“You got lucky,” he tells me with a little swagger in his step. “Game two is tomorrow and your precious Armadillos are going to be rolled up into a ball and hit out of the park by Denny the Dino.” Ten-year-old trash talk is my favorite thing about this gig.
“Oooh, mascot burn, nice.” The first bell rings. “Okay, Ava, which one? It’s time to go.”
“I’m really hoping it’s not that ugly one.” She points directly at mine.
The first thing I bought with my sign-on bonus from the Texas Armadillos as a second-round draft pick when I was twenty was a souped-up 1985 FJ60 Land Cruiser. I didn’t want to blow all my money in case things didn’t work out, but Ineeded a car. Right after purchasing, I sent it into the shop for an overhaul of olive green paint, then I couldn’t help but have my guy add a red, orange, and yellow stripe along the side and new leather seats. She’s beautiful.
“You can’t get me down, Ava. I’m untouchable.” She rolls her eyes and starts for the doors. I call out after her, “In fact, I’m going to nominate you for student of the month since you’re full of kindness and positivity this morning.”
When I was forced to pivot from my Major League Baseball career and became available to help Grandma Stella, I didn’t have a lot of skills to pad a resume. I had money, good money, from my fifteen years of pro ball, but as Hutchings, we were raised to always have a job. There is no way I could hold my head high around Stella if I claimed retirement at thirty-five—the concept of doing nothing isn’t allowed in our family. However, no employer was looking for a new hire with an old degree in history, bragging rights as two-time Most Valuable Player, and an ability to juggle (an impressive) seven balls at one time.
Luckily, my grandma’s best friend, Opal, has a daughter who is the principal of the charter school. She lost her P.E. teacher at the beginning of the summer to an assistant coaching gig at Boise State. Gratefully, Opal is nothing if not loyal to Stella and pulled a few strings, promising I was the best, regardless of my lack of educational credentials. Principal Bennett and the charter board decided they’d give me a probationary chance, expecting me to pass the PRAXIS education exam by the time school finished in May.I surprised everybody and got the certificate before school started in August.
Pro baseball player to P.E. teacher. Rock bottom.
The weather’s stayed the course of perfect crisp autumnmornings and warm-ish afternoons, so I’ve held classes outside on the vacant lot next door that was purchased and turned into the track and field, soaking in every good day before winter hits. Growing up in Palm Springs and living in Texas after that, I’ve learned winter is to be respected; the snow and wind are no joke. With it being the last day of the quarter today, I’ve assigned a unit test. The students will run the mile faster than they were able to the first day of school. Easy day, as far as I’m concerned.
For the most part, it’s been no problem keeping my “Star player, #18 Maxford Hutchings, third baseman for the Texas Armadillos” persona under wraps. Most of the teachers know who I am and because they also know why I’m no longer playing ball, they’ve politely kept their distance. The four hundred and fifty kindergarten through twelfth graders at Garnet seem oblivious, or don’t care, thanks to Idaho’s lack of professional sports teams, and I’m more than fine with it.
On the first day of classes in early August, Principal Bennett introduced me to the students during the welcome assembly in the morning. She called me Coach and left it at that. One student in the front row told me I didn’t look like a P.E. teacher but more like her mailman, so I guess if this doesn’t work out, that’s the next dream I can chase.
The class stops behind me at the edge of the dirt track and I breathe in the fresh air as I take in the foothills. It’s going to be a good day.
“Why are we running the mileagain?” Ian asks.
“Are you running it with us, Coach?” Jonah sidles up next to his best friend and puts his hands on his hips, ready to argue. “Or are you feeling lazy?”
I adjust the bill on my hat, tuck my clipboard under my armpit, and stare them down. Kids are not really where mynatural interests lie and these charter school kids have an extra bit of self-importance to them. If it weren’t for being done by three and loads of holiday breaks, I’m pretty sure I’d have moved on already. They dig in their heels, waiting for an answer.
“Here’s a common core math problem for you,” I start. “There are thirteen grades in this school. I see eight grades per day for P.E. I’ve been running with each class each period this week.” Their faces scrunch up and I continue, arms folded. “Monday we ran quarter miles. Tuesday we ran half miles. Wednesday was a split of four quarter miles and four half miles. Yesterday everybody ran a half mile again. How many miles have I run this week?”
“I’m in fifth grade,” Jonah tells me.
“And?” I cock an eyebrow.
“I can’t do that kind of math yet.”
I scratch the side of my face and am aware the rest of the fifth graders seem all too happy to watch this battle go down. “Did you all hear my running log?” Heads nod. “Does that seem lazy to you?” Heads shake. “Would anybody like to tell me how many miles I ran this week?”
One hand goes up. The class smarty pants, Jack. I nod at him and he says, “Thirteen miles, Coach.”
“That’s right, Jack. Anybody else run thirteen miles this week?” The class shakes their heads. I look over at Ian and Jonah. “Still think I’m lazy?”
“No,” they both mumble.
“That’s right. I’m not. I’m a sprinter. Sprinters don’t run long distances, and I ran equivalent to a half marathon this week, just during school hours. So what I’m thinking is, I’m not only sitting this run out so I can time you for your unit grades, but Jack is going to help me with this bad boy”—I pullan extra stopwatch out of my pocket and hold it out for the runt of the class, as Jack eagerly grabs it—“and he will time all of you. We’re going to snack on some Peanut Butter M&M’s and you’re going to go run your mile. Kapish?”
“He doesn’t have to run?” Ian asks. “How will he get a grade?”
“Let’s see.” I flip the papers on my clipboard. “Last time we timed this, you got ten minutes flat. I’m marking down that today you got nine minutes, fifty-nine seconds. Congrats, Jack. You passed.”
“That’s not fair!” Jonah says.
“Life isn’t fair. Fair is the place where they judge pigs,” I tell him. “Stopwatch starts in three . . . two . . . one!” With that, the obedient little ducklings take off around the track for their mile run. Some walk, some jog, some sprint until they get side aches, and then they slow down. Meanwhile, Jack and I stand at the starting line, split a bag of M&M’s, and I call out the time as kids pass by.
“Jack, let me ask you a question,” I say, popping a brown and green candy into my mouth. “Are you dressing up and going to the Harvest Carnival?”
“Yes,” he says, starting and stopping his stopwatch repeatedly. “My mom just got me a nerd costume.”
