The Odd Ballerz (2 page)

“No.”

“Then you are in the right place. This is what we do here every summer: introduce kids to the sport, assess their abilities while teaching them the fundamentals of the game. You’ll be fine, Jones. Those boys are students here, same as you. We have two weeks to give it our best shot. This is the only option I can offer you.”

“Two weeks?” Memphis squeaked out.

“Two weeks, and Alex didn’t tell you that either.”

“No. She did not.”

He smiled internally at the myriad expressions that flickered over her face. It a canvass for her emotions, he thought. She was funny to watch and easy to read. Whatever she felt seemed to show up on her face, no hiding anything: the shock, surprise, alarm, and was that fear there at the end? He wasn’t sure of the last bit, fleeting as it had been, but it was fun to watch nonetheless. Oh, and she was easier than easy to mess with and he looked forward to doing it often over the next two weeks. She should shoot her sister. It’s what he’d do if he were in her shoes, sending her out here so clearly misinformed.

“Three days, Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, from six to eight p.m. for the next two weeks, and I expect you to show up here, on time, ready to do your best. It’s what I expect from anybody that plays for me in season or out. Two weeks is easy, Jones,” he said, smiling internally again at the expression on her face: a little bit of shellshock mixed with horror. “So are we done with the questions and our talk of fires and insurance?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Good. So, if you don’t know it by now, timeliness is a huge deal for me. One of the easiest ways to show respect of another person’s time is to show up when you’re supposed to. But in case that’s too much to ask of you, Jones, I have a three strike rule, as in baseball. Three strikes and don’t bother coming back, even if your sister is Alex. Got it?” he said, and he’d dropped his smile. All serious was the face staring back at her.

“Got it,” she squeezed past her lips. She’d lost her smile a while ago, too and couldn’t seem to resurrect it. It was quiet for a moment between them.

“Okay then, that will be three laps around the track,” he said.

“I thought you said two.”

“I did, but that was before… and you need to learn how serious timeliness is to me,” he said, moving around her to stand in the doorway now, his back to the building, continuing to hold the door open. “You really should get started. I don’t know your fitness level, but based on what I’ve heard, I suspect you might be a while getting those laps done,” he said.

She smiled. Weak though it was, it was visible as she worked to hide her irritation. She turned on her heel and marched away. Forget the bit about being handsome. Irritating had smoothly taken its place. Three laps and crap, there was no way she could run three laps. Could she? She made her way to the track anyway.

This was such a bad idea, this playing football. She knew it when she agreed to the bet’s terms and nothing to be done about it now. She’d done it for Alex. It was anything for her sisters, and fortunately Alex had won… in so many ways she’d won. Getting her life together and meeting her fears head on. That’s what Alex had done and would continue to do. So here she was, upholding her end of the bargain and, Oh God, playing football for real. Thirty years old, and the thought of anything athletic could still reduce her to this quivering mass of nerves. “Breathe,” she said aloud to herself. “You can do this.”

She scanned the track, where the boys were in the process of running their laps, some moving faster than others. Crap, she thought at the change in her circumstances, just that quick. And crap, those laps weren’t going to run themselves, she thought, and the sooner she started the sooner she’d finish, an encouraging thought that had her placing her feet on the track, one in front of the other.

# # #

I’m in trouble here, serious trouble, Memphis thought, struggling against passing out and not even ten minutes in. It was total depletion of the air in her lungs, plus she had a stitch in her side that had come from out of nowhere. She was rubbing it now, as it had grown more painful by the minute. What had she been thinking, taking off so fast? Trying to prove what to who. She knew who. Coach Z, as he’d instructed her to call him, and talk about taking yourself way too seriously. He was so that.

It was her irritation and wanting to make a good first impression that propelled her non-athletic self around the track at speeds impossible for her to maintain and now had her sputtering to a stop at the end of her first lap. As if making a good impression was possible. Okay, not so much a good impression, more a decent one had been her goal.

“I… don’t… know who you… were… trying to fool,” she said aloud around her panting, her new form of breathing. “You are… not a… runner,” she added. At best she walked, when and if she got around to exercising.

She was mostly careful with food, more so than anything when it came to her weight, and so far so good, she could still squeeze into a few high school things she’d kept to measure herself against. She walked and cut back when she felt she needed to, mostly after the holidays when she’d indulged in too many sweets.

Screw this, she thought, she would walk the rest of the way. What difference would it make anyway, she thought by way of rationalizing, still irritated that he’d added a third lap. All the boys were done. She was the only one making the run or walk now around the track. So there was no point in rushing to finish, she might as well take her time and make this track-running thing last her through to the end of whatever came next. She was already late, which meant she would be late to the next thing, whatever it was. Plus it didn’t count, at least in her mind. Two laps was all that was required of the others, and it was all she would do.

Dang Memphis, you’re so smart, she thought at her decision before turning her attention to the boys. They stood in a clump in the middle of the field now. Some coach was at the front blowing his whistle and passing out instructions.

“It’s calisthenics and stretching time,” Coach someone-other-than-Z shouted. It was the short and stout one that was shouting those instructions. Short, big shirt covering his bowling ball-sized belly; clearly
he
wasn’t participating in the calisthenics and stretching time, she thought uncharitably.

“Jumping jacks. Give me twenty,” the same coach added, and the boys were spreading out then, putting distance between themselves, arm’s length, all participating, everyone but her. And yes, if she timed it right, she could totally see her way out of doing that activity.

Satisfied with her plan, she turned her attention to checking out Coach Z’s property and its potential insurance needs. Interesting place he had here: a bunch of buildings off the main road, built in the same brick as his home. A compound of sorts, with plenty of insurance needs, is where he lived. She lost herself in calculations and estimates for a while, and was surprised to find herself rounding the last curve of her second lap in what felt like minutes later.

She was feeling better, breathing easier now that she was back to walking. She heard a whistle and looked up to find him, Coach Z, standing in the middle of the field, hands on his hips, mouth clamped around a whistle, and staring at her. Surely he wasn’t blowing that darn thing at her and if so, what did he expect her to do? Speed up or start running again? Neither of those were possibilities she wanted to entertain.

She looked around and behind her for someone other than her, in hopes that they might be the object of all his whistle blowing. Nope, there was no one behind her. She looked back at him, and he was pointing to her now, so yes, he meant her, and he had started to blow that thing again, short bursts of whistle blowing and he was moving his hand too, a kind of twirling of his fingers, which she guessed was a sign for her to get moving. She did, started jogging again, until he turned his back and then she stopped. She was another ten yards from being done with lap two.

She heard the whistle again halfway into the third and final lap, however this time she didn’t look up. She was so going to ignore him. He must have gotten the message, ’cause the whistle blowing eventually stopped. She didn’t take a chance and look his way again. Just going to write it down in her book as a victory, she thought. Yeah her!

# # #

Fifteen minutes later Memphis was finished with her final lap and heading over to the end of the fields where the boys stood. They were in the process of forming lines, three lines to be exact, which had been the instructions from some other coach. She’d actually gauged it perfectly and managed to miss that whole calisthenics thing. Ignoring him and walking slow had been just the ticket.

There were four other coaches assisting Coach Z with camp that she could see. She’d counted them while she finished that last lap, having grown tired of evaluating his property and its insurance needs. They, unlike Z, were all African American.

“Where do you think you’re going?” Z asked. He was standing in the middle of the track, waiting for her it seemed. How had she missed him? Too consumed with praising herself, that’s how. Too busy patting herself on the back, and she had dropped the-watching-out-for-him-ball.

“I thought Coach… something or other told us to…” she said, looking around for the coach that had belted out of the last set of instructions. “He,” she said, finding him and pointing to the round-shaped coach again, “told us to line up,” she said, and smiled.

“Coach Beryl,” he said, supplying the name for her.

“Yep… Coach Beryl told us to line up in the infield. That’s where I was headed,” she said, smiling again. She had gotten her irritation under control and it was back to her insurance agent’s finest.

“It’s called the end zone,” he said, correcting her.

“Right. The end zone,” she said.

“Not for you, Jones. Not yet anyway. I need twenty jumping jacks, ten lunges, and ten squats. That’s what you missed taking your sweet time walking your laps. I know you heard me,” he added, and smiled, kind of like an alligator, all teeth and taking a bite out of someone’s hide. He was still wearing those shades, so who knew what was going on behind them with his eyes.

“Oh, was that you? I’m so sorry,” she said, bringing her hand to her bosom in her best Scarlett O’Hara,
Gone With the Wind
impersonation. “I thought it was that other coach…” she said, scanning the field again. She found one and pointed to him. “I thought he was the one blowing it and not at me,” she said, smiling again.

“Right, Jones. It’s okay, you can do them now.”

“Do what now?”

“Jumping jacks, stretching, which consists of a few lunges, and squats.”

“Right now?” she asked, making a face.

“Is there another now that I should know about?” he asked, managing to keep his expression neutral as more of those facials expression from earlier shown on her face. Shock and surprise were there, joined by distaste and a whole lot of frustration there, at the end. She was fun to watch he thought again.

“But I’ll be late for that,” she said, pointing again to the boys standing in the end zone.

“It can keep. Plus it wouldn’t be fair to the boys, now, would it? They’ve done as we’ve asked and managed to complete all of their tasks. I’m sure I don’t need to point out to you, as an adult, the importance of setting a proper example. We shouldn’t weasel our way out of things. So I’ll take my jumping jacks, lunges, and squats now, Jones.”

“I am not a weasel,” she said.

“I hope not,” he said, and blew his whistle again and she jumped at the unexpectedness of hearing it. He smiled that same alligator smile he did so well.

“I don’t like to be whistled at,” she said, and smiled her version of an alligator smile too.

“Less talk, more action is the way to get me to stop blowing it. Now let’s go,” he said, clearing his throat. He had one hand holding his whistle near his mouth, the other at his waist.

She rolled her eyes, sighed her displeasure loudly, but moved to do his bidding. “You don’t have to watch me,” she said.

“It appears that I do. I’ll count them out for you. Jumping jacks first. Set, and go. One… two… three,” he said.

# # #

“Four, five, six…” Z said, counting as Jones completed her jumping jacks. He’d seen her, thought she might be up to something, ignoring his whistle when he tried to get her to start jogging again earlier, taking her time finishing that last lap and taking her time getting over to the field, missing the next part of the workout intentionally. Next up was the forty-yard dash, but not for her, not until she made up what she’d purposefully missed.

She was out of shape, that much was clear, which could and would be fixed. Of course he was the man to do it, and if she meant to continue this stalling and game playing to avoid work, then he was the man to put an end to that too.

Alex had called him last week with the good news that her big sister would be trying out for the team and if she made it would play for them as well. He’d wanted to weep at the possibility of having another Jones woman playing for him, ’cause if she was anything like Alex—athletic, smart, and fearless—the team would improve exponentially. Alex was one hell of ball player, a quarterback that read defenses like you wouldn’t believe.

Unfortunately Alex had told him next to nothing about her sister. Meagerly, miserly and woefully inadequate had been the amount of words Alex had spared in describing Jones. “She drives a green Xterra and wears her hair naturally,” she said, and he had no clue what to do with that.

“Lunges, in a line. Give me ten up the field and ten back. Count them out as you go, and I need to hear you counting,” he said. He watched as she rolled her eyes again, but she started, moving away from him. “I can’t hear you, Jones,” he said, looking over his shoulder at her, wobbling as she set her feet on the ground. He smiled internally ’cause she was shouting them out now, the volume increasing as she counted until she was shouting out “Ten!” at the top of her lungs.

“And now ten more back to me,” he said.

She smirked, but returned, counting loudly again. And what was up with the wobbling and general unbalance that was this woman? He hoped it wasn’t intentional, or more shenanigans on her part. Really, he did not have time for that.