplating later. That's how a player could really shine in his mind, was to produce one of those plays.

Today's practice, though, was a bunch of walk-ons flailing away at each other, and John didn't expect to find much in his mental film room. As he wandered idly over the memories of the practice, he watched in his mind's eye as number 84 dropped five passes in a row, then sprained an ankle trying to run a curl route on attempt number six. Then number 54 had clanged helmets with number 24 in the seven-on-seven drills, looking for all the world like a couple of billy goats fighting over their section of a lawn. Then number 6 had punted a ball almost 90 degrees to the left, narrowly missing the vice- principals car in the parking lot. That one made John smile to himself. He made a note to tell Peggy about that one when he got home, before cutting the thought short. His brain hadn't managed to wrap itself around her absence yet, and he wondered sometimes if it ever would.

His reverie cut short, John leaned forward at his desk and crossed off the date on his desk calendar. In neat letters, he scrawled NP underneath the pre-printed "Open Tryouts". NP for No Prospects. He looked at the rest of the week, seeing "Open Tryouts" on each day, and idly considered just putting NP under each one. It had happened before, several times, that they had come away from the tryouts with no usable prospects, and had raided the JV squad for backups and roster hole-pluggers. Luckily Coach Dockery, who had managed the JV squad the last few years, was a good friend, and never minded losing his best players to Varsity bench duty. The JV coach would then tab a few of the walk-ons for his squad, thus restoring balance to the school football universe. He idly wondered if it was worth making the hike down to Coach Dockery's office to get his input on the day, but resolved to just compare notes the next morning before getting back to the drills. He stood up and gathered his things for the ride home, closing and locking the door on his way out.

There were still a few players milling around, in various states of emotional distress. This was always the case, and why he referred to this walk as the Gallows Walk in his head. These were the players who had been cut, and been thinking of arguments that would change the coaches' minds. It never worked, and could range from pathetic to heartbreaking as each of these few desperate boys argued and pleaded for another chance. They all got told the same thing, though. Wait another year. Work on your awareness. Lift some weights. Work on your hands. Some small snippet of advice and encouragement was doled out, but the key, he thought to himself, was to keep your feet moving. Not them... him. Just keep walking, don't let them get you cornered, and get to the car as quickly as possible. The sooner he got to his car, the sooner he'd be home to... to what? His brain once again stubbed it's toe against the empty house he would be returning to. It was so cold there lately, and he knew it had nothing to do with the air temperature.

His legs were on autopilot, walking the familiar route down the hallway, passing the visitor's locker room (currently occupied by most of the equipment for the P.E. teachers), past the film room (cleverly disguised as a storage room), turning the final corner to go past the weight room and out to the faculty parking lot. He was surprised to hear the clanking and groaning coming from the weight room, though, and glanced over to see who might be in there at this hour. The varsity players were all some level of weightlifting addict, but none were ever here past 7 in the evening. He noticed with some surprise that it was Jeremy (Jason? Jeremiah?). The boy with the dislocated shoulder. He noticed that the boy was lifting with his one good arm, and working hard at it. He was covered in sweat, and had obviously been in here a while. John poked his head in the door and called out.

"Hey! What's going on in here? Anyone not on the team has to sign up for permission to use this room after hours, Son."

The boy jumped, startled by the interruption, and the weights clanged back onto the stack with a loud clap.

"I'm sorry, sir. I wasn't aware... that is... we were told..."

"Take a breath, Son. I'm not going to eat you. Take a second and then start again." John couldn't help but smile at the boy's stunted attempt at an explanation.

"S-sorry, Sir. When we showed up this morning Coach Dockery told us that for today, we should consider ourselves part of the team. That tomorrow most of us wouldn't be back, but that for today we were Falcons. And, Sir, I just figured, well, that today wasn't over yet, and I'd better take this opportunity while it was there, since tomorrow it won't be."