by T Nisbet
The warm water of the shower brought me fully to my senses. Toby stood next to me, water pouring off of his huge frame, a worried look on his face.
“I’m alright Tob,” I smiled much to his obvious relief. “Michael trying to kill me or what?”
My gigantic friend snickered.
“Forget Michael, he’s off to Istanbul for his Mormon mission. After that, he can let the BYU quarterback take wicked hits. Carla has it downloaded on Youtube already by the way.”
“Has what downloaded? The touchdown?”
“No, that hit you took,” he replied still smiling at me.
“Oh brother.”
I winced and tried without success to let the warm water wash those thoughts away with the mud at my feet.
Carla was our school’s techno geek and had been Toby’s girlfriend for the last year and change. The two were the most unlikely couple you could possibly imagine. She was petite, maybe 5’1”, a senior, and ninety-five pounds soaking wet, including her ever-present Apple laptop.
While Toby, well Toby was 6’8” and claimed to be two-hundred and seventy pounds, but he was easily over three hundred and a sophomore like me. Coach had wanted him to be an offensive tackle because of his size, but his father had been a center for the Minnesota Vikings for nine years, and under his tutelage, Toby had become such a good center that moving him would have been ridiculous.
“She sent it to my iphone. She said she thought you were dead.”
I joined him laughing, “Couple more hits like that and I would be.”
“I’ll show you when you get all that mud out of your ears.”
“Pass,” I sighed.
Speaking of hits, I wondering how many hit’s she’d get on this one.
As we got dressed Doctor Tambien and Mike, our trainer, came into the dressing room to check on me. I had to promise not to drive for twenty-four hours and to go easy on any celebratory drinking, but they seemed confident I would be fine. Toby and I watched them leave the locker room in silence.
“Guess they don’t know what a teetotaler you are, Jake-O,” Toby said breaking the silence. “And you gotta wonder where old Doc got his medical degree if he thinks you are mentally competent.”
“Ha ha, very funny,” I snickered, threatening to snap him with a towel.
We finished packing our gear and were getting ready to leave when Coach McNally’s leathery old face poked out from his office door down the hallway to our left.
“You two! Gunn, Daniels… I need a word!” he barked, disappearing into his office.
Toby cursed under his breath. I had to agree. Sighing in unison, we turned and headed towards coach’s office.
“What do you think this is about, Tob?” I asked shouldering my gear bag.
I didn’t think Toby had a clue either, but I had to say something to help vent my nerves. Toby just looked at me and shrugged.
Coach McNally was the meanest man I’d ever met. His punishing, punitive style of coaching made him easily the most hated man on our campus. He was a sadistic legend. Students went out of their way to avoid him in the halls, and everyone at Fairview High School considered his geography class a death sentence. Rumors had it that he’d killed a student ten years earlier, but had gotten off on a technicality; lack of evidence, or threatening the district attorney’s family or something. It had to be untrue, but his ill, abusive manner kept the rumor alive.
Our practices under McNally were slightly short of the Bataan Death March. We had ten minutes from the end of classes to be on the field, dressed and ready to go. Fortunately for me, my Language Arts teacher, Ms. Stewart, let me, Toby and a couple of seniors who couldn’t pass sophomore English, out a few minutes early so we wouldn’t have to do twenty stairs for every minute we were late.
If he thought you weren’t giving one hundred percent, you got stairs. If you were talking when he thought you should be listening, stairs. If a play wasn’t executed perfectly, stairs. Sometimes he even gave me stairs if I threw a pass that didn’t have a tight enough spiral on it. We started out with eighty players. Before the last game there were only forty-five of us left.
Needless to say, there was nothing even slightly inspiring about the man; we did everything out of pure fear of stairs. His pre-game lectures were more threat than encouragement. It was only my feeling of responsibility to Toby and the other guys on the team that kept me from quitting with the others during summer ball, and later when the season started. My loyalty, and of course, my father’s insistence that it was important to finish what you start.
Coach McNally was just shy of evil, or so I thought at the time. How can I explain it? I didn’t know what evil was then, but there was something more twisted about him than your average head coach. He enjoyed other people’s pain a little more than he should, okay, a lot more. Most people put it down to his Marine background, but I wasn’t so sure.
“Have a seat!” Coach ordered as we knocked, then entered his office. The stale air of the office smelled strongly of Ben Gay, industrial disinfectant and cheap cigars. It was a mess like always. Three metal army desks even older than the coach’s own desk, were scattered somewhere under a clutter of film canisters, playbooks, jersey’s and various clipboards. Several dusty trophies stood on a bookshelf behind Coach McNally’s desk next to a faded black and white picture autographed by Vince Lombardi.
The walls around the room held the filthy, somber pictures of players McNally had tortured/coached over the past thirty years, the lack of smiles in their portraits evidence of McNally’s eternal brutality.
Coach McNally closed the blinds as we entered and sat down at his desk glowering at us. As I nervously walked to a chair, I noticed two men wearing sport coats and slacks leaning against one of the clutter filled desks. Coach waved a dismissive hand at the men.
“Coaches Manning and Geller wanted to meet you,” Coach McNally barked, his gaze even angrier than normal.
Both men stepped forward and offered Toby and me their hands. Coach Manning was the older of the two, maybe in his mid to late forties. He shook my hand confidently. He was a commander; it was obvious from his presence.
Coach Geller smiled and shook my hand as well, patting me comfortably on the shoulder, his eyes assessing. After introducing themselves, Coach Manning indicated that we should have a seat. I sat, glancing at Toby who saw and shrugged at me.
“Hell of a game,” Coach Manning said, smiling at the both of us as we sat down. “Beating an undefeated team on its way to the playoffs… really something!”
“Thanks,” Toby breathed, I just nodded.
“I’m the offensive coordinator for UCLA, and Jay here is my quarterback coach.”
My heart suddenly started hammering in my chest. The normally tension-filled room became even more claustrophobic if possible. Division I college scouts! Mom and Dad were going to have a fit. I concentrated on my breathing, willing away the panic attack building inside of me.
“We’ve been watching you both mature this year. Two standouts as sophomores, on a team with several college bound players. Not an easy thing to achieve. Coach McNally says you’re best friends as well.”
We nodded in unison.
“Back in my day, colleges didn’t recruit players until their senior year, but competition is tough these days. Some schools are recruiting middle-school kids if you can believe that. We’re not allowed to offer you scholarships yet, officially that is. What I’m permitted by the NCAA to say is that if you were to offer us a verbal commitment, that over ninety percent of those who verbally commit to our school eventually end up getting scholarships,” said Coach Manning smiling benignly.
“Cool”, Toby squeaked, his voice jumping as if he was starting puberty.
Coach Geller laughed, but cut it off at a look from Manning.
“I know you boys are eager to join the crowd celebrating outside, but give me just another minute of your time,” he continued.
“Jake,” he said eying me. “I don’t know if you are
aware of how many young men your age have thrown for 3400 yards and 27 touchdowns against only 6 interceptions as a sophomore in just 10 games. It’s a very, very short list. And all of that naturally, without an expensive quarterback coach like Coach Gellar here.”
Then his gazed darted over to Toby.
“Toby, that nose guard you pushed around all night is going to USC next year and will probably start as a freshman,” he laughed, “and that from a sophomore center. It would please me to no end to see that rematch a couple of years from now after you graduate.”
“You boys are going to get a lot of offers, and it’s going to get into your heads. Hell, I recognized half a dozen scouts from the Pac-12 alone out there tonight. My advice to you is to remember who you are right now. Remember your friendship. Keep each other in check so that the hype doesn’t become a curse. Trust me, its not going to be easy, but it does become a little more manageable if you make your decisions on college early. It also allows universities like UCLA to make certain that you gain access to football camps, and that your high school, your football program, and coaching staff get the backing of our booster’s formidable assets.”
Saying this last bit Coach Manning dug a couple of cards out of his jacket pocket and handed one to both Toby and I.
“Have your parents call us. We aren’t allowed to call them, or you for that matter. If they call, then we can arrange for a tour of the campus. The verbal commitment is easy, “ he smiled, “Just give me a call with your parents on the line and say you are committed to going to UCLA. We put out a press release saying you boys have verbally committed and the wheels go into motion.”
Coach Gellar smiled at me. “Coach Jensen and I are putting on a camp for quarterbacks and receivers in February. It would be great to have you there, Jake.”
“That’s it boys!” Coach McNally said crossly, standing up from behind his cluttered desk. “Now get out and don’t forget to hand in your jerseys and pads tomorrow morning at o-six-hundred. Fifty stairs for anyone late.”
Coach Manning stepped back and Toby and I stood up.
“Thanks Coach,” Toby stammered and nodded. I was about to add my thanks when McNally grunted loudly.
“What part of get out don’t you idiots understand?”
Toby and I made no delay in getting out of his office. I shut the door and we hurried down the hallway towards freedom.
My mind was awhirl as we opened the locker room doors and entered a cheering throng of people. Faces of friends and acquaintances blurred together as we were hugged and applauded. Girls squealed and posed for pictures with our teammates and us. I wondered at the spectacle of it all. For a team that finished the year 7-3, a game out of the playoffs, it seemed excessive and made me extraordinarily uncomfortable. After a few minutes, Toby pulled me away from a couple of senior girls who wanted me to go to a party with them. Breathing a sigh of relief, I followed him away from the gathering to his truck where we found Carla waiting.
“It lives!” she laughed punching me playfully in the arm. “Your Mom and Dad said to tell you to be home by 1:00.”
“They did?” asked Toby in amazement. My parents were famous for their early curfews.
“Like I’d lie about that you great big oaf!” said Carla looking over the top of her nerdy glasses at Toby. “I was nearby when Doctor Tambien told his parents that Jake’s pupil response was normal and that he’d be fine. His dad told his mom to stop worrying, yada, yada.”
“Nice!” said Toby ignoring Carla’s ‘oaf’ jab. “What do you guys want to do?”
“Well, there’s a photo club meeting tonight…”
“Get real Carls, this is a night to celebrate!” said Toby cutting her off. “ UCLA coaches basically offered us scholarships in McNally’s office after the game.”
“No way! They have a great computer science program!” Carla yelled jumping into Toby’s arms her feet dangling off the ground.
“Way! Let’s go to one of the senior parties, do some dancing, let loose a bit!”
Toby didn’t drink and neither did Carla, but Toby did like to go to parties and dance. Carla usually protested, but I think she secretly enjoyed that he got her away from the gang of nerds she normally hung out with.
I considered my friend and shrugged, biting the bullet. “I got invited to a party at Brianna Kline’s by those two senior girls you saved me from,” I offered, dreading the consequences of opening my mouth.
Toby was my best friend and did a lot for me. It was little enough to do for him, though secretly I wanted to go home, find my way into bed and sleep for a year.
We got in Toby’s shiny, hot rod red, 55 Ford truck and left the parking lot. Carla gave driving instructions while leaning into Toby’s massive shoulder. He more or less ignored her instructions, but we found our way to the street anyhow, everyone knew where Bri’s place was.
