Homecoming in Mossy Creek

by Debra Dixon

  So, here I am, walking into the Naked Bean before school on a Wednesday morning in October. Jayne Reynolds makes some of the best coffee the North Georgia mountains. And it’s a good place to meet new folks. Everybody drops in at the Naked Bean occasionally. I met some fine people there. And if truth be told, I met some ornery ones, too. Willard Overbrook being one of the worst. Never figured out what I did to get under Willard’s skin, but he always treated me like an infestation of chiggers that somehow found its way to his privates.

  When I first met him, I thought he was threatening me. I mean, really threatening me. Like he was some macho guy and wanted to take on the new “kid” in town. As time passed, the sense of threat went away, but he always made it known that he would like to be rid of me, one way or the other.

  If it sounds like I’m paranoid, I have to tell ya that Willard wasn’t the only one who acted like I was a menace to society. Over the past few weeks, the resentment—or whatever it was—had lessened, even with Willard, but he just couldn’t seem to completely let go of that anger.

  Looking forward to a nice cuppa Joe before heading to school was my aim when I walked through that door. Dealing with Willard was the last thing on my mind, but there he was.

  I nodded at him cordially as I passed him on my way to the counter. “Mornin’ Willard,” I said, trying to take the high road.

  He grimaced and for a moment, I thought he would ignore my greeting. Finally he said, “Morning, Coach.”

  The way he used the word coach told me what he thought of my skills. Trouble is, I just don’t know why he felt that way. Wasn’t as if I’d taken Mossy Creek from a winning season to losing. Just the opposite. And to my knowledge, I’d never met the guy until I came to Mossy Creek.

  I turned my attention to a more pleasant face. “Mornin’, Miss Jayne. What’s the special today?” Not that I really cared. Everything here was good.

  “Coffee and a buttered biscuit with homemade blackberry jam.”

  “Homemade?”

  “Made by Betty Halfacre’s half-Cherokee hands. She and her family even picked the wild blackberries.” Jayne smiled and pointed at the neat row of jars bearing her name. They were capped with some kind of little red-checkered cloth and something that looked for all the world like a piece of straw.

  “Sounds real good. I’ll take it.”

  I sat down with the newspaper and glanced at the front page. The Mossy Creek Gazette was a weekly paper, so it was all about the game that would take place in two days. Harrington Academy wasn’t much of an opponent, but suitable for Homecoming, I guess. I’d rather have a little more of a challenge so my boys didn’t get complacent. Never do for that to happen. I’ve seen “sure win” games that left the players wondering what happened after getting whupped up on by a far inferior opponent. My main job this week was to keep our boys sharp.

  The door opened and Tag Garner came in. “Hey, Tag.”

  Willard looked up from his newspaper. He nodded at Tag. This time a grin accompanied the nod.

  “Hey, Coach.” Tag snared the cup of coffee Jayne held out for him. “Mornin’, Jayne. Good to see you.”

  “Good to see you. How’s Maggie?” Jayne asked.

  “Fat and sassy as ever.” Tag grinned from ear to ear. “She’s pretty worn out at the end of the day, though. Gets tired real easy.”

  Jayne chuckled and nodded. “How well I remember those days. Near the end of my pregnancy, I thought I’d die of exhaustion. Feet swollen, back aching. It was awful.”

  “Sounds just like her.” Tag shook his head and ambled over to the table where I was sitting. He looked over at Willard, hesitated and said, “Comin’ to the game Friday night, Willard?”

  Something akin to a growl erupted from the corner where Willard sat. “Reckon so.”

  I glanced across the room. Willard was watching as Tag dropped into the chair across from mine.

  “So, the game’s on for Friday,” I said. “The big one.”

  “Well, Coach, I’m not real sure folks around here would call the Harrington game the big one. I’d say the rivalry between Mossy Creek and Bigelow makes the game coming up in two weeks the big game.”

  “Yeah, I know. Folks ’round here put a lot of pressure on me about that game, but we got to play ’em one at a time. That means the ‘big’ game is always the one coming up.” I cut my eyes over toward Willard. He’d been one of the worst. “I don’t know what happened last week.”

  Tag grinned and shook his head. “Everybody loses one every now and then.”

  “We shouldn’t have lost that game. No way.” I looked at my watch and then over at Jayne. “Can you pack that biscuit to go?”

  “Sure can.” Jayne wrapped the biscuit and brought it out to the table. “Here you go. See you in the morning?”

  “Yep, just like always.” I rose and headed toward the door. “See you this afternoon, Tag?”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll be there.” Tag stood up, tossed a few dollars on the table, nodded at Jayne. “I’m coming with you. I’m subbing for the art teacher today. She’s got a migraine.”

  We walked out the door together with Willard staring daggers at me. Just can’t figure that man out. “You seem to be subbing a lot lately.”

  “Not much going on at the store, what with the economy and school starting back. No tourists except on weekends.”

  I headed toward my car and then looked at Tag. “I heard what you told Jayne, but is Maggie really okay?”

  A grin erupted across Tag’s face that looked like the sun coming up over the mountains. “Yeah. Just ornery. The doc says the baby’s not coming for another couple of weeks, but she’s ’bout big enough to bust.”

  “Well, she’s healthy. She’ll do fine.”

  The grin sagged and Tag shook his head. “Yeah, I know. Still...”

  He waved and stepped over the door to his Spider. I watched with a grin. That boy loved his fast cars. The flashy red Alfa Romeo Spider roared to life. Tag sped out of the space and disappeared at the end of the street where he turned toward the school. As far as I knew, he had only two vices...fast cars and Maggie Hart.

  By the time I got to school Tag was nowhere to be seen. He was subbing because he technically had to be employed by the school in order to serve as my assistant coach. So far, it worked out fine. He usually worked down at his shop, Figuratively Speaking. Turned out, he had a helluva talent for sculpting action figures, mostly sports stuff like football players. But every now and again, he created something historical, like the Battle of Cowpens from the Revolutionary War. After a lot of research, he sculpted something like a diorama. Then he had the sculptures cast in bronze and limited editions produced.

  Personally, I think he enjoyed teaching school. I know he enjoyed the kids. And as for football, he was the best natural coach I’d come across in a long time. The boys looked up to him. He’d been there in the trenches and they respected that.

  I got out of my car and was practically attacked.

  “Hey, Coach!” Greg Pitts threw his arms around me in a bear hug and lifted me off my feet.

  “Now Greg, put me down, son.”

  “Two more days. Just two. I’m gonna be the manager.” His exuberance was infectious.

  “I know, I know. You gonna be at practice this afternoon? I need you mighty bad, son.” I watched as he puffed out his chest with pride. Nobody seemed to pay much attention to him. He was a good kid, just a little slow. He was probably borderline for being able to attend regular school, but somehow managed to get by. I noticed a lot of the kids made fun of him or made him the butt of jokes, but he never seemed to mind. Or maybe he just wasn’t smart enough to see they were really making fun of him. But he had a good heart and just overflowed with enthusiasm. After the players griped about having to deal with “the retard,” I had a team meeting with them. T
old them that anybody who didn’t treat Greg with respect didn’t play on Mossy Creek’s football team. The key word being “team.” My feelings about that went way back to my college days, to a time I’m not real proud of.

  Some of them still groused, but didn’t make a big deal about it. I didn’t know much about Greg, just that he lived with his grandparents. I think his daddy didn’t hang around very long after the boy was diagnosed as being slow. Then a few years after that, his mama split, too. The boy was raised by his grandparents. I was hoping to meet them, but so far, they hadn’t showed up.

  This would be Greg’s first game as team manager. His job really consisted of getting water to the players during the game and towels for them after the game. He did the job well.

  Still, he was proud to be a part of the team. I don’t think I’ll ever forget the day I offered him the job. He’d been standing on the sidelines watching. Our previous team manager had moved out of state. Pretty much anybody could do the job, but for some reason I was drawn to Greg. I was watching the practice from about ten yards away from him, listening to his muttering. He knew the positions and the plays. And there was a special quality about him. I suspected there was more to him than met the eye. That was when I decided to make him team manager. So far, he hadn’t disappointed me, but there was a big difference between practice and the big game. I hoped he didn’t get a case of nerves at the last minute.

  The rest of my day went by quickly, but we had one last “appointment” scheduled with Argie Rodriguez for ballet class—a meeting with the team and their fathers. The guys had flat out refused to take ballet at first, but they’d finally relented when told how much it helped. Then some of the dads got involved and got the team riled up again. Seems like they thought their macho sons didn’t need to be involved in something that sissified.

  The meeting went well. Tag told the team about his own experiences with ballet and settled everybody down so we could get on to business.

  Argie was a good person and a great dance teacher. She spotted right off that the boys were uncomfortable taking ballet. So she tried to make it less “sissified.”

  I watched the boys as they went through the routine she’d developed for them. They were getting into the swing of things today. Maybe it was nerves because of the big game coming up. I guess I was having a bit of a nervous problem, too, because my heartburn was really kicking up.

  When dance class was over, we headed to the field. It took about twenty minutes to get everybody back to the locker room and another ten or fifteen to get them suited up for practice. And another ten to get them settled down. Man, they were keyed up.

  Tag met us on the field. He was grinning, tossing the football in the air and catching it. “Our Come-to-Jesus meeting at Argie’s went well, don’t you think?”

  “Yep. They’re pretty as a picture. Gonna order the boys some tutus to practice in. Whadya think about that?”

  A couple of the players heard me and grumbled at my attempt at humor.

  “Might ought to hold off on the tutus.” Tag strode forward and tossed the ball to Greg who caught it with a toothy grin. “I reckon we got some hard practice this afternoon, Greg. You gotta be sharp, man. Big game coming up on Friday.”

  “Reckon you’re right about that.” I gave a curt nod toward the field and the guys started into their exercises with Willie Bigelow taking charge.

  Willie was a born leader. Come to think of it, everybody in that family seemed like a leader. I mean, you got Mayor Ida. And of course, Governor Ham. I know calling him Governor Ham might sound a little disrespectful, but as far as governors go, he makes a good hog. I got nothing but praise for Mayor Ida. That’s a good looking woman who’s got a good head on her shoulders. She’s a little young for me, of course, or you can bet the farm I’d give Chief Royden a run for his money.

  I noticed HayDay Carlisle standing with his arms looped over the rail on the bleachers. He was talking to some men I didn’t know. Wolfman Washington was there, too, along with Dan McNeil from the Fix-it Shop, Win Allen from Bubba Rice’s Restaurant and Nail Delgado. And standing sort of at the back of that crowd was Willard Overbrook. I half-way expected him to start something, but he seemed content to stare a hole through me for the moment.

  I glanced around and the guys were finishing up their calisthenics and starting to do wind-sprints. Greg was busy filling up the water cups for the guys and placing them on the table by the bench. It was an interesting thing to watch. The boy lined the paper cups up in perfect rows, perfectly spaced. He couldn’t have done a better job if he’d chalked a line and measured the distance. He might be simple, but he certainly had gifts that needed to be explored.

  “Hey, Coach. Ready to go?” Tag was looking at me as if he’d called my name a couple of times.

  “Yeah. Sorry. Lost in thought, I guess.” I blew my whistle to get the boys’ attention. I glanced from eager face to eager face as they ran to stand in a semi-circle in front of me. These were good boys. “Big game tomorrow, men.”

  A few of them nodded, but others chimed in with appropriate comments. Tag was studying a playbook we’d developed back in the summer. He had a strange look on his face. “Say, Coach, we need to... Oh... I’ll study this further. I may have a new slant on one of the plays.”

  I chuckled. Tag had gotten so involved in his study of the playbook, he hadn’t realized what was going on around him. He can be tunnel-visioned sometimes. “Great. We’ll look at it in a minute.”

  “As I was saying,” I began again. “Let’s make sure we are focused on Friday night. We know the plays... Well, maybe with the exception of the one Coach Garner has in mind. So, let’s run a few plays and see what we need to work on.”

  The boys disbursed and lined up on the field. Tag called a few plays that were executed flawlessly. These boys were ready. They were more than ready, and that bothered me a little. I didn’t want them to get complacent.

  I was watching them intently, full of pride at how they were responding to the coaching they were getting from Tag and me, when Mayor Ida strode up, looking for all the world like she was about to take on a Grizzly. “Afternoon, Mayor,” I said, hoping I sounded cheerful and confident.

  “Hey, Fred. Looks like the boys are working hard.”

  “Yes, ma’am, they are. Fine group of boys.”

  She sighed and watched for a few seconds. “Yes, they really are. Amos is having a little problem with a couple of them rough-housing.”

  “I heard about that. Who knows what they were thinking?”

  Ida’s face softened for a moment and she chuckled. “I’d bet everything I own that Amos knows from personal experience. Battle had a time with him when he was a teenager.”

  “Well, most of them are good boys basically. We’ll get through this.”

  “We’re going to win, aren’t we?” There was just a bit of anxiety in her tone, though she maintained her calm exterior.

  “I wish I could give you an unequivocable ‘yes.’” I shrugged and glanced at the boys on the field. “You just can’t really answer that question with any degree of certainty. Should we win? Yes. Do I think we’re going to win? Yes. Will we win? I’ll tell you on Friday night after the game.”

  Ida chuckled. “You answered that like a true politician.”

  “Mercy, Miss Ida. Don’t be putting notions in my head.”

  Ida stared down the field, watching Tag and the boys practice. “You gotta win this one, Fred. I’ve got a little wager going on this game—and the Bigelow game, too.”

  “Wager? Miss Ida, I’m surprised.”

  “Nothing big, Fred.”

  “Nothing big enough to mention to Amos. Is that what you’re saying?”

  She leaned over conspiratorially and winked. “Let’s just keep this our secret. You know how he is.”

  “Yeah, I know. But someho
w, I’m thinking this wouldn’t bother him a whole lot.”

  “Just a friendly wager with the mayors of the other towns. Something to make it interesting.”

  “Not to mention putting a little pressure on me and the team.”

  “Well, they don’t have to know.” Ida gazed downfield. “I’m so glad Tag decided to get involved.”

  “Me, too. He’s good with the kids.”

  “I hear he’s a great teacher. The kids really relate to him.”

  I watched, too, for a few seconds. “He’ll be a good daddy.”

  “Oh, that reminds me. I stopped by here on my way from Gooseberry Farm. The produce stand is still open. Not much left, but I brought you and Tag a few things—apples, cabbages, that kind of thing. I’ll just put it in your truck.”

  “And Tag’s car?”

  “Yes, well, it’s easy to get it in his car. No top.” She laughed as she turned to walk back off the field.

  “Thanks, Miss Ida. I appreciate that.” I watched as she walked past the cluster of men watching the practice. She raised her hand in farewell and disappeared behind the bleachers.

  After a good workout, Tag gathered them back on the side of the field. Greg eagerly handed out water and towels as they swooped by him, grabbed a towel and water and lined up in front of me. I was about to turn and start my “One for the Gipper” speech when it happened. Luke Sylvester “stumbled” into Greg and knocked him into the table full of water cups, then onto his butt. I knew it wasn’t an accident.

  “Luke!”

  “Yeah, Coach?” Luke grinned an absolutely transparent grin that was a challenge if I ever saw one.

  “Hit the showers, son. You’re off the team for two games.”

  A chorus of protestations rose from the other players. Luke lost his self-satisfied look. “Aw, Coach, it was an accident. You can’t bench me for an accident. No way.”