by Chris Fabry
“It’s for my asthma,” she said.
John stared at her, incredulous. “You can run with asthma?”
Hannah shrugged. “Sometimes.”
John looked back at the form and wondered what to do. He checked his watch and looked up the hill for stragglers. The stairs were empty.
He thanked Hannah for coming and was going to hand her a sheet with their practice schedule but thought better of it.
“When does practice start?” she said.
“I’ll get back with you on that,” he said. “Why don’t you come by my office tomorrow?”
“So you’re not going to have me run today?”
“I can tell you’re good enough for the team. Just come by the office and I’ll give you an update, okay?”
“Yes, sir.”
John headed for the stairs and turned to see Hannah walking to the far end of the field. She disappeared into the trees and he made a beeline for the main office. He met Principal Brooks on the sidewalk in front of the school.
“Olivia, there is no cross-country program.”
“What do you mean there’s no program?”
“I had one girl show up and she’s got asthma.”
A look of recognition showed on her face. “Oh, you mean Hannah Scott.”
John was surprised she knew her. “Yes.”
“Does she want to run?”
“Yes, but we can’t allow that. How could she compete?”
Olivia explained that a doctor’s note had been provided by Hannah’s grandmother. “She just has to keep her inhaler with her.”
Ethan’s words came back to him. “Nobody cares.” John tried to hold back his contempt. “Okay, but we still don’t have a team, so what does it matter?”
“I thought that one runner could still medal without a team,” Olivia said.
“Technically,” he said, wincing. “But why have a season with one runner?”
His voice sounded like a whine, even to himself, and he realized he and Olivia were not on the same page. Not even in the same chapter. It made no sense to keep a program going for only one runner when other programs had been cut. Surely Olivia would be open to reason and cut the cross-country albatross from his neck. But the way she looked at him told him she wasn’t backing down.
“One runner matters,” she said.
John turned away, unable to hold back his frustration. He wanted to call a time-out and yell at a ref.
“John, you are a good coach and a good teacher. I already told you that I don’t want to have to cancel another program. If she wants to try out, then let her.”
It felt like he was wearing gray and standing on the steps of the Appomattox courthouse. John simply said, “Okay,” and Olivia kept moving, walking away from the confrontation while he stood with a weight he didn’t want to carry. He took off his hat and smacked his leg with it and stared at the sky. His life felt out of control, and no matter what he did, others had more say. He hated that feeling. It was why he had looked forward to the basketball season. They finally controlled their destiny—and just when everything had fallen into place, another rug was pulled.
John drove home and found Ethan and Will playing basketball in the driveway. John saw Ethan guarding Will tightly and thought about his team and how hard they’d worked at defense. When Will, a full foot shorter, stepped back and took a shot and made it, Ethan celebrated like he’d scored himself.
John wanted to talk more with Ethan about what he’d said in class, but this wasn’t the time or the place. Besides, here was a high school senior spending time playing one-on-one with his younger brother. There was something special happening on that driveway.
He found Amy in the kitchen preparing dinner and said, “Ethan’s a good big brother.”
“He is a good big brother,” Amy said, smiling. “So how were tryouts?”
He dropped his keys on the counter. “Well, I gathered everyone together—” he paused for dramatic effect—“and I said to her, ‘Thanks for coming out.’”
“No,” Amy said.
“Yeah.”
“One person,” Amy said.
“Hannah Scott. She’s a sophomore. She’s got asthma.”
“Hannah Scott,” Amy said, repeating the name. “Yeah, I have her in science.”
“I caught Olivia afterward. She still wants me to coach her.”
A car pulled into the driveway and Amy looked out the window. “Hey, I think Neil Hatcher just pulled up.”
Neil was the father of Tommy and Kevin Hatcher. The twins were part of the backbone of John’s hopes for the upcoming season. John slowly made his way outside and shook hands with his friend.
“What brings you to the neighborhood?” John said.
“I wanted you to know before you heard it from someone else.”
“That sounds a little ominous.”
“I did everything I could, John. You know I grew up here. The family farm is just down the road. This town is all I’ve known and I thought we’d all grow old and—”
“Where are you going?”
“Sharpsville. I thought I could make a go of it, thought I could stay, but the company made me an offer. It tears my heart out to break up the team like this.”
John looked away, then back at his friend. “I know this was tough for you, Neil. I totally understand. It’s life, right? You have to deal with it as it comes.”
“I was praying on the way over here you’d say something like that.”
“I want the best for you and your family. Your sons.”
“The boys are really upset. They said they were looking forward to a championship. And playing with Ethan one more year before he heads off to college.”
“Yeah. Sharpsville is going to have a pretty good team themselves, it looks like.”
Neil put a hand on John’s shoulder. “I want you to know I appreciate what you’ve done. You’re a good coach. You’re a good man.”
Neil drove away and John felt like he was watching more leave than Neil Hatcher. Was this part of God’s game plan for their lives? He had believed God was in control of everything. He didn’t totally understand God’s hand in history as he read it and taught it, but he believed God was there and working behind the scenes. But with the events of the past few weeks, he wondered if those were just words. Were they the correct answers to score well on a test, or were they something he could really live and believe?
He walked through the yard, avoiding his sons still playing ball on the driveway, and returned to the kitchen to tell Amy what Neil had said. In frustration he slammed his hat on the table. “What’s happening to my team? This was supposed to be our year!”
“Well, is there anybody else who can play?” Amy said.
It felt like she was trying to fix things. But he could tell she cared. “Maybe,” John said. There was no conviction to his voice.
Ethan spoke through the open window. “Hey, what did Mr. Hatcher have to say?”
John gave Amy a look and trudged outside in a daze. He told Will to head inside and wash up for dinner. Will complained but seemed to sense something was going on.
“Is it about Tommy and Kevin?” Ethan said.
John walked past him into the backyard, trying to think of a way to spin the news. Instead of softening the blow and putting a silver lining on it, he nodded and told him straight-out what he’d heard. Man-to-man.
Ethan paced in the freshly mowed grass, then stopped. “What is happening to my senior year? You think Ty’s going to stay when he finds out everyone’s leaving? He’s already got two colleges looking at him.”
“You don’t know that he’ll leave,” John said.
“He might. That means we’ll have four players, Dad. Why would a scout come look at me when we don’t even have a team?”
Exactly, John thought. His son saw the truth and was feeling the emotion that John couldn’t fully express because . . . well, he had to keep things together. He had to stay strong. Stiff upper lip.
Ethan lowered his voice and spoke seriously. “What if I finish up at Franklin High?”
“You want to go to Franklin High?” John said, incredulous. “We still have a shot. You and Ty can carry the team. I just have to come up with a couple more players.”
“Who?” Ethan said. “No one else can play.”
John glanced away and saw Amy and Will at the window staring at them. He tried to think of something to say, something that would bring them together instead of further apart.
“I hate this!” Ethan said and he walked into the house.
“So do I.” John said it to himself. He said it like a prayer, wondering if God heard him.
CHAPTER 10
That scrawny kid, Robert Odelle, was in two of Hannah’s classes, and he had decided to hound her. Every time a teacher called her name, Hannah cringed. He had picked her out of the herd, and after she was called on in class, he waited until the teacher wasn’t looking and mimicked her voice.
She had never found her class schedule in her backpack and assumed she had lost it until one day Robert said, “Why didn’t you make it to science on that first day, Hannah?” He never showed her the worn paper. He didn’t have to. The smirk on his face was enough to tell her he had taken it or picked it up when she dropped it. There was glee in his eyes and she couldn’t understand why anyone would want to be that mean to somebody they’d barely even met. Why did he take pleasure in someone else’s pain? Hannah had seen much worse than Robert Odelle at Franklin High, but she hadn’t expected it here. Wasn’t this place supposed to teach the Golden Rule, that you were supposed to do unto others what you would want them to do to you? Robert seemed to flip that rule around, and it irritated her more than any bullying she’d experienced at the Y or at other schools.
Her teachers were fond of quoting a Bible verse that said, “All have sinned.” Hannah knew that described her in so many ways and it made her cringe. She felt terrible about stealing, but she just couldn’t stop. Robert never seemed to feel bad about how he treated her. Maybe he was the same way. Maybe he just couldn’t stop.
On the first day of cross-country practice, Robert followed her out a door. “How are you supposed to run when you can’t breathe?”
Hannah didn’t look at him. She just walked toward the field.
“Have fun gasping,” Robert called after her.
Hannah had told her grandmother she’d made the team the night before. Her grandmother said she hoped Hannah would make friends with her new teammates. Hannah didn’t have the heart to tell her she was the only one on the team. And she didn’t tell anyone about Robert.
Coach Harrison met Hannah at the practice field where the cross-country course began and showed her a layout. She walked the course alone, making mental notes of the rise and fall of the terrain. When she finished, she was surprised to see Mrs. Harrison and her younger son sitting on the bleachers.
Coach Harrison had his laptop open, studying the times of other athletes, and he sat beside her on the bench. He focused on what it would take to win a medal, pointing out the current state champion, Gina Mimms, who ran for Westlake Academy. Her time for the 5K was under twenty minutes, which seemed lightning fast. Out of reach.
“Have you been timed lately?” Coach Harrison said.
“No, sir.”
He said they would begin there. “I’m going to get the golf cart while you stretch. Do you have your inhaler?”
“I’ll just run with it.”
Will looked up from his homework. “Can I run too?”
“It’s three miles, buddy,” Coach said.
“You need to finish your homework,” Mrs. Harrison said.
Will begged and Hannah silently watched their interaction. She always imagined other families were a lot like hers. Kids spent time alone. They stayed at the Y and went to after-school programs and checked in with next-door neighbors. Even when her grandmother was home, Hannah watched TV alone and ate alone because her grandmother was exhausted from her two jobs. She learned about families from the ones she saw on TV shows and in the movies. So when she saw Coach Harrison and his wife, she again wondered what it would be like to have two parents who cared about each other and spent time with their kids.
To her surprise, Will’s begging worked. He promised to finish his homework later and Coach Harrison glanced at his wife and that was it. Just a glance and they seemed on the same page. Will would try to keep up with her and she wouldn’t be running alone.
“I’ll bet you can run this in twenty-four minutes,” Mrs. Harrison said to Hannah.
“I can do it in twenty-four,” Coach Harrison said.
Mrs. Harrison laughed. “I doubt that.”
“Watch me,” he said.
“John, you don’t have to prove anything. You don’t just run three miles without—”
“Watch me,” he said, grinning.
Hannah smiled and the three of them lined up. She began with an even pace, focusing on the uphill climb at the beginning of the course. Walking it, the incline didn’t seem steep. Running it was a different proposition. Almost immediately her legs burned and her chest tightened. She could hear Will breathing hard behind her, his feet clopping like a Clydesdale. Coach Harrison lumbered behind him, trying to keep up.
She had learned from her coach at Franklin High not to run on her heels but to strike the ground as if running on her toes. There was so much to think about with any sport, but today she thought about Coach Harrison and his focus on a medal. What if she couldn’t run faster than twenty-four minutes? What if she never got under twenty-two or twenty-one minutes or came close to Gina Mimms?
The more her mind churned, the harder the course became and she remembered Robert’s jab about not being able to breathe.
“Have fun gasping.”
She pulled out her inhaler, pumped it once into her mouth, and immediately felt her lungs relax. She glanced over a shoulder at Will, who was all arms as he ran. Farther back she saw Coach Harrison in the trees, his Brookshire shirt already drenched with sweat like he had jumped into the deep end of a swimming pool.
The last part of the course sloped down, and as she neared the field and the finish line, her legs felt like deadweight. Mrs. Harrison saw her and yelled encouragement to push to the finish. Sweat dripping and breathing hard, she passed Mrs. Harrison and heard her say, “23:15.”
Mrs. Harrison told her to keep moving and stay loose. The woman zeroed in on her, not just looking at her but seeming to look into her. “You okay?”
It was a simple question and short, but for some reason Hannah had never felt that kind of care. She couldn’t get over the feeling of having someone really see her, really understand her struggle. Hannah nodded and filed the moment away.
“Look at you, Will!” Mrs. Harrison yelled as Will came through the trees. He finished at 24:10, his hair wet and flopping like a mop. Pretty impressive for a sixth grader who hadn’t trained. He bent over, elbows on knees, glasses fogged.
“That was amazing, Will,” Mrs. Harrison said.
“That was terrible,” Will said, gasping. “Why would anybody want to do this?”
Will gave Hannah a weak high-five and they both drank water and eventually sat on a bench across from Mrs. Harrison, who nervously looked at the woods, then at the stopwatch.
“Dad’s not going to be happy with his time,” Will said.
“I think he’ll be happy to just finish,” Mrs. Harrison said.
“The problem with this sport is there’s no ball,” Will said. “There’s no dunking or goals or anything.”
“Well, I think this sport is about endurance, sweetie.”
There it was again, something subtle Hannah picked up. It was an easy conversation between mother and son. Will didn’t even have to think twice about talking with his mom or expressing something that came to mind. That wasn
’t how conversations went with her grandmother. She did call Hannah “baby,” which Hannah liked at times, but at others didn’t. Hannah usually tried to gauge her grandmother’s mood to decide if she should share something. Most of the time she held back.
Mrs. Harrison stood, looking up the course. “Finally.”
Hannah caught sight of Coach Harrison swinging his arms and trying to get enough momentum to make it to the finish line. He gasped for air and when he reached level ground and noticed he was being watched, he sprinted, lifting his legs high and trying hard to make the finish look as good as possible.
He flopped to the ground, rolled onto his back like an insect, and said, “That was terrible! Why would anyone want to do this?”
When he asked his time, Mrs. Harrison studied the stopwatch as if it were a bad diagnosis.
“32:02.”
“What? I didn’t even break thirty?”
“I’m just surprised that you finished.”
The coach playfully tossed his hat at her and said, “Go away.”
She laughed and there it was again. That connection. Laughing together, sweating together, tossing hats, listening, looking, freely speaking what was inside. It was all of that and more.
“Hannah, do you have a ride home?” Mrs. Harrison said as they packed up.
“It’s just a mile. I can walk.”
“No, we can take you home. We’d love to meet your parents.”
A familiar ache settled in Hannah’s gut. Her situation wasn’t normal—she wasn’t normal. Especially at a place like Brookshire.
“It’s just me and my grandma. My parents have passed.”
“I’m sorry. I didn’t know.” Mrs. Harrison’s voice was tender and full of compassion. “We’d be happy to take you home. I can call your grandmother and let her know.”
“I’m okay. I don’t mind walking. Thanks anyway.”
Hannah walked away, glad for the extra time to stretch and recover from the run and grateful for the time alone. She could think through the course and how she might get faster the next time. Maybe she could get under twenty-three minutes. But the real reason she had passed up the offer of a ride was something that had happened after she completed the race and Mrs. Harrison was focused on Will.
