Tipping his chin toward the circle of kids, Brandon said, “Look. Matty. On the outside,” he directed, keeping his words low and his directions short.
Without being too obvious or drawing any attention to myself, I looked right where Brandon had directed me. Just as I looked up, I saw Matty sitting next to Jackson, one of our youngest campers. He seemed to be quite the loner, and we were always looking for ways to get him in with the larger group without being too pushy. We weren’t so far away that we couldn’t hear them. We just liked to pretend that we didn’t.
Matty was a senior and our fastest running back. From day one, all the campers looked up to him because he kicked my ass in the one-hundred-yard dash. As if I actually stood a chance. They all joined him for a victory dance in the end-zone, and my fate was sealed as Coach McSlowpoke for the rest of the week.
“Forgot your lunch again?” Matty asked, ruffling Jackson’s dirty-blond hair.
Jackson shrugged, mumbling, “It’s no big deal. I’m not that hungry,” as he kept his eyes glued to the ground.
“You sure?” Matty asked, making it sound like Jackson’s lie was enough to end the conversation.
Relieved that Matty was no longer going to push the issue, Jackson nodded before resting his head against the brick wall behind him. “Okay, buddy. See you out there in a bit.” Matty walked away joining up with Caleb, one of his friends, as he left Jackson sitting there in the shadows.
“I figured he would’ve offered Jackson some of his lunch. I mean Matty seems like a good enough kid,” Brandon said, sounding more than a little miffed at Matty’s nonaction toward what seemed like a simple fix.
But out of the corner of my eye, I caught the tail end of the exchange between Matty and Caleb, and I knew he was far from done with Jackson.
Matty resumed his time with the group, making sure they all got some much-needed hydration before cleaning up all of their trash. With less than ten minutes left in the lunch break, Caleb jogged back out of the locker room, brown paper bag in his hand.
“Hey, Jackson,” Caleb called out, scanning the group for the scrawny kid.
Jackson slowly stood from his spot, clearly exhausted from this morning’s practice. “Yeah,” he answered, brushing his too-long hair out of his eyes. “That’s me.”
“Your mom just dropped this off for you. Good thing I was by the waterline filling up the cooler. I would’ve missed her,” he lied. “She definitely seemed like she didn’t know where to go.”
With a few of the other campers looking on, Jackson didn’t want to bring any more attention to himself. So rather than call the lie out for what it was, he took the bag from Caleb’s hand, thanking him before opening it wide to see what it held. Matty and Caleb exchanged a nod, exposing their plot to get the kid some food. Luckily no one else except Brandon and me paid it any mind. “All taken care of,” I said, repaying Brandon with an elbow to his side while tipping my head toward Jackson as he quickly devoured his sandwich.
“Give them five more?” Brandon asked, buying time for Jackson to finish his lunch. “And then I’ll start him”—he indicated Jackson—“with a smaller group doing some turn and run drills. That way he won’t toss his lunch on the field doing sprints with the kids you’re taking.”
Two hours later, and the afternoon had passed just as quickly as the morning. The majority of the kids raced toward the locker room, excited to get on with the rest of their afternoon. Matty, Caleb, and the other counselors helped them pack away the gear and then sat with them on the curb of the parking lot as they all waited for their parents to pick them up.
Despite wanting to race out of the school myself, I had a few last minute issues to attend to. Filling out paperwork was a near endless task. Almost as endless as listening to Brandon go on and on about whatever his plans were for the night, and it usually involved him bragging about his latest conquest. There were few times I’d rather listen to him talk about shakin’ what his momma gave him, but as he droned on about her tits, and how tight her ass was—whoever the hellshewas—this was definitely one of those times.
By the time I made it outside, there was only one kid left. “Hey, Jackson. Nice job out there today,” I said, walking toward him. “You’re pretty fast.”
He shrugged as he kept his eyes on the ground. “Thanks,” he mumbled without an ounce of emotion or excitement.
As I sat next to him on the bench, he slid away from me. There was something nervous about the movement, prompting me to ask, “Is everything all right?”
“Yeah,” he deflected, finally looking up at me. I guess I hadn’t noticed it out on the field. It’s tough to see each kid’s face with the helmet on as sweat and dirt mixed together. But now, out here with the afternoon sun shining and nothing to block my view, the dark bags under his eye were a stark contrast to the rest of his skin. “I’m fine,” he added as he shifted away from me another inch.
“Okay.” It wasn’t okay, but I didn’t want to push him too much right now. It was clear I was going to have to work for his trust. “But if there ever comes a time when you’re not, you know you can talk to me, right?” When I dropped my hand to his shoulder, he flinched, letting out a small gasp of shock or maybe fear.
Before I could say anything about him flinching, he stood from the bench. “That’s my dad.” Even as a football coach, I’d never seen a kid move so fast in my life. He gathered his bag and gear and sprinted to the edge of the lot to meet his father as he pulled up.
Standing behind Jackson, I waved at his father. As I approached the truck, his father lowered the window. “Coach,” he greeted. “How’s my boy doing?” He angled his head to the passenger seat but didn’t pay any attention to his son who sat there looking more than a little scared.
“He’s doing great. Real great. Probably one of the fastest kids we’ve got out there.” My words of praise didn’t have much of an effect on him or on Jackson who never once looked up.
“Now if he could just throw the ball like his old man, then I’d have something to be proud of.” With a smug grin pulling his lips tight, he adjusted the brim of his hat, chuckling at his dig.
Paying his insult no mind, I said, “Well, now Mr. Murphy. He can throw the ball. He’s just much better at—”
Cutting me off, he continued to insult his son. “He ain’t better at anything. The boy needs to learn how to throw. Got a girl’s arm. Ain’t that right, son?”
“Yes, sir,” Jackson answered immediately.
“Thanks for the chat, Coach MacMillian.” There was a snide harshness to his words, which I chose to ignore.
