8
Afew days later, I’m running a few errands in town—grabbing some groceries, dropping bills off at the post office, things like that. Aiden’s at practice, and once I’m done with my errands, I head back to the field. After parking, I head for the fence to watch the last few minutes of practice. And, lo and behold, who’s there on the field, helping coach? None other than Jamie Trent. He’s in athletic shorts, running shoes, a sleeveless tee shirt, and a ball cap. He’s working the runners and catchers—receivers and running backs, he called them, while Coach Barnhart works with the boys who line up in front, whatever they’re called. Jamie has his group of boys clustered around him, each boy on one knee, hanging on his every word. They’re nodding, and shouting “Yes, Coach!” every few seconds, and then they all clap once, in unison, and jump to their feet. They form a single file line to one side of Jamie, who has a pile of footballs at his feet. He bends, grabs a football, spins it in his hands, and then calls out in a loud, commanding voice, “READY—GO!” and the boy in front sprints forward, and then cuts a hard right turn. Right as the player makes the turn, Jamie dances backward a step, and then rockets the ball at the player, who catches it and jogs to the back of the line, tossing the ball at Jamie’s feet. Jamie calls out encouragement to the next player in line—my Aiden. At Jamie’s signal, Aiden sprints forward and cuts right, catching Jamie’s throw easily. I watch as Jamie goes through the entire line of boys, and then they start again, running a different pattern. Jamie throws easily, naturally, each movement lithe and smooth.
This Jamie is at odds, in my mind, with the Jamie I’ve known so far, a button-down and pressed khakis and loafers kind of guy—a principal, an educator. It makes my heart skip a beat, watching him coach the boys. He’s encouraging to everyone, even when he makes corrections or gives tips for making a better catch. When a boy misses a catch, he tells them it’s fine, offers advice, and claps him roughly on the pads or slaps him on the helmet.
Dammit, he’s making this hard.
After a few minutes of this, Coach Barnhart calls the end of practice and the boys all gather around him on one knee, helmets off now, sweaty heads bobbing as they listen to him. Jamie hangs back; lets Coach Barnhart make his statements. With his background in football, Jamie could probably take over coaching if he wanted to, but he doesn’t seem interested in cutting in over Bob Barnhart’s authority, just helping out. Bob has been coaching the youth league since I was a little girl, and he hasn’t changed much in the intervening twenty, thirty years—a few extra wrinkles on his weathered face, a little more white to his hair than steel-silver, but he’s as he’s ever been: red track pants with white strips on the sides, white T-shirt, battered gray New Balance running shoes, a red Nebraska Cornhuskers ball cap, clipboard in one hand and a whistle around his neck.
Coach Barnhart dismisses the boys, and the two men spend a few minutes chatting, discussing football with lots of hand motions and pointing at diagrams on the clipboard. One by one, and two by two, the boys trickle out of the locker room and head for their parents. Aiden sees me at the fence, waves, and half jogs, half walks over; Jamie joins him, a football in his hands, tossing the ball in the air and catching it one-handed.
“You did really great today, Aiden!” Jamie says as they both converge at the fence near me. “Made some really great catches.”
“Thanks, Coach!” Aiden is vibrating with excitement, beaming up at Jamie. “I have a question, though.”
“Hit me with it, buddy,” Jamie says, tossing the ball to Aiden, who catches it with absentminded skill.
“You’re my principal, but now you’re also my coach, so do I call you Mr. Trent, or Coach, or what?”
Jamie grins, shrugs. “Either one is fine, kiddo.”
Aiden tosses the ball back. “I’ll call you Coach, then. It’s more fun.” He takes off running. “How far can you throw it, Coach?”
Jamie laughs. “Farther than that, pal! Keep going! Go deep!” He takes a couple dancing steps forward, the ball cocked back, cupping it. “Here it comes, Aiden!”
When Aiden is at the far end of the field, Jamie takes a hopping lunge-step forward and sends the ball arcing in a perfect spiral through the air—his form is perfect, and I can see the ex-quarterback in his movements. Aiden is watching it while running, checking his forward progress every few steps and then glancing back up at the ball. And as far as he’s run already, the ball is clearly going to sail past him.
“Get it, Aiden!” Jamie encourages, more to himself than to anyone else, dancing on his toes as he watches Aiden sprint for the ball. “Come on, kid, make the catch!”
Aiden glances forward one last time, and then leaps into the air, the ball landing in his outstretched hands. He impacts on the ground, the ball tucked against his belly, and rolls with it across the grass a few feet.
“YES!” Jamie says, leaping into the air excitedly. “He got it!” He turns to me, beaming. “Did you see that? That’s a ninety-yard bomb he just caught!”
Aiden, however, isn’t moving. He landed so hard, I’m worried he got the wind knocked out of him, or hurt himself.
“Is he okay?” I ask, worried.
As soon as the words leave my mouth, however, Aiden thrusts the ball into the air triumphantly, still laying on his back. “I got it!” he shouts.
He leaps to his feet and jogs slowly back across the field to us; when he reaches us, he’s still gasping for air.
“Holy cow, Aiden! I honestly didn’t think you’d make that catch! Way to go, buddy!” Jamie catches him in his arms and ruffles his hair. “That wasawesome!”
Aiden is absolutely thrilled. “I know! It was like, the whole field! I thought for sure it was gonna go past me and so I jumped for it and it just landed right in my hands! It was like something from an NFL game!”
“OBJ couldn’t have done it better himself,” Jamie says. “You’ve got a heck of a future ahead of you, Aiden. For real. I played football for a long time, and I haven’t seen anyone with as much raw talent as you have, like, ever.”
“For real?” If Aiden vibrates any harder, he’ll jitter away across the field. His grin is ear-to-ear, so wide and bright it’s contagious.
“Think I’d lie to you, kid?”
“I dunno. Adults say things they don’t mean all the time, especially to kids.”
Jamie laughs. “You have a point, unfortunately. But no, I’m telling you the god’s honest truth.”
Aiden circles around the end of the fence and slams up against my legs, wrapping sweaty arms around my waist. “Did you see that, Mom?”
I kneel down and wrap him in a hug. “Heck yeah, I saw it! You’re a rock star, Aiden!”
