Pete Sebastian, Coach

by Jean C. Joachim

  “Calm down, Dad. Don’t worry, we didn’t do it.”

  “Come home. Damn it. Come home.”

  “We are. Lexie was just supposed to tell you the job fell through and we’re coming home. We’d planned to tell you the rest when we got there. But she lost it.”

  “Get here as soon as you can.”

  “What are we going to do for the summer?”

  “Don’t worry about that. We’ll figure something out when you get here.”

  “We’ll be home for dinner.”

  “Good. Love you both.”

  “Love you, too, Dad.”

  He hung up then kicked his chair.

  A tap on the door caught his attention. Jo stood in the doorway. “What just happened?”

  Pete relayed the story.

  “I’m not surprised. There are slimy, disgusting men everywhere,” she said.

  “They’ll be home for dinner.”

  “Then, let’s scrap our plans to go out.”

  “I’ll barbecue a steak?”

  “Perfect.”

  “I’d like to kill that fucking bastard.” He pounded his fist into his palm.

  “The slime bucket deserves it.”

  That night, the girls arrived and immediately joined Pete at the grill. They fell into his embrace. Talking, crying, swearing, and sobbing filtered in through the screen door. Jo remained in the kitchen. Grateful she knew when to step aside with his daughters, Pete devoted his full attention to the girls.

  When they were through adding more gruesome details to the story, the three Sebastians entered the house. Pete put the steak on the table. Jo had thrown together a green salad and her famous homemade potato salad.

  Pete sliced the meat. Alyssa poured iced tea. Jo set a beer at Pete’s place.

  “What are we going to do now, Dad? All the good summer jobs are taken.” Lexie spooned potato salad onto her plate.

  “I don’t have any idea, Lex. I’ve got my own problems.”

  They ate in silence for a while.

  “I’ve got an idea,” Jo said. All eyes turned to her. “I have a new project I’m working on. But it’s huge. I need help, and you girls could be my summer interns.”

  “What is it?” There was a note of suspicion in Alyssa’s voice.

  “You’re going to love this. Emerald is marrying our wide receiver, Buddy Carruthers.”

  “Yeah, so?”

  “They’re getting married after the opening game. In the stadium. And I’m helping plan the wedding!”

  Two forks stopped. The twins’ eyes widened as they stared at Jo.

  “Help with Emerald’s wedding? You’re kidding, right?” Alyssa asked.

  “Nope. Ask your dad.”

  “That’s right. Great idea, Jo. I might even be able to get Lyle to agree to pay you a little something.”

  Two faces, still puffy from crying, erupted into smiles as the girls squealed and bounced in their seats.

  “Oh my God! What an awesome job!” Alyssa said.

  “Way better than working for that horny editor,” Lexie added.

  At the mention of the bastard’s title, Pete frowned. “At least I don’t have to worry about you being safe. Just stay away from the players,” he said, cutting off a small piece of steak and stabbing it with his fork.

  “Thank you, Jo. That’s the biggest dream job.” Lexie sprang out of her seat to give Jo a hug.

  “Wait until our sorority sisters hear about this,” Alyssa cooed.

  Jo smiled. “I’ll work you damn hard. But it’ll be exciting.”

  Pete grinned. She’s their fairy godmother. Brilliant. “This is the best potato salad I’ve ever eaten.”

  The girls agreed.

  * * * *

  On the afternoon of the first day of training camp, Coach Bass was scheduled to have his first anger management session with Dr. Wendy McMillan. He wanted to get it out of the way so he could focus on camp.

  The team worked out in the morning and went over game plans for an hour after lunch. Then, it was time to run plays.

  During a break, Buddy turned to the Coach. “You’re the first one in the gas chamber today, eh, Coach?”

  “What the hell are you talking about?”

  “Yeah, Coach is first in front of the firing squad,” Brodsky concurred.

  “Anger management, Coach,” Griff prompted.

  “Oh, that shit. Yeah. I’m first. Going under the knife at five. All you wusses take note. I’m not scared one bit.”

  “Maybe you should be. She’s gonna look into your head,” Trunk said before sucking down a bottle of water.

  “She’s not gonna look into your shorts, guys,” Griff Montgomery pointed out.

  “Do you have to tell her you watch porn?” Bullhorn asked.

  “I don’t need porn. I have a woman,” Pete said.

  “Every man needs porn,” Mahoney replied.

  They laughed. Pete washed his hands and face in the locker room then headed for Dr. McMillan’s private office.

  “Good luck, Coach!”

  “Don’t let her cut your balls off.”

  “Coach Bass, don’t say anything incriminating.”

  “Don’t admit anything!”

  “Ask for a lawyer.”

  He chuckled as he climbed the stairs. Like a bunch of little boys. He was still shaking his head as he entered the room and closed the door.

  “Welcome, Coach Bass,” Wendy McMillan said. “Sit wherever you feel comfortable.”

  He sat on one loveseat, and she sat on the one opposite, with a steno pad open in her lap.

  “Are you going to take notes?” His brow furrowed.

  “No, I have my list of questions here. Just a reminder for myself. Don’t be nervous. I promise this won’t hurt.”

  He managed a weak smile. Terror, reminiscent of childhood visits to the dentist, filled his heart.

  “Okay, let’s get started. Tell me, do you consider yourself a violent man?”

  “Of course not. I’ve never hit a woman, and I never would. Never in a million years. Is that it? Can I go now?” He started to rise from his seat.

  Wendy motioned him to sit down. “Not quite yet.” She smiled.

  “You sure come out of the box swinging, don’t you?”

  She chuckled. “Wanted to make sure you were awake. Besides, I like to cut through the bullshit right away.”

  “What did my reaction tell you?”

  “Nice try, Coach. This session is about you, not about me. I ask the questions. You provide the answers. Let’s get back to anger. Do you consider yourself an angry man?”

  “Nope. Sure, I get pissed sometimes…oops. Sorry.”

  “No worries. All language is acceptable here. Don’t watch your words.”

  “Yeah. I get mad. Hell, I’m a father. Show me a dad who doesn’t blow his top once in a while?”

  “When you say ‘blow your top,’ what do you mean?”

  “I yell.”

  “Ever throw things?”

  He sensed heat creeping into his cheeks. “Maybe. Once in a while.”

  “How do you yell?”

  “I swear. Curse words are good when you’re mad.”

  “Do you direct those at the object of your anger?”

  “Do I curse at my kids? No. I have two girls.”

  “Do you curse at the players?”

  “From time to time. Depending on how stupid they’re being.”

  “Do you curse at Jo?”

  “Jo? Wait a minute. How did she get into this?”

  “She’s your girlfriend, right?”

  “That’s personal.”

  “This is all personal and totally confidential. Just between you and me.”

  “Yeah, I’ve cursed at her a couple of times. Women can be…infuriating sometimes.”

  Wendy laughed. “What do you usually throw when you get mad?”

  “I throw whatever pissed me off.”

  “You don’t throw a person, do you?”
<
br />   Now, it was Pete’s turn to laugh. “Not exactly.”

  “Have you ever wanted to hit somebody?”

  He frowned and rested his chin on his hand. The silence grew.

  She put her hand on his arm. “It’s okay to say ‘yes.’ Wanting to do something isn’t the same as doing it.”

  “Sure, I’ve wanted to hit people. Guys.”

  “But you don’t, right?”

  “Right. It doesn’t help to manage the team if you’re smacking around your players. And some of them are a lot bigger than I am.”

  “So, you’ve never been physically abusive?”

  He shook his head.

  “How about emotionally? Language can be abusive. Being derogatory, sarcastic, nasty, calling names can hurt as much as a slap or a smack.”

  Pete was silent again.

  “I guess that means ‘yes’.”

  More silence.

  “Tell me about being angry. Does it come on you quickly, like a tornado? Or is your anger the slow-build kind?”

  “Sometimes one, sometimes the other. If a lot of stuff goes wrong, one thing after another, well…when we lose a game, or someone does something stupid on the field. Like an unnecessary, idiotic penalty.”

  “What about at home with Jo?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Do you ever get angry at her?”

  “Sure. We’re living together.”

  “Is it the quick kind or the slow build?”

  “Sometimes one, sometimes the other. When she does something dumb.”

  “Have you ever scared her with your anger?”

  “Of course not—” He stopped. This time, he felt his entire face flush. He had scared her the first time they had met. Then, maybe the night they’d had that fight when she walked out. Did she leave because she was afraid of me? Shame filled him. He hung his head and clasped his hands together. “I did. I didn’t mean to. Once, maybe twice.”

  “What did she do?”

  “She looked like a deer in the headlights. The second time, she got mad and walked out.”

  “But she came back?”

  “She realized the fight was stupid and that walking out was overreacting.”

  “Do you think maybe she left because you scared her?”

  “Not really. I think she left because I was disrespectful. She was right about that. I just blew up about something that wasn’t even her fault.”

  “Maybe a combination of both feelings motivated her.”

  “I never thought she’d be scared of me.”

  “Did you yell at her?”

  He nodded.

  “You’re a big guy, Pete. If you got all angry and started yelling, I’d guess you could be a very imposing man. Frightening, maybe?”

  A tightness gripped his chest. “I’d never hurt her.”

  “Does she know that?”

  “The subject’s never come up.”

  “Can you feel yourself getting angry?”

  He nodded.

  “Do you think you can do something before your anger escalates?”

  “I can try.”

  “How about this? Walk out of the room before it grips you.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “Good. If you leave the room, take a few deep breaths and give yourself time to calm down, then you can talk about what’s making you mad without exploding.”

  “Might keep my blood pressure down.”

  “Do you have a blood pressure problem?”

  “I was only joking. My pressure’s fine. Just when I get angry. I feel the blood pumping, and it seems to make me madder.”

  “Can you go for a run? Get out of the house? Leave the field? A change of scenery can remove what’s agitating you. Help you calm down faster.”

  “I never thought of myself as having an anger problem.”

  “Not all anger is manifest by physical violence. Abuse can be emotional, verbal, intimidation—all are forms of anger used to control someone else.”

  “I’m sorry. I don’t get mad often.”

  “Don’t apologize, Pete. Most men have a problem dealing with anger. Athletes, maybe more so. Some handle it better than others. You seem to be doing pretty well. Some men hit women or children when they get angry. I think you can control the verbal stuff, now that you’re aware of it.”

  “Damn right I can. I can’t believe I made Jo afraid.” He rubbed his face and shook his head.

  “You need to ask her. We’re just assuming.”

  “I will tonight.”

  Wendy glanced at her watch. “Time’s up.”

  “Already?”

  “Yep. Solo sessions are only an hour.”

  “Wow, that went by fast.”

  “Was it as bad as you thought?”

  “You gave me a lot to think about.”

  “Good. That’s the point.” She stood up.

  Pete followed. “Thank you, Dr. McMillan.”

  “Wendy.”

  “Thanks, Wendy. I feel better.”

  “Not nervous anymore?”

  He smiled. “Nope. I see why the guys should come here. Most of ’em get explosive when they’re angry.”

  “I’m hoping we can help them control their anger and deal with things better.”

  “My players aren’t abusers, not physically. They don’t hit women or kids. But they have pretty good tempers.”

  “I’m not surprised.”

  “Thank you. You’ve helped me.” Pete shook her hand and returned to his office.

  He paced, looked out the window, then grabbed his jacket and headed for the parking lot. When he returned, it was quitting time. Jo came to his office, babbling about some details for Buddy and Emmy’s wedding. When she looked up, Pete was standing in front of her with a dozen red roses.

  “What? Why?”

  He pulled her inside and closed the door. “I scared you.”

  “What?”

  “On that first day I met you. I yelled at you, and I scared you. I saw it on your face, in your eyes.”

  She nodded. “You did.”

  “These are to tell you how sorry I am. And that I’ll never, ever do that again.”

  She smiled at him.

  “Did I scare you when we had that fight about Curly?”

  “A little,” she admitted.

  “Is that why you left?”

  “Maybe a little. It was more about disrespect.”

  He drew her into his arms. “I’m so sorry. I’ll never get that angry again. I promise.”

  “What brought this on?”

  “My session with Wendy.”

  Jo looked up at him.

  “I learned something. About myself.”

  She hugged his chest to hers.

  “I didn’t realize I could scare people. Probably scared the girls a few times too. Never again.”

  “I love you,” she whispered.

  He stroked her hair. “You’re the best. I love you too.”

  They stayed together for a few more moments.

  “Let’s go. I want to make it up to you big time, at home.” He winked at her.

  Jo tucked the bouquet under her arm.

  Pete stopped her. “You were right about the program. We need it. All the guys need it. It’s a great idea. I was wrong. I’ll never put it down again.”

  Jo pushed up on tiptoes to kiss him “That means more than all the flowers in the world.”

  The next day, Coach went to training camp with renewed awareness of his temper. The men were lined up on the field while one of the trainers put them through their paces. Leaning against a wall, Pete watched, staying out of the way. When they took a break, the players grabbed their water bottles.

  The new linebacker, Lawson Breaker, known as “The Kid,” knocked into Bullhorn Brodsky by accident. Brodsky shoved the young man to the ground. Lawson jumped to his feet.

  “Come on, come on. You gonna take me out? I could put you away with one hand,” Bull bragged.

  Lawson
scowled at Brodsky.

  Griff put a hand on the senior linebacker’s arm. “Shut the fuck up, Bull. Leave The Kid alone.”

  “Yeah, Brodsky. This isn’t a back alley in your neighborhood. It’s training camp. Have some respect,” Trunk Mahoney put in.

  Bull charged Mahoney and knocked him to the ground. The big men rolled around, punching each other. The other players yelled, circling the two. The Kid bent down and grabbed Brodsky by the jersey and yanked him away. Devon Drake put his foot in the space created by The Kid’s courageous move. Drake then sat on Mahoney, who struggled and swore.

  Brodsky punched The Kid in the stomach.

  At that point, Coach Bass stepped in. “Fined, Brodsky!” he yelled.

  That got Bullhorn’s attention. “Fucking Asshole! He started it.”

  “Bullshit. Get your motherfucking ass up and hit the showers. You’re done for today. One day’s fine. I don’t want to see your face until tomorrow.”

  Brodsky pushed up, muttering every bad word he knew. Coach put his arm around The Kid and led him over to the bench. He was bent over, trying to catch his breath. The trainer responded.

  “Next guy who starts a fight will get a double fine. You, Mahoney! Get the fuck up and get back in line,” Pete added.

  Trunk stood up, brushed himself off, and took his sullen expression back to sit down.

  Coach addressed the team. “Yeah, last year we won the Super Bowl. No one’s taking that away from you. But this year’ll be even more of a challenge. Don’t you get it that everyone is gunning for us? We are now the team to beat. Remember how pumped you were when we played the Sidewinders after they won? It was all about beating them. This year, it’s our turn.”

  Pete stopped to down a bottle of water. “Every team we play’ll be out to get us. To beat us, to hurt us. We are the winners, the top. And if they can beat us, that makes them top dog. Hot smoking son-of-a-bitch, are we gonna let them win? No, sir. No, we are not. We are still the best. Still number one. And they can go fuck themselves if they think they can take us down!”

  A cheer went up from the men.

  “So, work your fucking asses off! We’ve got to be in shape. We’ve got to be sharp. Focused. Do not let pussy get in the way of winning!”

  Another cheer. The trainer motioned for them to get back into position. Coach Bass went to check on Brodsky in the locker room. The linebacker had finished his shower. He had a towel wrapped around his waist and was combing his hair.