I glance over to the sideline where several coaches from different teams are gathered to watch. The expressions on their faces seem to indicate they’re not impressed. Adrenaline fuels me. I’m ready and eager.
When it’s my turn, I wait for the signal and then explode up, jumping with one hand raised. The chorus ofsurprised murmurs feels good. Dad’s nod of approval feels even better.
The rest of the morning goes by in a similar fashion until we’ve finished four or five more drills.
They serve lunch in the same area they had breakfast. Dad is eating with the coaches, so I grab a tray and take a seat at an empty table. Before I’ve taken a bite,theThomas Rex comes to stand across from me.
“Mind if I join you?” he asks.
I shake my head, and he takes a seat.
“You’re Jude Collins’s son,” he says as he opens his Gatorade.
“Yeah.” Sometimes I forget how big of a fan some of the guys my age are. Dad was at the end of his career by the time most of them were old enough to remember watching, but he has one of those legacies that seems to transcend his generation.
“I was looking forward to playing you guys at State. Pacific got lucky that day. Not so lucky when they played us.” He has a cocky smile, which he flashes, showing off a full mouth of black braces.
“No one wishes it had been us more,” I say to him.
“I’m Thomas Rex. People just call me Rex.” He sets his drink down and extends his hand across the table.
I stare at it a beat before shaking it. “I know who you are.”
“Then you know I’m your biggest competition here.”
It isn’t that he’s wrong, it’s just such an arrogant thing to say in a room full of talented players that it catches me off guard, and I laugh. He reminds me a little of Austin, and I decide I like him. I’m going to do everything I can to beat him in every category this weekend. But I like him.
“Which team are you thinking?” he asks like we get to take our pick.
“I just want to play. Besides, I have another year left at Frost Lake. A lot can change in a year.”
“You wouldn’t go to one of their training squads now if they offered?” he asks. Most major league teams have training programs or minor league teams. It’s how my dad got his start. He was fifteen or sixteen when he caught the eye of pro scouts.
“I want to finish out high school first.”
Rex shakes his head. “I’d leave today if they offered me a spot. I’m so ready.”
He practically vibrates with his excitement and anticipation. I’ve always wanted to finish out my high school career playing under my dad. There are few coaches anywhere else who have his knowledge and skill. And that includes those in charge of major league teams. Dad wasn’t just a great player. He’s a great coach. We might not always agree, but I’ve never hesitated to believe I’m learning from the best there is.
Rex and I chat through the lunch hour. Despite his initial arrogance, I enjoy talking with him. As we’re getting ready to leave, he says, “I heard there’s a college bar a couple blocks from the hotel. You want to check it out tonight?”
My surprise must be written all over my face.
He adds, “I told my parents I’m going to hang out with some other players. We won’t be back too late. The girls at this college are supposed to be on a whole other level of hot.”
“I don’t think so.”
“You got a girlfriend or something?” He runs his tongue over the front of his braces like he’s checking for food.
“No,” I reply, maybe a little gruffer than I intend.
“Me either. With so many girls out there, why settle down at our age, right? And when we go pro, it’ll open us up to even more women. They’ll be screaming our names and wearing our jerseys to get our attention.” He paints a picture that every young kid fantasizes as part of becoming a world-famous athlete.
But I know from the stories my dad tells that it’s not as glamorous as it sounds. Then again, I think he’s jaded by how things ended with my mom.
After lunch, we’re broken up into ten teams, and we finally start playing. It takes a beat to get used to a new set of teammates and a different coach, but by the end of the first game, most of us have found our rhythm.
There’s one guy who hogs the ball every time he takes possession, causing us more turnovers than necessary, but it doesn’t last long after our coach, a big Irish guy with a thick accent, yells, “Pass the fecking ball, ye gobshite.”
