Love Lifted Me (13 page)

Chevy glanced toward the door as a group of men made their way into the room. He greeted them, asked about wives and children by name, made each man feel important. Using the same charm on them he used on Max.

“Max, this is Lars Martin, your offensive coordinator.” Chevy moved to the next man as Max shook Lars's hand. “Kevin Carroll here runs a mean defense.”

“Kevin, nice to meet you.”

“Same here.” His tone betrayed his words.

Chevy introduced the special teams coach, the strength coach, and the equipment manager. Then they sat in the first row, arms folded, glancing back as another group of men filed into the room.

“Here we go. Max, this is Colby High's athletic director, Bobby Molnar.”

“Bobby, nice to meet you.”

“Welcome.” Flat. Cold. Attitude galore. He'd been left out of this selection process.

Take it up with Chevy
. But Max felt the tension. “Thanks, it's good to be here.”
Stay cool. Stay humble
.

“This is Rick Lundy, president of the boosters and all-around Warrior fanatic.

Bobby quarterbacked the team for the 1980 national champs. Rick here starred on the 1985 team, rushing for, what, thirteen hundred yards that season?”

“Thirteen hundred and fifty-two.”

“But who's counting, right?” Chevy laughed and slapped Rick on the back.

“If you need anything, Max, Rick is your man. He owns half of Colby, I believe. Restaurants. Apartments. Auto parts stores. I can't keep up.”

“A few mini-marts,” Rick said, smiling, shaking Max's hand.

“He's on his way to owning all of Colby,” Chevy said. “And here we have the lovely Brenda Karlin. Brenda is the vice president of the boosters, taking care of fund-raisers and pep rallies and what all. Brenda, meet our new coach.”

“We've met, Chevy. I helped Max and his wife rent that place up off Route 60. How y'all doing? Did your furniture arrive yet?”

“Not yet. All we have is an air mattress in the master bedroom, but we're doing well.”

“I'm sure the furniture will arrive soon. We are so thrilled to have you, Max. I hear good things about you from Chevy.” Brenda wore a dark suit with a vivid orange blouse. Her straight blond hair was short and styled, and something about her eyes reminded Max of the pebbles he used to collect from the Hollow's creeks.

A few of the players drifted into the room, moving among the chairs and sitting in small clusters. They looked and felt nothing like a team.

The arrogant and wealthy boys wore dubious, bored expressions with smartphones glued to their hands.

Another group of boys, chisel-faced and sinewy, with eyes like polished marbles, wore eager yet tentative expressions, appearing edgy, as if they might be asked to leave at any moment.

A spattering of boys of various shapes, sizes, and backgrounds sat in groups of twos or threes. But then there was a cluster in the center of the chairs. Four in all. They eyed Max with steel criticism. He knew them instantly.
The talent. The skill players
.

“Warriors, I'd like you to meet your new coach, Maxwell Benson. He came all the way from Tennessee to help us out this year.” Chevy started the applause as he backed away, making room for Max to face the team.

His heartbeat robbed his breath and his voice. It would not be cool to appear nervous. But he felt like a man condemned under the coaches' and the boys' somber, sharp scrutiny. Max counted twenty players in all. He stood before them like he stood before a jury.
Make your case
. For all practical purposes, weren't they his jury? The ones who would judge his coaching and his program?

“Good morning,” Max began, steady, calm, his gaze scanning the faces in the room. “I just want you all to know I don't need any of you to uphold Warrior football tradition.” The boys glared at him. The coaches shifted their stance, shoulders against the wall, arms folded over their chests. “I don't. Because I can go out on the field every Friday night all by myself. Well, shoot, for fun, let's let my wife and two-year-old son play too. My wife's a pretty solid athlete—I think we could complete a few passes, make a few tackles.” Max paced the length of the room, passing in front of the chairs. “Yeah, I don't need any of you to carry on Warrior tradition.”

The boys fidgeted in their seats, their jaws set, their eyes tracing Max as he walked. Over on the wall, the assistants shuffled their stances.

“Because Warrior tradition is losing. In your last five seasons, the best the Warriors have done is one and eleven. One year, the Warriors lost every game.

I can lose on Friday nights with the best of them. Why do we need to put the school and the boosters to all the expense and heartache of paying for this lovely football facility if all we're going to do is lose from week to week? Y'all can stay home. My wife and I will play. Save the school a whole bunch of money.”

The coaches stood away from the wall. The boys sat back, squaring their shoulders.

“Hold up, hold up.” The big kid on the third row, right side, shifted forward, a haughty blaze in his eyes. He looked like a skill player—quarterback or running back. “Is it true you ain't never coached football? And you lecturing us?”

Max stretched across the rows to shake his hand. “And you are?”

“Carter Davis.”

“Carter, good to meet you. Running back?”

“Ain't it obvious?” He snorted back at his friends, his grin revealing thick white teeth. “I told you he ain't no real coach. Can't even tell a good running back when he's standing in front of him.”

“You run the forty in, what, four-six, maybe four-five, but you want to get to four-four?” Max slapped his hands together and raised one eyebrow.

“You think you smart? My granny can read a stat sheet. Mr. Buchholz, you said we was getting a real coach.” Carter started up the aisle with a large attitude and grand gestures to his teammates. “This is bull and y'all know it.” He kicked the chairs in the back by the door. “How are we going to win with a coach who don't know what he's doing?”

“Carter, sit down.” Chevy stepped in front of Max. “Listen to the man.”

“Listen to what? He's mocking us, Mr. Buchholz. Saying how he's going to lose football while playing with his wife and kid. That he don't need us.” Carter stepped toward Max. “He don't need us 'cause he don't know what he's doing.” Carter cocked his body with attitude, ready to fire off at any moment. “Why we keep hiring coaches who can't coach, got one foot out the door, or get us in trouble with the rules? First Mr. Molnar, now you, Mr. Buchholz. Listen, my Aunt Tee lives down in Canyon territory. I'm going to transfer there. Now
they
have a coach who's taking them places.”

“It ain't all about you, Carter.” A wiry, skinny boy rose to his feet. “The rest of us want to play too.”

“Go ahead an' play, Gellar. I ain't stopping you. But I want to play college ball.” Carter gave Max a visual once over, a snide curl on his lip. “
He
sure as heck ain't getting me there. He don't even have connections.”

“Mr. Buchholz has contacts.” The Gellar kid braved an argument.

“Then why don't he use them to get us a coach?”

The boys started to argue, their voices growing louder, their chests swelling. “Sit down,” Max said, low, strong, in command. “Face forward.” He moved up the center aisle. “I'd like you to stay, Carter, but I understand if you can't. My point is I don't want to keep up current Warrior tradition, but get back to the
winning
Warrior tradition. That”—Max looked hard at every man in the room—“I can't do by myself. You're right, Carter, I'm new. I don't know what I'm doing.” Max grinned. “Well, I know a little bit of what I'm doing. But I need all of you. The first step to getting back to winning seasons and championships is . . . you. We work as a team and take it one day, one game at a time.”

Carter dropped to the end seat in the last row.

“Why am I the head coach when I've never done this before? Because Principal Buchholz thought I was the best man for the job. I love football.”

Max gestured toward Bobby and Rick, leaning against the wall. “We have two former state champs right over there. Football is the greatest game in the world. It requires skill and talent. Football can make ordinary men great. Or it can make great men ordinary. But football is about being a team. There are no wins, no victories for anyone without eleven men on the field. There's no glory without heart. All the talent in the world is wasted on a player who is self-focused. I can see why some of your coaches might have left if this is the way y'all greeted him.”

The boys shifted in their seats. The coaches in the front remained stalwart but had let go of their crossed arms and reclined in the chairs.

“Heart trumps talent. A winning attitude earns my respect before speed or power. If you want to play on the Colby Warriors football team, all you need to do is show up tomorrow—”

“Tomorrow? Coach, we don't start camp until next month.” Kevin stood, glancing at Bobby Molnar.

“Show up tomorrow. Together we'll start planning how to make a winning Warrior football team. You're right to be nervous about me. I am.”

“Coach, you know we can't start practice until August. Regulations.” Bobby raised up next to Kevin, sounding like the athletic director he was.

“This isn't practice. It's a team meeting. If you want to be on this team, show up, seven a.m. Help me figure out how to make this a winning program.

If you can't get yourselves out of bed, then stay home. Sleep in.” Max glared at each boy. “But don't bother showing up for practice next month. Do any of you boys know Calvin Blue and Tucker Walberg? Get them in here. Any student who can run and qualifies to enter the boys' locker room is welcome on the team. I'll see you tomorrow.”

“Coach.” Bobby's expression darkened. “You're going to cut players before the practice even starts?”

“Like I said, heart trumps talent.” Max started out of the room. He had to act like he was in command even though he felt like a wet rag floating down the river. They'd run roughshod all over him this season if he didn't come in hard. Even ridiculously hard.

In his office, Max stood before the window wall and gazed out over the field. This was what he came to do. Where the rubber met the road. No room for doubt—even if the job would be hard or uncomfortable.
Lord, you brought me here. Now what?

At the light knock on his door, Max turned around. Chevy smiled, nodding. “Good job, Max. Good job.”

Twelve

Bobby Molnar paced his office, crossing back and forth across the Warrior flaming spear cut into the carpet pile. Rick Lundy leaned against the wall, arms folded.

“He seems all right, Bob. Give him a chance.”

“When Chevy picked that yahoo from Tennessee,” Bobby said, feeling the storm gathering in his chest, “I said, ‘Merry Christmas to me,' this guy will either quit or get fired before the end of the year. I'll finally be able to end-run that dang Chevy and get in as head coach.”

“So what's changed?”

“He didn't seem like a yahoo when he left the meeting. But now I know I need a new game plan.”

Bobby had let Chevy cut him out of the head coach chase so he would look like a hero when the needle-nosed principal's choice failed. When he brought Max Benson, a former addict lawyer to the table, Bobby knew,
he knew
, his day had finally arrived.

“What's the plan, Bob?” Rick said.

“I don't know . . . I don't know. Find out what you can on him. See if we can maybe push his buttons harder and faster. Maybe get him out by homecoming.”

Rick's chuckle fanned Bobby's flame. “You really do want that coaching job.”

Bobby paused his pacing to gape at his friend. “What do you think I've been doing? I've tried to cut the budget so the A.D. and head football coach are the same job. I've tried to hire bad coaches. I've tried to—”

“Frame them?”

“No, now. Bobby pointed at Rick, shaking his finger. “Kirk did all that on his own. Messing with a high school girl? Even at twenty-four, he should've known better. I just let that one play out. But Benson, he's got something different going on. This is going to be tough.”

“His zip experience ought to help.”

“Yeah, yeah, that'll bring some media pressure. I can work that angle. Bump up the news stories. Send a press release about how excited we are for our new, never-ran-a-program-before coach. If we're not the joke of the night on Channel 13, I owe you a beer.”

“I'd rather not enjoy that beer.”

Bobby paced. This head coaching job belonged to him. To his family's legacy. Rick was being too cavalier.

“Benson was at the Outpost,” Rick offered, still leaning against the wall. “That's where Chevy met him. Maybe there's something there.”