The Odd Ballerz (3 page)

Most boys that came to his camps were here to learn, wanted to play football, and were eager to do what was asked. However, every so often he’d get one or two that were too sure of themselves, cocky, didn’t have to listen to a quarterback, NFL or not, who hadn’t made it to the level of, insert whatever famous quarterback they admired, and thought to give him cheek or, perhaps like Jones, less than their best. He wasn’t having it.

“Twenty squats,” he said, giving her the stone look he’d perfected long ago, perfect for times when intimidation was necessary.

“I thought you said ten. The boys only had to do ten.”

“Whining is not a good look for you and they weren’t late or goofing off. Twenty,” he said.

“I’m not whining, nor was I goofing off,” she said, meeting his eyes. He and his shady shades continued to stare at her. “Fine,” she said, squeezing the words out between her lips.

He could tell she was starting to flag at eleven. Her legs were wobbly, more so than earlier and that was saying something, shaking in that way they did when one was tired, so he walked over and stood beside her. “Eleven,” he said, and she jumped, surprised again, he guessed, but she perked up.

“Twelve,” they said together.

“Thirteen,” she said alone and went back to wobbling. He continued to stand beside her until she finished, and the word “twenty,” passed through her lips.

“So here is the deal, Jones, for you to take or leave. If you don’t want to become my demonstration dummy—the person I call on to illustrate what ever drill I need illustrating—I suggest you do what we ask and stop dragging your feet.”

“I wasn’t… intentionally dragging… my feet… or any… other part… of my… body,” she said, sarcastic in tone when she could get a word in between breaths of air and trying to stand on legs reduced to jelly. “I’m… just… not… into sports,” she said.

“Yeah, well, that’s too bad. Your sister asked me to help you and I intend to. She thinks there is some talent somewhere within you,” he said, his hand pointing to her. “Now, I don’t have time to babysit you. So I’ll need you to try. Give me your word that you’ll try your best each and every time you step out on my field.”

“Just your field?” Memphis asked, pulling forth her most formidable snarky smile to go along with her question. She couldn’t resist it, watching as he smiled in response, if you could call it that. Only one side of his mouth had moved out of its straight line, so maybe it wasn’t a complete smile. “No one should be this serious about sports,” she added.

“Well, I am this serious about sports. So what are
you
going to do, Jones?”

“I give you my word.”

“And what words would those be?”

“I’ll try,” she said, rolling her eyes.

“Good. We are running forties next,” he said, pointing toward the end zone again, where the boys were lined up in three rows. The three coaches were standing near the forty-yard line, with what must be stopwatches in their hand, waiting for them. Z waited until her eyes met his again.

She twisted her lips. Bit the bottom one, to hold in the smart remarks she wanted to make. He was not going to get the best of her.

“Cool,” she said and smiled, feeling anything but.

“Yep,” he said before he walked away and over to the front of the line, while she made her way to the end of one.

M
emphis watched the goings on from the last place in line number three, as Coach Z, the ready-set-go guy, blew his whistle and the first boys from each of the three lines took off, running as fast as they could toward the coaches at the finish line, who stood ready to mark their times.

“Hi, I’m Gabriel, but you can call me Gabe. All my friends do,” the kid beside her said, the last of his line to go, interrupting Memphis’s study of Coach Z. Gabe stood to her right, in line number two. He was a tall kid, one of the tallest ones out here, matching up to her five-ten height. The boys’ heights were all over the place but most of them came to about her chest, hadn’t gone through puberty yet. Sandy would have been a better name for Gabe, with his short blond buzzcut and his sun-touched skin.

“Memphis,” she said.

“Is this your first time playing football?”

“Yes. You?”

“Yep, I play baseball mostly. My dad thinks it’s good idea to cross-train.”

“Right,” Memphis said. Whatever that meant. She smiled. “Well, nice to meet you, Gabe.”

“Nice to meet you too, Ms. Memphis,” Gabe said, extending his fist out to her.

“It’s just Memphis,” she said, touching her fist to his.

Ten minutes later she’d moved up to the front of her line, with Gabe standing to her right in line two and a shorter African American kid to Gabe’s right, the last of line number one. They were not in competition with each other, only with themselves and the clock, as she’d learned from Coach Z and his instructions before this running deal started.

She took a deep breath, to calm herself, and looked up to find his gaze turned in her direction.

“Relax and run as fast as you can,” Coach Z said.

No pressure there, Memphis thought, staring back at him.

“Yes, sir,” Gabe said.

“Yes, sir,” the African-American kid in line one said.

“Yes, sir,” she said. It’s what all of the boys said in response to whatever coach was talking at the time and she’d taken to responding in the same manner to all except Coach Z. For him she added just a hint of derision. If he was bothered by it, he hadn’t let on.

She turned her thoughts inward then, where they had to be if she had any chance of doing what he’d asked. It took plenty internal preparation on her part to get her body to cooperate in any athletic venture, which is why she steered clear of sports in the first place. She wiped her brow, where beads of sweat had popped up. “You can do this, Memphis,” she whispered to herself.
Exercise is a good thing and you are not that girl anymore. You’re the number one insurance salesperson, in control and kicking ass. I know you know this, just as I know you can do this. Now, take a deep breath, yep, that’s good, in and out, yes, good, deep breaths, in and out. That’s it. Good, now let’s shake out those arms
. She did; shook them by her side, one by one.
See, this exercising is great, the best and it’s about time you tried it. Relax those legs and let’s shake them out now, yep, one at a time, you got this
. Following her internal instructions, she kicked out her right leg and then her left, something she’d seen her sister do countless times before the start of a race.

“Set. Go,” Z shouted, startling her, interrupting her self-talk and internal build-up, and way before she was ready. She felt a surge in panic energy shoot through her veins.
I’m not ready
she wanted to say, but she took off anyway, a reaction to “go” more than it was a plan to run, and well before she was mentally prepared and thus the explanation of how her feet became tangled at the start and before she knew it, the track was rising up to meet her. She landed on her knees first, and then her face, and dang that hurt, her final thoughts on the subject.

Some of the boys started to snicker, but it stopped before it had a chance to start good. She looked up to find Coach Z, his face stern, and those glasses directed at the boys, the explanation for the truncated laughter she guessed. Nothing but silence followed.

“Jones? You okay?” he said, moving swiftly and quietly towards her, his expression one of concern as he squatted down beside her. It was not her best look.

“Yep, just tripped, sometimes that happens,” she said, chuckling, accepting his outstretched hand to help her stand.

“Let’s try it again, then,” he said, still watching her.

“Right,” she said, stretching out her fingers.

“Relax,” he said, those reflector-covered eyes staring back at her.

She ran her hand over her hair, pretending to primp, using his glasses as a mirror, before she smiled and then laughed. This laughing at herself was an old habit, a cover for past failures. She took the few steps back to the starting line for her second attempt.

“Runners. Set. Go,” Z said, back in the starter’s position. He was speaking to her only. Gabe and the other kid had continued their run and were done now, standing, watching her along with everyone else.

She took off again, nerves and all, slowly and wobbling a bit at the start, but managing to remain on her feet, determination and purpose taking over, and crowding out the
I can’t
in her brain. She was running as hard as she could by the end.

“Five-three, Jones,” Coach Harris said, looking at his stopwatch, before transferring his gaze to her. She was bent over, hand to knees, sucking in air.

“Is that… good?” she asked, working to catch her breath.

“It ain’t bad,” he said before he walked away. She made her way over to where the boys had gathered for the next whatever.

# # #

It was agility drills. She and the boys had been divided into four groups that were to rotate through four stations, four separate areas on the football field. Each coach was assigned a station, everyone except Z. He was the rover, the overseer of the groups, the camp administrator, which is how she explained his presence near her, watching her at what felt like, every turn.

She decided ignoring him was her best option, although she wasn’t really successful at pulling that off. She felt an internal pull with this one, unexplainable, and a new experience for her. She turned her attention to the next drill, which consisted of running through what looked like a portable ladder, the kind you can throw out the window in case of a fire and you needed an escape, except for practice today, it lay neatly on the ground. It was made from plastic in the cheery colors of red and yellow. She was to run through the slats without looking at her feet, knees up, moving as fast as they could, which wouldn’t be fast for her.

“Legs up, Jones,” Coach Z said, walking alongside her as she started into the drill.

“They are up,” she said, trying to talk and breathe. She was doing well too, almost done, when her left foot caught the last rung of the ladder and once again, the ground rose up to meet her. Crap, she thought, her arms breaking her fall this time at least, not like earlier when she squarely planted her face into the track.

She waited for laughter. There was none, nothing beyond the grunts and moans, the normal bodily exertions the boys made, performing the same drills as she. She looked over and yes, he was staring at her. His face was inscrutable, nothing new there. He rotated through a total of three expressions as far as she could see. There was the full-out smile, the-I-don’t-play, I-mean-business expression, and his nothing-to-see-here, blank one.

“Legs up, Jones,” he said after she’d picked herself up from the ground.

“They were up.”

“Apparently not up enough,” he said before he walked away. She rolled her eyes and headed to the next device of athletic torture: running through tires, which was another type of agility. She learned that fun fact from Coach Damian, or Coach D for short, which was what he’d said to call him. He had been assigned the tire and ladder stations. Coach D, cute, she thought, the only one that appeared to be the same age as Z. Coach Beryl was the chunky and middle-aged one, and Coach Harris and Coach Wylie were the old men. She managed to stay on her feet and complete the tire drill.

# # #

Next up was station three, the cone drill, and it fell under the purview of Coach Harris. Memphis stood in front alongside Gabe and the other boys, listening as he explained what was required of them.

“This is one of the drills athletes are required to perform at the combine. The forty-yard dash was the first one. What do you think they measure?” Coach Harris asked.

Gabe raised his hand and Coach Harris pointed to him for the answer.

“Speed and quickness,” Gabe said.

“That’s correct. Most of what you will do in football requires running short distances, especially for the linemen and defenders. Most players aren’t expected to run the length of the field. So that means we need to see how well you move in short distances, in ten yards or so.

“The three cone drill measures your ability to run, to stop, and to turn on a dime. For those of you new to the game, that means fast. So to complete this drill, you’ll need to run as fast as you can to the first cone, touch it, and then run back to the start. It’s back to the first cone, but this time you don’t touch it, you run past it to the second cone, don’t touch that one either, run around it instead, and then head back to the first cone, running past it again, for a full-out sprint back to the start. Got it?” he asked.

Ah… not really, Memphis thought. “What’s a combine?” she asked.

“It’s not important, Jones. Do you understand the drill?”

“I think so,” she said.

“Get to the back of the line. You can watch the others go first,” he said, his words softened by the wink he gave her.

To the back of the line she went, watching, and what she wouldn’t give to have a paper and pen handy. It was a bit confusing, this touching and running around the cones business. She was best at learning when she could take notes and study them later.

Before long it was her turn and of course it took her a couple of tries to get which cone came first, what to touch and when not to touch, and then she forgot about the last cone and had to go back and start all over again. Four tries for her to successfully complete it, but she did it. She was starting to have doubts about driving herself home. How to drive a car, with no feeling left in her legs.

# # #

One of the most important responsibilities of a coach was to sort through the players, to identify those that required additional help and instruction. Really, it was what good teachers did, and coaches were teachers too, which is how Z’s gaze, more often than not, found Jones. It was nothing long or lingering, more quick glimpses of her performing the various drills and so far, he was a little speechless at her abilities, or more her lack of them. She’d said she sucked and okay, maybe he should believe her.

He’d been on hand to witness both of her falls, the first one at the start of the forty, followed by the one completing the ladder drill, and what the hell was this about. She’d managed to remain on her feet during the tires drill, which was good. He’d watched her progress during the cone drill too, aware of how long and how many times it had taken her to complete it. Four tries. Yikes! And now she was with him, in his group for the last drill of the day, throwing and catching passes, the campers’ favorite and another chance for him to take an up-close and personal look at her.