After two days of hellish training, Wednesday morning.
Coach Bob finally had a brief chance to catch his breath.
Before the sky had fully brightened, he was already sitting on the sofa in the living room.
The morning news was on TV.
But in his mind, the face of that NY1 sports reporter from Monday afternoon kept replaying over and over.
That face had worn a professional smile, yet every question he asked had been like a knife, stabbing at Bob’s most vulnerable spot.
“…While you remain as head coach, it just so happens to be Mark’s final and strongest year of his high school career. Do you think your staying on, and Mark being in his prime, can be considered a coincidence?”
“Coincidence?” Bob sneered inwardly.
He understood the subtext from those media people all too well.
They were basically saying that the only reason Bob Martinez could sit in the head coach’s seat was because he was one of Mark’s people.
Because he had once been Mark’s freshman team coach. Even because, a few years ago, when money had been tight at home, he had spent some time as Mark’s private coach.
It was because of that connection that, by coincidence, in the year Mark was about to graduate, he could continue sitting in the head coach’s position.
Bob picked up the remote and turned off the TV.
He looked at the sky outside the window, gradually paling like the belly of a fish, and felt a tightness in his chest.
“Just you bastards watch,” he muttered under his breath. “Watch how we tear last year’s state champions to pieces.”
Subconsciously, he reached out with his right hand and gently rubbed the ring on the ring finger of his left hand, a ring that had long since lost its shine.
It was the ring he had received back in Texas, when he led a high school team to a state championship.
“This year,” he told himself, “no matter what, we have to win the New York State championship.”
Driving his half-old Ford pickup through the empty streets of Queens in the early morning, Bob’s mind was still racing through tactics.
Should he use a Zone Blitz to pressure that inexperienced quarterback of theirs?
Or should he play it steady with a 4-3 defense?
Irritated, he reached out and turned on the radio, originally intending to listen to some music and relax.
But as if by some strange compulsion, he tuned in to the hottest local sports station in New York.
The voices of two hosts came through.
“…All right, let’s take another look at local high school football,” a crisp female voice said.
“The latest preseason state rankings are out. Let’s first take a look at which high school saw the biggest change in this round of rankings.”
“Emmmm… it’s East River High, down a full fifteen spots compared to the end of last season.”
“Down fifteen spots?” a male voice dripping with mockery immediately cut in.
“After the disastrous kind of season they had last year, only dropping fifteen spots already feels like the media giving them face!”
“Let me take a look at their national ranking… Oh, sure enough, they’ve already fallen out of the top 200. Not even on the list anymore.”
The male host continued in that hateful voice of his.
“I said it last year—Bob Martinez should never have been promoted in the first place.”
“Among their assistant coaches, Hall Payne has been at East River for almost twenty years. He was the most suitable candidate!”
“Or, as a rich private school, they should have paid big money to go to Texas or California and hire a real head coach with championship experience!”
“What does Bob have? A Texas high school state championship ring from who knows how many years ago? Or a résumé of sitting on the bench in the NFL year after year?”
“Let me pull up his old NFL profile.”
“Hahahahaha, back when he entered the draft, no one picked him at all. In the end, as an undrafted player, he barely signed a training—”
“Smack!”
Before that last sentence was even finished, Bob slammed his fist hard onto the radio’s power button.
…
…
…
At seven in the morning, the sky was fully bright.
Bob, still carrying a trace of suppressed anger, parked his pickup in the East River High parking lot.
As soon as he got out of the car, he saw an Italian-American old man in an old-fashioned sports jacket, his hair gray-white, looking at least over sixty.
He was leaning beside a Cadillac, leisurely drinking a cup of espresso.
“Hey, Coach Russo.” Bob walked over and took the initiative to extend his hand.
Anthony Russo turned his head at the sound.
The wrinkles on his face, like the shell of a walnut, spread open. He set down his coffee cup and shook Bob’s hand.
“Good morning, Coach Bob. How many times have I told you? Don’t call me coach. Makes me a little ashamed.”
“I’m just a nosy community scout now.”
The two of them were exchanging pleasantries when a few faculty members who had arrived early passed by.
They all stopped to greet Russo and Bob.
After the area quieted down again,
Bob stopped beating around the bush, his expression turning serious.
“When you went over there this time, did you find out anything about how the Cheetahs are doing?”
The smile on Russo’s face instantly faded as well.
He took a cigarette from his pocket, lit it, took a deep drag, and only then slowly began to speak.
“The most troublesome news is that our previous assumption was wrong.”
“What do you mean?”
“We all thought before that they’d use that backup quarterback as their starter.” Russo exhaled a ring of smoke.
“But they dug up a monster from Texas.”
“Daryl Mack. Nickname: Beast Mack. You ever heard of him?”
Bob’s face instantly darkened. “Yeah. I’ve watched his game tape.”
“Accurate passer, and extremely good at rushing. Like a bull. How did he end up with the Cheetahs? Wasn’t he in Texas?”
“Who knows what benefits those rich Cheetahs alumni promised his parents.” Russo shook his head. “And there’s more.”
“Their misdirection running offense is frighteningly fast. Those two running backs are almost the fastest high schoolers I’ve ever seen.”
“And their defensive line.” Russo gestured with his hand to indicate height. “They’re not only big, but extremely tall. I eyeballed it—the average height is at least over six foot three, about 191 centimeters. Bob, your offensive line needs more height.”
As Bob listened, he kept nodding, his brow locking even tighter. “Mm. I think that’s very good too. I like that idea.”
“The hell what you like!” Russo suddenly cut him off.
He threw the cigarette hard onto the ground and crushed it out with the tip of his shoe, his tone becoming sterner than ever before.
“Bob, you have to win this game. I’m not joking.”
He pointed at the quiet community streets around them.
“You need to understand. Our high school was built around these few communities that love football to the extreme.”
“We’re not like those other fashionable private schools in New York, where football is just a tool for gilding rich kids.”
“Here,” Russo’s voice turned low and powerful, “football is the center of everything within several kilometers. It is the spiritual church of the men here.”
“You’ve already been pushed into this position, Bob. No one is going to tolerate the team’s failures anymore.”
“Lose one more game, and no one will care whether the opponent was last year’s state champion.”
“All they’ll know is that in the previous ten years, we faced the Cheetahs ten times and won six. But under you, we lost two in a row.”
Russo stepped closer, staring straight into Bob’s eyes, and said word by word:
“When that time comes, you won’t be able to stay in this community anymore.”
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