A Hopeless Game

by Daniel Carson

  “You know, Hope, I’m feeling so good I’m just gonna ignore that sassback comment of yours. Now, I’m serious. I need your best work here.”

  “We talking thieving fox best work, or murdered goat best work?”

  “Dagnabbit, Hope, I mean it. I want you to talk with the players. Talk with the parents. And most important of all…” He gave me a quarter turn and pointed at the table that included the coaches. “Most important, I want you to do a feature article on Coach Mossback. The man is a genius. Pure genius, I’m telling you. He’s got coaching football down to a science. I didn’t believe it before, but now I do. When he first came to town, people talked about ‘the Mossback Method.’ Like this guy invented football. Now, I’m not too bashful to admit that I played a little ball back in my day. Wasn’t as good as your grandfather, but I wasn’t too shabby neither. Played end… both ways. So I know a thing or two about football. And never in a million years did I think Randall Mossback would come in here and turn these boys into winners. And he did it! Hope, the centerpiece of this edition has got to be an article about our coach and the Mossback Method. Come on, I’ll introduce you to him.”

  Earl dragged me through the crowd until he was leaning over the coach’s table.

  “Excuse me, Coach Mossback?”

  When Coach Mossback looked up from his beer, I got a good look at him for the first time. Early to mid fifties. Chiseled jaw. Intense eyes. The build of a former linebacker, I was guessing. Probably pretty good-looking in his younger days. But mostly, he was intense. Definitely intense.

  Then he looked over at me, and his face relaxed. He smiled, the intensity faded away, and I realized that Randall Mossback was still pretty good-looking.

  He held out his hand. “Randall Mossback, and you are?”

  “Hope Walker. I work for Earl here at the Hopeless News.”

  He looked at Earl and sneered. “That’s right, you’re the newspaper guy.” Then quickly back to me, and his smile reappeared. “What’d you think of the game, Hope Walker?”

  “Heck of a game. I especially liked your adjustment when they brought that extra guy up into the box in the second half.”

  Coach Mossback shook his head and slapped his hand on the table. “Holy crap, Arnie, this gal knows more about football than you.”

  The table roared in laughter while Coach Arnie Duncan forced a weak and artificial smile.

  “How’d you learn about football?” Coach Mossback asked.

  I shrugged. “An occupational hazard. Listen, Earl here wants me to do a big exposé on the football team for the paper, and he’d like me to ask you a few questions while I’m at it.”

  “I could do that. After the season.”

  “We’ve got a paper coming out this week. It wouldn’t take that long. Half hour max.”

  Coach Mossback stood up. “Sorry, but I’m a creature of habit. In fact I was just about to go home and prepare. I do the same thing after every game.”

  “Earl was telling me you call it the Mossback Method.”

  “That’s what other people started calling it. I call it routine.” He turned to the table. “Remember, tonight means nothing if we don’t take care of business next week. Sunday, 11:30 a.m. sharp. See you then.”

  He took my hand and winked. “And don’t you worry, little lady, I’ll make all the time in the world for you… after the season.”

  Coach Mossback might have left early, but it was clear the other coaches were in no such hurry. And I seized the opportunity to get a jump start on my article. I’d learned from experience never to leave home without a pad of paper in my back pocket, and tonight was no different. So I talked to Coach Edwards and Coach Williams, took notes when appropriate, and even used my phone to record a few quotes. When I finally reached Coach Duncan, he was nursing a soda, a tired look on his face.

  “You happy?” I asked.

  He nodded. “Oh yeah. Happy for the boys. Happy for the town. Definitely happy.”

  “You don’t look so happy.”

  “Just tired. Been a long, long journey.”

  “Granny said you were up for the head job when Coach Mossback got it.”

  He took a deliberate sip of his soda. “That is true.”

  “So how long have you been with the program?”

  He looked at his fingers as if he was doing the math, then looked up. “Fifteen years.”

  “So it really has been a long journey.”

  He said nothing. He took another sip of his soda.

  “If you don’t mind me asking… the way Coach Mossback talked to you earlier, does he do that a lot?”

  He looked at me like I’d just offended him. “I can handle myself.”

  I changed tack. “This Mossback Method… if it works so well, why doesn’t everyone do it?”

  Coach Duncan laughed. “People try to copy what’s successful all the time. I could watch Lebron James play basketball, doesn’t mean I’m going to play like Lebron James.”

  “And Coach Mossback is Lebron James in this scenario?”

  Coach Duncan leaned in. “What do you want from me, lady? Do I get warm fuzzies thinking about Coach Mossback? No. Did I want the job? Of course. Could I have done what he did?” He leaned back and shook his head. “Probably not.”

  “So what is it?” I asked. “What makes him so special? What makes him the Lebron James of Idaho high school football?”

  He shrugged like the whole thing was some kind of mystery. Then he saw that I wasn’t going to take a shrug for an answer, and he took a deep breath. “For starters, he knows the sport of football as well as anyone I’ve ever come across, that’s for sure. Then, he’s demanding as hell. To say the least. And despite being such a jerk, he’s a surprisingly good teacher. Like, really good. Sometimes I think he actually cares about the kids.”

  He shook his head and took another sip of his soda before continuing.

  “He’s brutally honest with everyone. Us coaches, and definitely the kids. And then, well, I have never, ever seen anybody—and I mean anybody—game plan better than he does. That’s what he’s doing right now. He goes home after every game, drinks beer, and passes out looking at film of the next team. Then he spends all day Saturday coming up with the game plan. And his game plan is different every single game. Unique. It’s as if he’s the Bill Belichick of high school football.

  “And that’s why Randall’s almost impossible to scout against. Coaches try to find your tendencies, you see. But with Coach Mossback, coming up with something different every single week, you can’t do that. You don’t know what you’re going to face.

  “The coach from Mound City, Mason Hawes? He hates Randall. ’Cause he could never beat him. For a while there they were coaching at rival schools, and Hawes never won a single game against Coach Mossback.”

  “Isn’t it hard on the kids to implement a new game plan every week?” I asked.

  “Of course. But somehow, Mossback gets it done. Though… despite the results, I wouldn’t do it his way. And I believe in my heart I could have had success with these kids.”

  “But…?”

  Coach Duncan’s face turned suddenly angry. “If I’m being honest? Yeah, I could have had success. Real success. But not this soon. And not like this.”

  Around midnight the crowd started to thin, and by twelve thirty Granny was chasing away the drunks with a cattle prod she kept behind the bar for such occasions. Those drunks included Fireman Bob and his merry band of firefighters. And that officially marked the end of our first date.

  As first dates went, it hadn’t been so bad. In fact, it was hard to really call it a “date” at all. Which made it not a bad way for me to ease back into this thing.

  Fireman Bob said goodbye to his buddies, then he walked right up to me like a drunk firefighter stalking his prey.

  “Okay, Lucky Charms, it’s time to rate my date.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “I rate all my dates on a scale of one to ten burritos. This was definite
ly an eight.”

  I’d never heard of rating dates, nor had I ever heard of the burrito scale, but nevertheless, I felt oddly competitive about the whole thing. “Only eight burritos? What would have made it a nine?”

  He held up his hand. “Hold on a second. I meant it’s been an eight burrito date so far. I didn’t say we were done yet. The way I see it, any date that’s a six burrito or more is already a solid date, and since this is an eight… well, you get the picture.”

  “I’m pretty sure I don’t.”

  “The way I see it, once we finish the make-out session, I’m sure I’ll rate it a solid nine. And no offense, but I rarely hand out tens.”

  “How could I, or any other woman for that matter, possibly be offended by that?”

  The look on his face suggested he and I were on the exact page. But we were definitely not on the same page.

  “I assume you’re talking about the two of us making out in the back of your pickup truck?” I said.

  “Of course. And who knows? I’m not saying a ten burrito is impossible.”

  “I get it, Fireman Bob, I really do. But here’s the thing. You and me making out is not gonna happen.”

  He looked hurt. “Really?”

  “Yes, really.”

  “Did you eat some spicy ranch Doritos or something? I’ll be honest, that kind of thing doesn’t bother me at all. It’s kind of like kissing and having a snack all at the same time.”

  “That’s repulsive.”

  “Which part?”

  “All of it.”

  He gave me that hurt look again, and for some odd reason, I found it endearing. Fireman Bob was so completely ridiculous, and so utterly unaware, that he couldn’t help but be… likable. Repugnant at the same time, of course. No, he was definitely not future boyfriend material, but I wouldn’t mind playing quarters with him and the boys from the firehouse from time to time.

  “Fireman Bob, I had a really good time tonight. And although we’re not going to make out in your pickup truck, I appreciate you liking my underwear and asking me out on a date.”

  And then, for some reason I really don’t understand, I leaned in and gave him a hug.

  Fireman Bob smiled and raised both arms in the air. And as he walked away he shouted, “Nine burritos, baby! Definitely nine burritos!”

  Chapter 6

  I spent Saturday doing as little as humanly possible. I slept in late. I went to A Hopeless Cup for my favorite cup of coffee in the world. Nick, the world’s most annoying barista and a prominent member of Generation Z, called me “ma’am” and “dude” in the same sentence, but he recovered nicely by giving me another perfect white mocha latte.

  I called Katie, who vented about Chris’s home brewing equipment taking up most of the laundry room. When she invited me over to help her watch her kids that afternoon, I told her I had a root canal I didn’t want to miss.

  For a late lunch, early dinner, I grabbed a cheeseburger from the bar, then I sat in my bed the rest of the day watching Netflix and working on my story about the football team. I checked in with Coach Williams and Coach Edwards for more background. And when I talked to Coach Duncan again, I asked if he thought there was any way I might be able to just get a few minutes with Coach Mossback.

  He hesitated. Then: “Meet us at the high school tomorrow at eleven thirty. I’ll try to get you five minutes before our team meeting at noon.”

  The next morning I woke up, showered, put on a floral print dress, and went to church. I hadn’t done much churchgoing after leaving Hopeless, and I certainly hadn’t intended to start up again when I came back. But a few weeks earlier when I watched Katie’s kids one weekend, they shamed me into going. And in the process, I learned something important about church: Sheriff Kramer makes a regular appearance there.

  And it turns out I didn’t mind seeing him accidentally on purpose on Sundays.

  “This gonna turn into a habit?” Alex said as we walked out of the service together.

  “Nope, it will remain a dress.” I twirled around for effect. “If it turns into a habit, then something really strange is going on.”

  Alex laughed. “You as a nun? Now that I would pay to see. So, did Fireman Bob and you go on your second date last night?”

  “Sadly, no. I took myself in for a cheeseburger and a cheesy romance flick. How about you?”

  “Oh, heck no. Fireman Bob and I haven’t even been on our first date yet.”

  I punched him in the arm. “I meant you and your girlfriends.”

  “Right, all of my many girlfriends.” He shook his head. “No such luck. I went out to Mary Higgins’s place south of town. Somebody drove over her mailbox, and she wants me to find the evildoer.”

  “Evildoer?”

  “That’s the word she used. She even made me write it in the official report. I told her I’d do whatever I could to keep Gotham safe.”

  “The exciting life of a small-town sheriff.”

  “Don’t I know it. I finished my night with a peanut butter and jelly sandwich and a spy novel.”

  Granny inserted herself between us. “How about the two of you join us at Buck’s for breakfast? Flo had a hot date last night with a vacuum repairman from Fairfield, and she’s gonna tell us all about it. Rumor has it he still has all his original teeth.”

  I threw up in my mouth a little, then regrouped and checked the time on my phone. “Sorry, Granny, can’t make it for this week’s episode of The Young and the Toothless. I’m working on a story.”

  “On a Sunday?” Alex asked.

  “What can I say? The exciting life of a small-town reporter.”

  I arrived at the school at 11:25 and drove around the building until I spotted the coaches. Several pickups parked outside of the gym, and the assistant coaches were leaning against them, just waiting. It was funny—from a distance, the coaches were basically interchangeable. Overly large cargo shorts. Oversized team sweatshirt. Ball cap. Beard or goatee. A little heavy around the middle. It was like all football coaches were cut from the same mold.

  Coach Duncan waved me over.

  “You really think he’ll give me five minutes?” I said as I walked up.

  “Maybe three.”

  “Then I better ask the right question. So, the final week of the season. Excited? Or nervous?”

  “Right now, a little more on the nervous side. Coach Mossback’s late.”

  I looked at my phone. 11:28. “He’s still got two minutes.”

  “Not according to Coach Mossback he doesn’t. He always says that ten minutes early is five minutes late. So when he says 11:30 sharp, he means 11:15.”

  “Think he’s just putting a few extra minutes in to get the game plan just right?”

  Coach Duncan stared into space. “I suppose. He’s never been late before though. Ever.”

  We waited awkwardly for one more minute before Coach Duncan grabbed his phone and sent a text to Coach Mossback. Then he folded his arms and leaned back against his truck.

  “So, I hear Mound City’s got a pretty good program,” I said. They were our opponent in the upcoming finals.

  “Not just pretty good. The best. Mossback might be the state’s best coach, but Mound City’s currently got the best team. They say to be the best you’ve got to beat the best. So we’ll see.”

  “Hey, Arnie,” said Coach Edwards. “You get a response from Randall yet?”

  Coach Duncan looked down at his phone. “Not yet.”

  We waited another five minutes, during which the coaches all appeared to be unusually uncomfortable. Clearly it was very unlike Coach Mossback to be late. Finally Coach Duncan opened the door to his green Ford pickup and jumped in.

  “I’m gonna check on him,” he said. “Maybe he’s having trouble with his truck.”

  “Mind if I follow you over?” I said.

  The request seemed to stress Coach Duncan out. He pressed his fingers onto his forehead. “Whatever you want to do.”

  I followed him through town to
one of the newer subdivisions. He pulled into the driveway of a modern home with a slight McMansion feel to it. Modern architecture, I would guess—the roof with weird angles. Three-car garage. Blue pickup in the driveway.

  I waited outside my car while Coach Duncan walked up to the front door and rang the doorbell. He put his hands in his pockets and waited. After a minute he stepped back off the front steps, looked around, then rang the doorbell again. Finally, after another minute he shouted over to me.

  “He’s not answering!”

  I pointed to the pickup. “That’s his truck?”

  Coach Duncan nodded.

  “Think he’s sick?”

  He shrugged.

  “Think maybe you should check on him?”

  Coach Duncan shrugged again. “I guess you’re right.”

  He twisted the doorknob and pushed the door open.

  “Does Coach always leave his door unlocked?” I asked.

  He gave me that where-have-you-been-for-the-last-twelve-years look. “This is Hopeless. Nobody locks their doors in Hopeless.” He poked his head into the house and called out, “Coach?”

  When there was no response, he went on in. “Randall? Where you at?”

  As I waited patiently on the front stoop, I found myself looking at Coach Mossback’s yard. Even for November, when most other yards looked dead and ready for winter, this yard somehow looked perfect. Apparently the coach was as demanding when it came to his lawn as he was with his players.

  And that’s when I heard the scream.

  I rushed into the house. “Coach Duncan?”

  “Down here! Down here!”

  I found the stairs to the basement and ran down them into what can best be described as a modern man cave. Large, comfy couch. Plush carpet. Coffee table with a laptop and some papers spread out. Big TV. Bookshelves on the walls. Empty beer cans on the floor.

  “In here!” Coach yelled. “In here!”

  I followed his voice through a door to a typical mechanical room—water heaters, furnace, AC unit. Coach Duncan stood there, shaking, his face as white as a ghost. And it was obvious why.