Reading group guide
DEDICATED TO...
My husband, in honor of his fourteen years as a varsity basketball coach. You have suffered much this past season, but always you held your head high and believed. “God has a plan,” you would say, leaving me and everyone else awe-struck at your faithfulness. Without a doubt you are the most honest, most loyal man I’ve ever known. How blessed I am to be your wife . . . truly. Your character stands as a shining beacon for all who have had the privilege of even the briefest contact with you. Yes, my love, God has a plan. And one day in the not so distant future, the name Coach will ring once more, and you’ll wear the whistle again.
I have two prayers for you. First, that we savor every minute of this season of rest. For the basketball program’s loss is most certainly our gain. And second, that the loving legacy of your coaching days will change forever the lives of those boys who called you Coach.
Kelsey, my precious little teenager, whose heart is so close to my own. I watch you on the soccer field, giving everything you’ve got, and I am grateful for the young woman you’re becoming. Nothing pushes you around, sweetheart. Not boys or friends or the trends of the day. Instead you stand at the front of the pack, a one-in-a-million sweetheart with a future so bright it shines. Wasn’t it just yesterday when you were teetering across our kitchen floor, trying to give your pacifier to the cat so he wouldn’t be lonely? I can hear the ticking of time, my daughter. The clock moves faster every year . . . but believe me, I’m savoring every minute. I am blessed beyond words for the joy of being your mother.
Tyler, my strong and determined oldest son. Since the day you could walk, you wanted to entertain us. Singing, dancing, doing silly tricks. Whatever it took to make us laugh. And now here you are, tall and handsome, writing books, and learning to sing and play the piano, putting together dramas in a way that glorifies our Lord. All that and you’re only ten years old! I’ve always believed God has a special plan for your life, Tyler, and I believe it more all the time. Keep listening for His lead, son. That way the dance will always be just what He wants it to be.
Sean, my tender boy. I knew when we brought you home from Haiti that you loved God. But it wasn’t until I saw your eyes fill with tears during worship time that I realized how very much you loved Him. “What’s wrong, Sean?” I would whisper to you. But you would only shake your head, “Nothing, Mom. I just love Jesus so much.” I pray you always hold that special love in your heart, and that you allow God to guide you to all the glorious plans He has for you.
Joshua, my can-do child. From the moment I met you I knew you were special, set apart from the other kids at the orphanage. Now that you’ve been home a year I can see that all the more clearly. God has placed within you a root of determination stronger than any I’ve seen. Whether you’re drawing or writing, coloring or singing, playing basketball or soccer, you steel your mind to be the best, and then you do just that. I couldn’t be prouder of the strides you’ve made, son. Always remember where your talent comes from, Joshua . . . and use it to glorify Him.
EJ, our chosen son. Yours was the first face we saw on the Internet photo-listing that day when we first considered adopting from Haiti. Since then I’ve been convinced of one thing: God brought you into our lives. Sometimes I think maybe you’ll be a doctor or a lawyer, or maybe the president of a company. Because the things God has done in the one year since you’ve been home are so amazing, nothing would surprise me. Keep your eyes on Jesus, son. Your hope will always only be found there.
Austin (MJ), my miracle boy, my precious heart. Is it possible you are already five? A big strapping boy who no longer sees the need for a nap, and who has just one more year home with me before starting school? I love being your mommy, Austin. I love when you bring me dandelions in the middle of the day or wrap your chubby arms around my neck and smother my face in kisses. I love playing give-and-go with you every morning. And wearing my Burger King crown so I can be the Kings and you can be the Bulls in our living room one-on-one battles. What joy you bring me, my littlest son. You call yourself MJ because you wanna be like Michael Jordan, and truly, I don’t doubt that you will be one day. But when I see you, I’ll always remember how close we came to losing you. And how grateful I am that God gave you back to us.
And to God Almighty, the Author of life, who has, for now, blessed me with these.
One
THE KID MADE COACH JOHN REYNOLDS NERVOUS.
He was tall and gangly, and he’d been doodling on his notebook since sixth period health class began. Now the hour was almost up, and John could see what the boy was drawing.
A skull and crossbones.
The design was similar to the one stenciled on the kid’s black T-shirt. Similar, also, to the patch sewn on his baggy dark jeans. His hair was dyed jet black and he wore spiked black leather collars around his neck and wrists.
There was no question Nathan Pike was fascinated with darkness. He was a gothic, one of a handful of kids at Marion High School who followed a cultic adherence to the things of doom.
That wasn’t what bothered John.
What bothered him was a little something the boy had scribbled beneath the dark symbolism. One of the words looked like it read death. John couldn’t quite make it out from the front of the classroom, so he paced.
Like he did every Friday night along the stadium sidelines as the school’s varsity football coach, John wandered up and down the rows of students checking their work, handing out bits of instruction or critique where it was needed.
As he made his way toward Nathan’s desk, he glanced at the boy’s notebook again. The words scribbled there made John’s blood run cold. Was Nathan serious? These days John could do nothing but assume the student meant what he’d written. John squinted, just to make sure he’d read the words correctly.
He had.
Beneath the skull and crossbones, Nathan had written this sentiment: Death to jocks.
John was still staring when Nathan looked up and their eyes met. The boy’s were icy and dead, unblinking. Intended to intimidate. Nathan was probably used to people taking one glance and looking away, but John had spent his career around kids like Nathan. Instead of turning, he hesitated, using his eyes to tell Nathan what he could not possibly say at that moment. That the boy was lost, that he was a follower, that the things he’d drawn and the words he’d written were not appropriate and would not be tolerated.
But most important, John hoped his eyes conveyed that he was there for Nathan Pike. The same way he had been there for others like him, the way he would always be there for his students.
Nathan looked away first, shifting his eyes back to his notebook.
John tried to still his racing heart. Doing his best to look unaffected, he returned to the front of the classroom. His students had another ten minutes of seatwork before he would resume his lecture.
He sat down at his desk, picked up a pen, and grabbed the closest notepad.
Death to jocks?
Obviously he would have to report what he’d seen to the administration, but as a teacher, what was he supposed to do with that? What if Nathan was serious?
Ever since the shooting tragedies at a handful of schools around the country, most districts had instituted a “red-flag” plan of some sort. Marion High School was no exception. The plan had every teacher and employee keeping an eye on the classrooms in their care. If any student or situation seemed troublesome or unusual, the teacher or employee was supposed to make a report immediately. Meetings were held once a month to discuss which students might be slipping through the cracks. The telltale signs were obvious: a student bullied by others, despondent, dejected, outcast, angry, or fascinated with death. And particularly students who made threats of violence.
Nathan Pike qualified in every category.
But then, so did 5 percent of the school’s enrollment. Without a specific bit of evidence, there wasn’t much a teacher or administrator could do. The handbook on troubled kids
advised teachers to ease the teasing or involve students in school life.
“Talk to them, find out more about them, ask about their hobbies and pastimes,” the principal had told John and the other faculty when they discussed the handbook. “Perhaps even recommend them for counseling.”
That was all fine and good. The problem was, boys like Nathan Pike didn’t always advertise their plans. Nathan was a senior. John remembered when Nathan first came to Marion High. His freshman and sophomore years Nathan had worn conservative clothes and kept to himself.
The change in his image didn’t happen until last year.
The same year the Marion High Eagles won their second state football championship.
John cast a quick glance at Nathan. The boy was doodling again. He doesn’t know I saw the notebook. Otherwise wouldn’t he have sat back in his chair, covered the skull and crossbones, and hidden the horrible words? This wasn’t the first time John had suspected Nathan might be a problem. Given the boy’s changed image, John had kept a close eye on him since the school year began. He strolled by Nathan’s desk at least once each day and made a point of calling on him, talking to him, or locking eyes with him throughout the hour. John suspected a deep anger burned in the boy’s heart, but today was the first time there’d ever been proof.
John remained still but allowed his gaze to rove around the room. What was different about today? Why would Nathan choose now to write something so hateful?
Then it hit him.
Jake Daniels wasn’t in class.
Suddenly the entire scenario made sense. When Jake was there— no matter where he sat—he found a way to turn his classmates against Nathan.
Freak . . . queer . . . death doctor . . . nerd . . . loser.
All names whispered and loosely tossed in Nathan’s direction. When the whispers carried to the front of the classroom, John would raise his eyebrows toward Jake and a handful of other football players in the class.
“That’s enough.” The warning was usually all John had to say. And for a little while, the teasing would stop. But always the careless taunting and cruel words hit their mark. John was sure of it.
Not that Nathan ever let Jake and the others see his pain. The boy ignored all jocks, treated them as though they didn’t exist. Which was probably the best way to get back at the student athletes who picked on him. Nothing bothered John’s current football players more than being looked over.
That was especially true for Jake Daniels.
No matter that this year’s team hadn’t earned the accolades that came their way. The fact that the team’s record was worse than any season in recent history mattered little to Jake and his teammates. They believed they were special and they intended to make everyone at school treat them accordingly.
John thought about this year’s team. It was strange, really. They were talented, maybe more so than any other group of kids to come through Marion High. Talk around school was that they had even more going for them than last year’s team when John’s own son Kade led the Eagles to a state championship. But they were arrogant and cocky, with no care for protocol or character. In all his years of coaching, John had never had a more difficult group.
No wonder they weren’t winning. Their talent was useless in light of their attitudes.
And many of the boys’ parents were worse. Especially since Marion had lost two of its first four games.
Parents constantly complained about playing time, practice routines, and, of course, the losses. They were often rude and condescending, threatening to get John fired if his record didn’t improve.
“What happened to Marion High’s undefeated record?” they would ask him. “A good coach would’ve kept the streak going.”
“Maybe Coach Reynolds doesn’t know what he’s doing,” they would say. “Anyone could coach the talent at Marion High and come up with an undefeated season. But losses?”
They wondered out loud what type of colossal failure John Reynolds was to take a team of Eagles football players onto the field and actually lose. It was unthinkable to the Marion High parents. Unconscionable. How dare Coach Reynolds drop two games so early in the season!
And sometimes the wins were worse.
“That was a cream puff opponent last week, Reynolds,” the parents would say. If they had a two-touchdown win, the parents would harp that it should have been four at least. And then John’s favorite line of all: “Why, if my son had gotten more playing time . . .”
Parents gossiped behind his back and undermined the authority he had on the field. Never mind the fact that the Eagles were coming off a championship season. Never mind that John was one of the win-ningest coaches in the state. Never mind that more than half of last year’s championship squad had graduated, placing John in what was obviously a rebuilding year.
The thing that mattered was whether the sons of John’s detractors were being used at what they believed were the proper positions and for enough minutes each game. Whether their numbers were being called at the appropriate times for the big plays, and how strong their individual statistics appeared in the paper.
It was just a rotten break that the biggest controversy on the team had, in a roundabout way, made Nathan’s life miserable. Two quarterbacks had come into summer practices, each ready for the starting position: Casey Parker and Jake Daniels.
Casey was the shoo-in, the senior, the one who had ridden the bench behind Kade up until last year. All his high-school football career had come down to this, his final season with the Eagles. He reported in August expecting to own the starting position.
What the boy hadn’t expected was that Jake Daniels would show up with the same mind-set.
Jake was a junior, a usually good kid from a family who once lived down the street from John and his wife, Abby. But two years ago, the Danielses split up. Jake’s mother took Jake and moved into an apartment. His father took a job in New Jersey hosting a sports radio program. The divorce was nasty.
Jake was one of the casualties.
John shuddered. How close had he and Abby come to doing the same thing? Those days were behind them, thank God. But they were still very real for Jake Daniels.
At first Jake had turned to John, a father figure who wasn’t half a country away. John would never forget something Jake asked him.
“You think my dad still loves me?”
The kid was well over six feet tall, nearly a man. But in that instant he was seven years old again, desperate for some proof that the father he’d counted on all his life, the man who had moved away and left him, still cared.
John did everything he could to assure Jake, but as time passed, the boy grew quiet and sullen. He spent more hours alone in the weight-room and out on the field, honing his throwing skills.
When summer practices came around, there was no question who would be the starting quarterback. Jake won the contest easily. The moment that happened, Casey Parker’s father, Chuck, called a meeting with John.
“Listen, Coach—” the veins on his temple popped out as he spoke— “I heard my son lost the starting position.”
John had to stifle a sigh. “That’s true.”
The man spouted several expletives and demanded an explanation. John’s answer was simple. Casey was a good quarterback with a bad attitude. Jake was younger, but more talented and coachable, and therefore the better choice.
“My son cannot be second string.” Casey’s father was loud, his face flushed. “We’ve been planning for this all his life! He’s a senior and he will not be sitting the bench. If he has a bad attitude, that’s only because of his intensity. Live with it.”
Fortunately, John had brought one of his assistants to the meeting. The way accusations and hearsay were flying about, he’d figured he couldn’t be too careful. So he and his assistant had sat there, waiting for Parker to continue.
“What I’m saying is—” Chuck Parker leaned forward, his eyes intent—“I’ve got three coaches breathing down my neck. We’re thinki
ng of transferring. Going where my kid’ll get a fair shake.”
John resisted the urge to roll his eyes. “Your son has an attitude problem, Chuck. A big one. If other high-school coaches in the area are recruiting him, it’s because they haven’t worked with him.” John leveled his gaze at the man. “What exactly are your concerns?”
“I’ll tell you my concern, Coach.” Chuck pointed a rigid finger at John. “You’re not loyal to your players. That’s what. Loyalty is everything in sports.”
This from a man whose son wanted to toss his letterman’s jacket and transfer schools. As it turned out, Casey Parker stayed. He took snaps at running back and tight end and spelled Jake at quarterback. But the criticism from Casey’s father had continued each week, embarrassing Casey and causing the boy to work harder to get along with Jake, his on-field rival. Jake seemed grateful to be accepted by a senior like Casey, and the two of them began spending most of their free time together. It didn’t take long to see the changes in Jake. Gone was the shy, earnest kid who popped into John’s classroom twice a week just to connect. Gone was the boy who had once been kind to Nathan Pike. Now Jake was no different from the majority of players who strutted across Marion High’s campus.
And in that way, the quarterback controversy had only made Nathan’s life more miserable. Whereas once Nathan was respected by at least one of the football players, now he didn’t have a single ally on the team.
John had overheard two teachers talking recently.
“How many Marion football players does it take to screw in a light bulb?”
“I give up.”
“One—he holds it while the world revolves around him.”
There were nights when John wondered why he was wasting his time. Especially when his athletes’ elitist attitudes divided the school campus and alienated students like Nathan Pike. Students who sometimes snapped and made an entire school pay for their low place in the social pecking order.
So what if John’s athletes could throw a ball or run the length of a field? If they left the football program at Marion High without a breath of compassion or character, what was the point?
A Time to Dance Page 33
