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I pulled up a chair across the conference table from him, his eyes fixed on the closed folder. What the hell? He was avoiding me. There was no way he’d read that report; at the very least, Dwayne should have been shocked by the information regarding Jaxton’s dad and Jaxton’s potential diagnoses hypothesized in the report: oppositional defiance disorder with mood swings. Last night, when I couldn’t sleep, I’d spent a couple of hours researching ODD. “Dude, he’s an emotional mess. It’s no surprise, given everything he’s been through. Don’t you think this is going to be tough?”
He lifted his head, dismissively looking at me. “Jake, you know things weren’t easy for me, either.”
What the hell did that mean? I couldn’t tell what the message was there…was he insinuating that I didn’t get what it was like to grow up hard? True, but something with Dwayne was off…he was always such a straightforward communicator. I was only operating on a few hours of sleep, but I couldn’t be misreading him that much.
“I’m not downplaying that your dad was gone a lot, then died, and what that meant to your family, especially the pressure on your mom. But Jaxton’s dad was a physically abusive asshole to both him and his mom all his life. The fact that his dad killed…” I shifted here, testing to see how much, if anything, Dwayne had read.
He sat up quickly. “Shit, his mom, did his dad kill his mom? Holy shit…”
“No, he killed Jaxton’s dog, and apparently, that was the last straw for his mom, so she shot and killed his dad. Which was way beyond what you endured,” I stated matter-of-factly, trying to cover up my frustration with Dwayne.
He jumped in with, “Whew, that’s a lot. I understand all of that. I am ready to take him on and mentor him. He’ll know I don’t judge him, and I will be sure he knows he’s got a big brother in me. I’ll watch out for him and guide him.”
I shook my head, still unclear if Dwayne understood what he was taking on. “Okay, sure, but why in the hell didn’t you fucking read the report?”
“I didn’t have time…don’t push it,” Dwayne barked, agitation leading his voice, his fist balling up on the table. “Don’t get up in my shit because something happened with you and Rakell.”
“Fuck…I’m just asking.”
The door swung open, and Coach Easton charged in, his eyebrows pinched together. I was sure he’d heard Dwayne and me arguing; his eyes narrowed on us as if he had just interrupted a showdown. We broke from our boxer posturing. “Look, if you two lovebirds want to squabble, do it on your own time. I’ve got work to do. Want to tell me what has you two so heated?” Coach demanded, tossing a few files on the table before setting a large thermos down. Pulling his chair out, he slumped down into it, his large torso twisting slightly as if finding a comfortable spot. Coach Easton was a big man, a pro linebacker who’d put on some weight since coaching and was always trying to lose it.
I thought back to my first interview with him. I knew he had a lot of life experience I could learn from. Coach Easton also possessed his dad’s humility, which I hadn’t often seen in a man at his level in the NFL. He’d grown up playing ball—he’d been a linebacker for Penn State, then gone on to play for the Steelers for eight seasons before coaching at the University of Florida, then Wisconsin. After that, he accepted his first NFL position for a brand-new team that was forming in Sacramento.
I’d learned a lot from playing backup quarterback to the star of the Seattle Seahawks for almost three years, but damn, I didn’t want to stay on the sidelines forever. So when my agent told me that a new team was forming in Sacramento, that they were impressed with my speed and passing game, I had to walk Coach Easton through all the reasons I could be an asset to this new team.
He’d paused and looked at me, tilting his head to the side, pulling his lips into his mouth, studying me. I felt like I was in some kind of counseling session and was reminded of the way my parents would look at me when I did something stupid, as if they desperately wanted to figure out how to rewire my young, impulsive brain.
“Son, let’s chat about what’s holding you back,” Coach had said, with his big index finger directly aimed at my head, a huge grin stretching across his face. He tapped his finger in the air, as if the answer to what was holding me back had just occurred to him. My eyes focused on his finger as it dropped downward, squarely pointed at my crotch. Ahhh, apparently, the answer to what was holding me back.
All I could think was, Fuck, I’m never going to escape this reputation. I’d been sure Coach Easton had already determined that my well-documented off-the-field antics—mostly women and sometimes a crossed-eyed, slap-happy drunk me—would be a liability for the new team.
He’d cleared his throat, his eyes widening, “I expect my players to be above reproach on and off the field, and I expect myself and the other coaches to be an example of that.” Easton lowered his head, his eyes boring into me, emphasizing his statement. “Well, Skyler, do you think you can represent this team?”
Realizing I had just been given a reprieve, I responded with a quick “Yes, sir. I’d be honored.”
I caught the slump in Dwayne’s face when Coach probed to find out what we had been arguing about, so I jumped in. “I was challenging Dwayne a bit about Jaxton, just saying that maybe Dwayne shouldn’t take on a guy whose own father was killed by his mom. He’s known as a hothead on the field and pretty much anti-social off the field. Then ‘Mr. I Can Take on Anything’ over here got all twisted up.” Dwayne’s shoulders softened, his face adopting his usual affable expression, so I adjusted my tone. Dwayne and I could go head-to-head, but we had each other’s backs; that was a given. “I can now vouch that Dwayne is committed to this,” I stated, looking over at Dwayne with a ‘got ya covered’ look.
Dwayne piped in: “Yeah, you don’t always want feedback from the guy who’s so sure he can do anything that he even has his own word for that overconfident approach. In case you missed it, Coach, that is known as ‘Jaking’ it. We’re going to go with the new, improved version of that and ‘Dwayne’ this situation.” Dwayne beamed, clearly thinking he had just made a clever joke.
Coach Easton, evidently not amused by either of us, barked, “Enough of this shit. You two want to strut around like peacocks trying to piss on some stupid term when one already exists for that? If you two goofballs don’t know, it’s called ‘getting things done.’ That is what we’re gonna do right now. Let’s chat about Jaxton and the current batch of free agents so we can get started on narrowing down potential draft picks.
“Dwayne, if you are really up to it, I’d like to draft Jaxton using our first-round pick and have you mentor him. Word out there is that most of the other organizations don’t want to take a chance on the kid. He’s gonna need more than just some flippant on-field advice. He’s going to require whole-life coaching. Do you think you’re ready for that?” Coach Easton then added, “We don’t have to worry about him off the field like some other players. It’s on the field where he’s like a ticking time bomb. I don’t know what kind of support he’s getting, but I think his team gave up on trying to pull him into the group.”
Dwayne’s features shifted; I watched his eyes, usually flickering with amusement, take on a sober expression. “Yes, Coach. I want to give the next guy a chance to get over the hump, so to speak.” His tone took on a business-like air. “You have helped me grow up in this league, and as much as I hate to admit it, this joker next to me,” Dwayne said, his gaze sliding in my direction, “has mentored me to where I am now. I’m ready to take this on. I’d love to do it for him and the team.”
“Okay, so now that we’ve decided that, I want to schedule an appointment for you to discuss Jaxton’s psychological profile with Dr. Capstone. She can educate both of you on some of the more specific issues Jaxton is dealing with. I know a bit about oppositional defiant disorder. Authority will be an issue for him, so we must consider our approach when guiding him.” The coach stated this with a straightforward delivery, but there was no way to miss the underlying emotional gravity in his tone.
“Coach, can I say something about that?” I asked tentatively.
“Go on…” Coach prompted.
I felt Dwayne’s focus on me; he knew me well enough to know that my next words were sincere, that I had thought about this kid and what this would mean to our team.
“From what I read, Jaxton was diagnosed in his last year of middle school after several outbursts. The school had already restricted him from recess and all extracurricular activities in response to his behavior or refusal to do his work. His outbursts got worse, and he totally shut down. Then they brought in a county social worker who gave him that diagnosis.” Pausing, I let my gaze glide in Dwayne’s direction. His chin nodded; he knew I was feeding him the information from the report, nudging him to jump in.
Dwayne sat up in his chair, clearing his throat. “I can see a kid shutting down more if the things he excels at are taken away. Shit, I was the opposite. I kissed ass, smiled at teachers, offered to do errands…whatever, so they would like me, so I could keep playing ball.”
Coach chuckled. “Dwayne, I can see you shmoozing your teachers.” He let out another quick laugh. “They were probably smitten with you. That’s not good either, but it’s definitely a life skill. You probably got that from your mama.”
