The thought hit gently and heavily at the same time. I didn’t let it distract me, but it warmed the background of my mind. What I was building in this pool, at home, and trying to build with her had the same foundation: safety, structure, and love with rules and responsibility.
My timer sounded. Everybody climbed out of the water, breathing heavy, excited, dripping all over the deck like they paid rent in chlorine. Some of them were laughing, cheeks bright, proud of themselves. Some of them looked frustrated, water streaming off their lashes, their jaws tight like they hated needing help. I noticed all of it.
“Alright, bring it in,” I said, clapping my hands once.
They huddled up, still catching their breath, water puddling at their feet, shoulders rising and falling like they’d been sprinting from doubt.
“Look,” I continued, voice firm. “By the end of the week, I’m deciding. I will post your names on the sheet with your times, your teams, and what heats and events you’ll take part in—butterfly, individual, relays, all that. So, listen closely.”
A few of them nodded fast, hunger and fear in the same look. I understood both. I wasn’t just picking swimmers; I was building a program, a standard place where kids learn to win without losing themselves, be tough without being cruel, and be confident without stepping on anybody. I’d coach them straight up, with love in it.
“If you want a spot, you’ll need consistency. You will also need discipline, dedication, and focus. You do not need excuses.”
“Yes, Coach,” they mumbled, trying to sound tough while wheezing.
I pointed at the pool. “This water doesn’t care how cool you think you are. It will humble you. So we respect it.”
“Yes, Coach!”
I clocked the wheeze, the bravado, the quiet fear, and the hunger underneath it all. Kids always tried to act like they weren’t scared of anything, but water had a way of pulling the truth up to the surface.
“Now go,” I said, waving them off. “Hit the locker rooms, shower, get dressed quickly. The bell will ring, and I’m not trying to hear no excuses about being late.”
They scattered, laughing, talking loudly, splashing each other a little on the way out. I watched them until the last one cleared the door, then I let my shoulders drop.
I had a date with my baby, and I was excited to see her.
Things had been good between us. She had me smiling. I texted her all day, sent lunch links because she’d work straight through, and made sure she slowed down and ate. Solé was soft, not weak. Softness like hers deserved protection, not pressure.
I grabbed my stuff and headed toward her classroom, whistle still warm on my chest, thinking about her laugh and planning the night—how to keep her smiling, keep her safe, and make it clear she wasn’t walking alone anymore.
Then I heard it.
Loud voices. Shouting loud as hell.
And one very distinct voice was my wife’s.
My chest tightened so fast it felt like somebody yanked a drawstring inside me. The hallway didn’t sound like the pool. Pools echoed; hallways amplified. Walls held tension and handed it off, and every word bounced back sharper.
I shot a text to our principal, Dr. Keys.
Me:
Meet me in Ms. S’s ELA class immediately.
I broke into a run, shoes slapping tile, breath tight and controlled. My mind split in two: practical—get there, assess,contain, protect; personal—who’s got her raising her voice, fear in her throat, turning her classroom unsafe?
The closer I got, the more the truth sharpened. My baby was standing on her business, but I heard the tremble trying to slip into her voice, and I hated it, not because she shook, but because somebody had pushed her far enough to make shaking necessary.
“Oh my God. Leave my classroom. I’ve told you multiple times I’m not interested. You walking in here, closing my door, and insulting me won’t change my mind. I’m texting Dr. Keys and Coach DeLane right now. Get out!” she snapped.
That was Solè: direct, unmistakable—teacher voice, but with steel in it.
“Oh, so you can’t give me a chance, and you’ve known me for years,” he barked, bitterness thick, “but the swim coach can walk you to your car and stay in your face. Guess I’m not enough of a street nigga for your siddity ass. What a joke.”
My jaw locked, and my ears went hot, not just from his volume, but his entitlement. He was treating her like a debate he could win.
“Who I choose to entertain in my spare time is none of your business,” my baby said, voice sharper. “I will not ask you to leave my classroom again. Get out! Now!”
