Hannah Gersen - Home Field

“It is when the Shanks show up on my doorstep to tell me that they picked you up from the hospital.”

“I said I was sorry.”

“I don’t care how sorry you are. You’re being reckless. You’re not acting like yourself.”

“You don’t even know who I am!” Stephanie said, hearing the cliché even as she said it. But it seemed so true. It seemed like no one in her family had bothered to find out who she was, where she had come from, and now both her parents were dead and she was never going to know.

“You’re my daughter. I’ve known you since you were a little girl.”

She saw he was getting choked up, and she felt sad, too, but not crying sad. Empty sad. It was as if her soul — or her cache of dopamine receptors, whatever — was a barren creek bed. What had once been flowing was dried up. She wondered if this was how her mother had felt. She wondered if she had wanted to find out how her mother had felt. If that’s why she’d done the drug in the first place. There was no way she could ever explain that to her father. He was too levelheaded a person. He would never understand.

“You’re not my real father,” she said, calmly. “We don’t actually have anything in common.”

“That’s not how I see it,” he said. “But if that’s how you really feel, I don’t know what else I can say to you.”

He paused, and when Stephanie didn’t refute him, he told her to go say good-bye to her brothers, that he would catch up in a minute.

The girls were still high off Megan’s win on Monday afternoon. They were waiting for her on the sidewalk when Ed dropped her off, cheering and clapping, like a miniature fan club. Dean watched from inside the school. Saturday’s meet felt like a distant memory. He was tired from driving to and from Stephanie’s school, tired from arguing, tired from loneliness. He wanted to tell Laura, to be comforted, but he hadn’t called her yet. He was too embarrassed. Laura didn’t really know that much about his daughter. He didn’t want illegal drug use to be among her first impressions — especially since Laura probably knew more about the drug than he did.

“All right, girls,” Dean said, calling them inside. They arranged themselves on the bottom row of bleachers. “You had a good race this weekend, every single one of you. There were three PRs, and as a team, we got the lowest score we’ve ever had.”

“Thanks to Megan,” See-See said.

“Thanks to all of you,” Dean said. “We race as a team and we practice as a team. And now it’s less than a month until Regionals. For some of you, Regionals is the end of the season. For others, it’s the gateway to States. But we’re all going to practice like we’re all going to States, because you never know. We’ve already caused a stir — did everyone see the article yesterday? We were ‘underdog Willowboro.’”

Jessica had a funny, knowing half smile, and Dean guessed she’d read the article in full, including the part where the reporter pointed out that “former football coach” Dean Renner was in the unusual position of coaching a team with “long odds.” Dean had read that line and felt himself marginalized: already a former something. And at the same time, there was freedom in coaching a team that no one followed or cared about. He wasn’t trying to impress a crowd of fans or justify a big budget. No one was looking over his shoulder saying he should have done x or y, no one was calling in to a radio show to say that See-See slowed down too much in the second mile, and why wasn’t Coach Renner taking splits on the third mile? There was a purity to the sport that pleased him; the athletes who won races were the ones in the best physical and mental shape, period.

He sent the girls off on a two-mile warm-up run and told them to meet him and Bryan behind the middle school, where there was a wide, flat playing field that the band sometimes used for its practices. Dean planned to use it for a speed workout of ten 100-meter sprints. He wanted the girls to develop a kick. Philips had told him it was the key to getting more points.

Dean measured the distance on the field, and Bryan set up orange cones to mark the start and finish. He leaped over the cones while he waited for the girls to finish their warm-up. “Daddy, look, I’m hurdling!” he said.

“You’re not hurdling,” Dean said. “You’re jumping. Like a little frog.”

“I’m a jumping frog, I jump, jump, jump for joy!”

Dean smiled uneasily. Lately, Bryan seemed almost maniacally happy, as if trying to make up for Robbie’s and Stephanie’s melancholy.

The girls arrived on the field and Dean started the workout. He told them to run the first hundred as fast as they could and then to run the next four at three-quarters speed. The shorter distance rearranged them; Missy came in first, followed by Aileen, Megan, See-See, Lori, and Jessica. Now he knew who could really sprint. They were starting to show the strain after they finished the first five. All except Jessica. She still seemed relatively energetic. Dean realized she was holding back. He pulled her aside.

“You’re not pushing yourself,” he said. “Why?”

“It hurts to go fast,” she said. “I feel like I’m not good at it.”

“You’re not a natural sprinter,” he conceded. “But it hurts for everyone, even the people who are really good. Ask Missy — Missy, are you in pain?”

“Hell, yeah!” She covered her mouth with a glance toward Bryan. “Oops, I’m sorry.”

“He’s heard worse,” Dean said. “In fact, let’s get a hell yeah from all of you. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. It doesn’t matter how fast you can run. What matters is how fast you can run when you’re tired. So let me ask, are you tired?”

“Hell, yeah!” they yelled back.

“Are you ready to run five more?”

“Hell, yeah!”

“Are you ready to run fast?”

“Hell, yeah!”

They lined up and waited for Dean’s signal. Dean felt their happy anticipation as his own. He raised his stopwatch, yelled “ Go! ” and watched them race across the fading green field. Life could be so easy.

He had them alternate between half speed and three-quarter speed. Jessica improved. So did Lori. For the last hundred he told them to go all out. Only Megan hit a time faster than her first splits.

Dean sent the girls on a cooldown run and then headed to his office with Bry. Robbie was usually waiting for them there, doing homework, but today Dean’s office was empty.

“I guess he’s still at rehearsal,” Dean said.

“Can we go watch?” Bryan asked.

Dean shrugged. “I don’t see why not.”

Dean used his master set of keys to take a shortcut through the locked-up school. Outside the chorus room he saw a couple of kids sitting in the hallway, artsy kids with headphones and homework.

“You looking for Robbie?” one asked. He hooked his thumb toward the auditorium. “The dance rehearsal is going long.”

“Thanks,” Dean said.

He let himself and Bryan into the theater through the side door. Raucous, stormy-sounding music was blaring, so loud that no one noticed Dean enter. He and Bryan sat down in the old creaky seats with itchy upholstery, seats that Dean associated with faculty meetings. He thought fleetingly of Laura and then watched the stage, where a group of children were dancing in violent circles, kicking their legs and arms. It took him a moment to locate Robbie in his dance attire. He was wearing black sweatpants and a black T-shirt that accentuated the whiteness of his arms. He was moving with a fluidity that Dean had never seen before. The expression on his face was calm, focused, and sincere. Dean was surprised by how proud he felt. Was it his imagination or was his son more graceful than the others?