Pat Warren - Bright Hopes

She’d gotten a key to the office from Miss Mackie and pored over their scholastic records as well. Some were impressive; others were not. She’d found the films neatly boxed and carefully labeled and taken them home to view, leaving Patrick Kelsey a note explaining their absence. She had yet to run into the man himself again.

It was a lovely day, a sunshiny August afternoon, and she was anxious to get started. Around her neck, she wore a yellow whistle dangling from a chain. Putting it to her lips, she gave three long blasts and motioned the boys over.

“Take a seat on the bleachers, fellas,” she invited as they straggled over. Most wore wary expressions and she couldn’t blame them. The unknown always made a person hesitant.

The Wednesday edition of the Tyler Citizen had featured a story about her as the newest addition to the high school staff. They’d run her picture, played up her Olympic achievements and done a commendable job in extolling her coaching experience. The boys and their parents had likely read the article. By the looks on their faces, none of it had removed their skepticism as to her ability to coach them.

Uphill all the way, Pam thought with a familiar tug. When had anything ever come easily to her? Dad had always told her that victories hard won were the sweetest. She believed her father.

Moving to stand in front of the seated group, she looked up at them and smiled. “I’m Pam Casals, your new football coach. I...”

Whistles, nervous giggles and veiled comments followed the announcement as the boys elbowed one another, laughed and stared. Pam patiently waited for them to resettle.

In the back, a heavyset boy wearing a shirt with Italian Stallion emblazoned across the chest stood to be heard. “Hey, you’re a girl!” More guffaws and laughter.

Shifting her feet, Pam smiled indulgently. “Thank you for noticing. Now, I’d like you to forget that I am.”

That announcement was greeted with whoops and hollers and more rib-tickling laughter. Pam banked her annoyance, trying to remember that these were young boys ranging from fifteen to nearly eighteen, feeling the need to assert their masculinity. And feeling safe within their familiar group. But enough was enough.

“Let me ask you a question. Are you proud of the Titans’ record last year, winding up sixth in an eight-team league?” She saw a few faces lose their grins, others look a bit chagrined. “Would you like to play on a winning team, to walk proud, to be the best there is? Would you like to be Class A champions?”

There was a hushed silence for a moment, then a couple of them shouted out.

“Yeah.”

“Sure.”

“You bet.”

“Good,” she said, nodding. “Because I want to work with champions.” More cheers and punches of agreement. “I’ve spent a lot of hours lately studying your game films from last year. And I want to tell you all something.” She paused, waiting until she was certain she had their complete attention. “I think you guys have the potential to beat any team in the league.”

The grins were wide now, the affirmative nods and comments that followed rousing. They were beginning to picture themselves as champions, Pam noted with satisfaction. The first step.

When they quieted, she continued. “We’re going to learn three things before our first game. One is conditioning. You have to get in shape and stay in shape. Two, we’re going to learn to play football.”

A blond boy shouted out, “We already know how to play football.”

“Perhaps you do. But we’re going to learn to work together as a team. I want no superstars here. I want team effort. There are no unimportant positions in football. It’s one for all and all for one, straight across the board. And three, we’re going to learn how to win.”

They were strangely subdued as they studied her. Moving her eyes from face to face, she saw the beginning of a reluctant respect forming on a couple. Uphill, but not impossible, she decided. Now if only she could deliver.

“As your coach, I have only two rules. One is that if you don’t pass your classes, you don’t play. Rule number two is that if you don’t come to practice, you don’t play. There are no exceptions to either rule. Other than that—” she paused to flash a big smile “—we’re here to play ball, to have fun and to win.”

“Yea, coach!” a redheaded boy yelled out, followed by several other shouts of agreement.

“Okay, now. Grab your helmets and pads and get out on the field. I want to see what kind of training exercises you’ve done in the past, and I want to watch you run through a few plays so I can see what we need to work on.”

Some whispering together, some openly discussing her talk, they filed off the bleachers and disappeared toward the locker room. Several paused to say a few words to someone seated on the bottom bench at the opposite end. It was only as the last of the boys walked out of sight that she recognized Patrick Kelsey. Unwinding his long legs, he started toward her.

Instinctively, Pam braced herself. He was wearing jeans, a cutoff football jersey and sneakers. Lord, but he was big, she thought as he stopped in front of her.

“Do I call you Coach, Miss Casals or what?” he asked, wrinkling his face as if he’d been pondering the question for some time.

“Pam will do nicely.” She could play this game. “And you? Do you prefer Coach Kelsey, Mr. Kelsey, Patrick or Pat?”

He gave her an engaging grin. “The fellas call me Coach, the newspaper boy calls me Mr. Kelsey, my grandmother calls me Paddy, short for the Gaelic version of my name. I hear my history students call me Napoleon. My friends call me Patrick.”

The sun was in her eyes as she squinted up at him, holding her clipboard to her chest in what she recognized as a protective gesture. “Well, I’m not the fellas, nor the newsboy. And I’m not your grandmother. I also don’t think we’re friends, at least not yet. That leaves me stymied.”

Kill the enemy with kindness, Patrick thought as he rocked on the balls of his feet and watched her. “Honeybuns is open.”

She laughed. “I think I’ll pass on that one, too.”

He watched her sit down on the bench and shift her attention to her notes. She looked young enough to be a high school senior. No wonder the boys had whistled and stared. The sun brought out the red in her brown hair. There was some red on her cheeks, too, and he wondered if it was from weather exposure or from hassling with him. He sat down beside her.

“I heard most of your pep talk. Not bad.”

Why was it she could almost hear him add the rest: for a woman. Keeping her features even, Pam looked up. “Thanks.”

“What’d you learn from the game films?”

“Too early to tell.”

She had to be the least chatty female he’d met in a while, Patrick thought as he leaned his elbows back on the seat behind. “I saw you and Rosemary riding around yesterday. Checking out the town?”

“Mmm-hmm.”

“Where’d you go?”

Pushy, friendly or just plain nosy? Pam asked herself. She put on a polite smile. “Here and there. Rosemary showed me the hospital where she works and we drove past some beautiful old mansions on Elm Street. Then we went out toward the lake and saw the lodge, Timberlake. Seems like it’ll be really something when they finish the renovations.”

“Did you hear about the body they found there while they were inspecting some plumbing pipes?” That caught her interest, Patrick thought as he saw her eyes widen.

“No, really? Who was it?”

He shrugged. “They’re not sure yet. Some old-timers around town think it might be Margaret Ingalls.”

Pam frowned, trying to sort through the many names she’d heard over the past few days. “I don’t think I’ve heard of her. There’s a Judson Ingalls....”