She exhales loudly into the phone like she’s annoyed. “I don’t know, Noah. I’ve never been in Margie’s situation.”
“But if you had,” I prod. I’m not sure why I want to know her answer, but for some reason I feel the need to learn everything I can about Allie. I want to know what her favorite color is, her favorite food, whether she just watches the Super Bowl for the ads or if she’s invested in the game …
“I don’t think I could ever have an abortion, but that’s just me. It’s not my job to tell other women what’s right for them. What about you?” she wants to know. “What would you have done if you’d gotten your girlfriend pregnant in high school?”
Being that we’ve already discussed how high school parenthood couldn’t have been in the cards for either of us, I tell her, “I guess I’d probably be coaching my kid’s high school basketball team right now. Unless of course they were into pottery. In which case, I’d be buying a kiln or something.”
“That’s sweet,” she says quietly.
“Ultimately, it would be the mother’s decision, but if it was up to me, I’d probably want the kid. I’ve always wanted kids.”
“Then you should have them.” Why does Allie sound so sad when she says this?
“You want a family too, don’t you?”
“I think I’ve mentioned I’m unsure about that.”
She’s clearly trying to shut down this line of inquiry, so I tell her, “Having kids in high school is never ideal.” Then I change the subject. “Do you have any plans tonight?” I shift my position on the porch swing so that I’m lying down and my feet are hanging over the edge. I always used to do this as a kid but it’s a lot less comfortable now that I’m over six feet tall.
“I’m going to order pizza and help my roommate adjust to her new living situation,” Allie says.
I probably shouldn’t invite myself over for that, so I tell her, “You’re a good person, Allie. This is seriously an amazing thing you’re doing for Margie.”
“Yeah, well, I figure it’s no skin off my nose and Margie is really up against it.” I’m about to suggest we get together tomorrow when she says, “Margie’s coming out of the house. I’m going to give her a hand with her things.”
“Call me if you need anything,” I tell her. “Anything at all.”
“Thanks.” That’s all she says before the line goes dead.
Against my better judgment, I’m starting to really want to ask Allie out on a real date. Not two coaches getting together to talk about defense strategies, not two teachers talking about student behavior, and certainly not an evening with my sister’s best friend. I want to take Allie to dinner, I want to hold her hand, and if she’d let me, I’d really like to kiss her.
Yet, I know these are thoughts I’m going to have to ignore. If it’s my goal to go back and coach at my old school—and it is—I cannot get involved with Allie romantically. I don’t even know if she’s over her ex or not. If she is, I sure don’t want to be the guy to get her hopes up before leaving her to go back to the city.
Going into the house, I head toward the living room where I left my laptop. Opening it, I continue with my new favorite hobby—cyber stalking the coach who took over for me. While he was a pro at one time, and I know that looks good for the school, it’s been over two decades since he played for the Bulls.
Right after retiring from the NBA, Holland Frame coached at a D-1 university on the East Coast. He did well with that team but left after six years. Since then, he’s lived the life of a retired ball player, which is what really sticks in my craw. While he was taking it easy and resting on his laurels, I took Banks from thirtieth in the state to third, and I did that in only a few years. I know I could have gotten them to first, too. If not this year, then next.
My mind shifts back to the Crappies. I’m certainly doing my part to move the team higher in rank, but I’m still not sure the guys want it badly enough. And if they don’t want it, you can be assured they’ll never get it.
Life is like a basketball game. You have your group of supporters (teammates) but there’s another side that’s always trying to steal your ball. In my case, that would be my job. Continuing with this tortured metaphor, I need to jump higher, run faster, and shoot with greater accuracy if I want to win the game—AKA, get my job back at a much higher salary than before.
I know some of the parents from Banks are trying to help me, but let’s face it—if the team does as well as they did when I was coaching, there won’t be any need in their eyes. That’s why I have to turn the Crappies into something great.
On a whim, I send out a team text and ask how many guys might want to meet at the park in an hour for a game or two. I certainly don’t expect everyone, but neither did I think every player would decline. Which is exactly what happens.
Jordan is the only one to send a full message.
Jordan
Sorry, Coach, my parents spent the afternoon coming up with a list of chores they’re making me do. Somehow they think cleaning the gutters and dusting the floorboards is proper punishment for getting Margie pregnant.
Me
Give them time, Jordan.
Jordan
They’re never going to be okay with this baby.
