Coach

“Un, two, three, Ga’drs!” A dreary, uninterested, hollow bark.

I stopped joining in the post game cheer quite a few years back because the players need to take control of the team, especially after a loss. When it comes from me it’s forced - and I don’t have time, energy or any need for some patronizing post game cheer to make me feel better. I’m not their cheerleader. My role is to write the lineup and their role is to go play. Some guys need rah-rah and some don’t, but damn sure that’s not my role. I meet them in the right field corner after almost every game - with one or two exceptions per year when I’m too pissed to even talk to them. It makes me laugh thinking about it because I really don’t get that pissed, I just want them to think it. Taking out my crinkled and scrawled-on three by five card, I rehash the mistakes from tonight’s game, mention a highlight or two, and remind them, “boy’s this is a marathon, it’s not a sprint.” Eye contact and a few nods indicate that at least some of them hear me, a few scowl in disappointment at their own play this evening, and one or two roll-eyes, trying to undress as quickly as possible so they can escape to the nearest 7-11 to buy beer before midnight. “Any questions, boys? A’ight, see you tomorrow, 4:30 bus.” I walk away. I am not the cheerleader.

Stepping out of the huddle to the dugout, I see the the local reporter set to ask the same questions he’s asked me every other night on this losing streak. “Tough one coach; I know you’re only five games into the season, and there is a long way to go, but any idea why you guys can’t put it all together?”

Somewhere inside, I’m set to say, yeah dumbass, because the other teams are better than we are! But I don’t - stock answers to stock questions. We just need to perform better...still feeling each other out...learning to play together as a team...making progress everyday...haven’t got all of our guys here yet...wooden bats take some getting used to....I probably shouldn’t burn all my summer ball cliche’s in one night - we do have 39 more to go.

From over my shoulder a stronger bark interrupts our small town interview. A firey voice. “C’mon guys, we can do this, we’re better’n these fucking guys every night! L’s go! On THREE: ONE, TWO, THREE -”

“-GATORS!” They all scream in unison. Fists and hands and elbows loosely pitched in the huddle.

I don’t know and don’t really care who is in the center of that group. I can probably guess based solely on the firmness of his handshake when I met him on report day ten days ago, but I really don’t care tonight - someone’s in the middle, and that is all that matters. This ragtag bunch, from twenty five different schools in twenty five different towns, committed, for various reasons, to being mine for the summer. And tonight, for the first time since last summer, I feel the Gators becoming a team.

Inside I ease a little bit, exhibited in a breathy huff which turns into a brazen smile, then cocking my eyebrows and biting my lip as if to say , I told you so, I lean into the reporter’s tape machine. “see, they’re coming together, all they needed was a cheerleader.”