Chapter 1
The sun was setting quickly in the western horizon, but it provided little relief from the blistering heat.
It was early August and hot. Every day, the temperatures were hitting triple digits or getting close. This evening was no exception. The heat by itself was bad, but the humidity in the hills and forests of southeastern Oklahoma just made it worse. The heat and humidity just sapped the energy out of a person if they stayed outside very long.
The man sitting in the old wooden swing on the porch was used to the heat, at least as well as a person could be. But he certainly didn’t have any great affection for it. He slowly swung back and forth in the swing hanging down from the ceiling by two rusty chains. The man wished summer would hurry up and get over with as he took off a baseball hat that was once white and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his left hand.
He could barely see his name, Cole Lester, written on the bill of the hat. This was his favorite hat, one that fit just right. He turned the hat over and looked at the black “P” on the front and saw his sweat left a ring around the hat, a strange, brown color no painter would ever want to use.
He had been through enough Augusts in these parts to know nights brought little relief. A slight breeze was blowing in from the west, but it was full of heat.
Cole tried to ignore how bad his grass looked. He always tried to make his small yard look good, but the grass that was once a bright green was now brown, dying from heat and lack of moisture.
He looked out at the horizon to see how much longer the sun had for this day. All the sun was visible between the two houses across the street. Somebody had hit the street sign near the corner of his property. The marker indicating the street was Berra Drive was hanging loosely. Cole didn’t know why the county named the road “Berra Drive” since no Berras ever lived here. He guessed whoever named it must have been a Yogi fan.
There was little traffic, only an occasional car or truck going to or from Hooper’s Grocery, the main store in town. Traffic was lighter than usual as most people preferred staying inside the air conditioning instead of fighting the sauna waiting outside.
The heat was rising from the asphalt road, looking like waves. Somebody ran over a black snake earlier in the day and the remnants were still there. A crow was attacking the dead snake like it had not eaten in days. Back behind the house, there was a small pond and the bullfrogs that called the pond home were starting their daily call, mixing their noises in with the grasshoppers.
He tried to relax, but couldn’t. Cole was troubled this evening. He closed his eyes for a second and sighed heavily. After what happened a few months ago, Cole never expected to be in this position again.
Ever since that day, he planned to call the superintendent of the Petros Independent School District and tell his boss they could stick a fork in him. Cole was done. He had enough coaching young men at Petros High School and wanted a change.
But every day, something came up and he put it off. Now Cole had put it off so long, he was pretty much past the point of no return.
It wasn’t just the bad experience that bothered him. His youngest son, Lynn, who everybody other than Cole called “Lucky” would be a sophomore and playing varsity ball for the first time. Cole had coached his oldest son, Lloyd, a few years ago. That was a difficult time for Cole as he worried either about favoring Lloyd or being too tough on his son.
Cole had not wanted his youngest son to go through the same things they went through with Lloyd. He had seen too many other coaches harm their relationships with their kids by coaching them. That was something he never wanted to happen. No job was worth that. Especially one that almost guaranteed each year would end in disappointment, like the last baseball season did.
He still thought about calling the superintendent to quit and had not ruled it out. He heard a thumping sound in the driveway and saw Lucky, not paying any attention to the heat as he flew through the air and laid a basketball in the rim, soaring in a way his father never could. His son wore black shorts, a gray shirt with the sleeves cut off and high-topped basketball shoes that hid his socks.
A backboard and goal were anchored to the front of the garage, sticking out several feet so a layup did not send the shooter into the front of the garage. Cole saw the net needed replaced, not that it surprised him. As much as Lucky played, the net seldom lasted very long.
Cole watched his son soar again through the air, his hand easily reaching above the rim. Both his sons were fortunate to get their height from their mother, certainly not from him. Cole was barely five-foot-nine. Lloyd stood six-foot-two and Lucky caught his brother earlier this summer and showed no sign of slowing.
The boy was a little on the lanky side, all arms and legs. But while it was not evident looking at him, his strength was a match for most of his teammates, especially in his legs.
Cole enjoyed watching his son play basketball, more than the other sports. Lucky was so smooth, sporting an expression that never changed. It was impossible to tell if he was scoring thirty points or in a slump, nobody could read him.
He turned away to watch the sun set. The last rays of the day were fighting a losing battle to keep the land lit. The rim clanged and Cole turned again in that direction. He saw Lucky rebound the ball where the free-throw line would be if they had one, around fifteen feet from the goal. He spun quickly, took two steps, leaped high above the concrete and slammed the ball through the goal, leaving the rim shaking for several seconds afterwards.
The ball was delivered with such force it bounced and almost caught Lucky as he descended back to the ground, forcing him to dodge to keep the faded orange ball from smacking him in the face.
Lucky paused to collect his breath and wipe away some sweat and dirt from his face.
His shirt was drenched with sweat, standing out against the skin tanned a dark brown from the hours spent working in the sun.
Cole always liked the name “Lynn” and used it for his son. The nickname “Lucky” was a natural one, given to him by his classmates because it always seemed like whichever team he was on, that team always won. It didn’t matter what sport or who was on his team. The name slowly spread until everybody else called him that.
Cole grabbed his glass and took a drink of the ice water, letting it slowly slide down his throat. He wished for anything resembling a cool breeze to provide some relief. Cole had done very little this evening, but was still sweating badly.
The cool of fall was still a couple of months away. Cole knew that wasn’t long, but trapped in the searing heat of an August day, it might as well be a year away.
It seemed impossible that his summer was basically over. For Cole, it was like baseball season just ended, but football practice was already starting in the morning. Actually, it had already started as Cole and the other coaches handed out the equipment yesterday.
His house was thirteen-years old now and showing signs of aging. Some paint was chipping away around the windows and the porch could use a new coat. That was natural since the brutal summer heat and the cold winters would wear anything down. This was something Cole put on his mental “to do” list, but doubted this project would be completed for a while.
He remembered when they moved in this house, back when it was brand new. They were so proud, owning their own home. Lucky was only two then, at an age when he got into everything.
Cole still liked the house and considered it as nice as most of the others in town. It was around 1,500 square feet with three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a detached two-car garage that seldom housed a vehicle since it was used for other projects. Cole had not used vinyl siding and regretted it, tired of painting the house every two years. It was not the biggest or best house, but it was home and where the two boys were raised.
It was certainly not fancy, a trait most people would say the house shared with Cole and the teams he had coached at Petros High School over the last 15 years.
The ball clanged loudly off the rim. In the distance, a few clouds were trying to form. There was a small chance of rain, but while Cole knew rain was sorely needed, he hoped it waited.
Cole wanted it hot and dry for practice in the morning. Not because he wanted to be cruel, but because that was the best way to get his boys in condition.
Lucky kept shooting, causing the net to swish with nearly every shot. He shot, retrieved the ball, dribbled a few times against an imaginary defender then shot again. Cole knew Lucky wished his father would come out for a little game of one-on-one, but those games had ended when Lucky started beating his father. Plus, since the last game was not even close, Cole had no interest in a rematch.
The boy was just too good and he was too old. Cole hated to lose, maybe even more than Lucky did. It didn’t matter if it was his son handing out the beating. Cole knew that was one of the reasons he had not quit coaching and probably wouldn’t. He loved coaching, to take something and build it, mold it and shape it, hoping for that rare moment when all the parts came together and clicked.
That made all the heat and disappointment worthwhile.
Chapter 2
It was early August and hot. Every day, the temperatures were hitting triple digits or getting close. This evening was no exception. The heat by itself was bad, but the humidity in the hills and forests of southeastern Oklahoma just made it worse. The heat and humidity just sapped the energy out of a person if they stayed outside very long.
The man sitting in the old wooden swing on the porch was used to the heat, at least as well as a person could be. But he certainly didn’t have any great affection for it. He slowly swung back and forth in the swing hanging down from the ceiling by two rusty chains. The man wished summer would hurry up and get over with as he took off a baseball hat that was once white and wiped the sweat from his forehead with the back of his left hand.
He could barely see his name, Cole Lester, written on the bill of the hat. This was his favorite hat, one that fit just right. He turned the hat over and looked at the black “P” on the front and saw his sweat left a ring around the hat, a strange, brown color no painter would ever want to use.
He had been through enough Augusts in these parts to know nights brought little relief. A slight breeze was blowing in from the west, but it was full of heat.
Cole tried to ignore how bad his grass looked. He always tried to make his small yard look good, but the grass that was once a bright green was now brown, dying from heat and lack of moisture.
He looked out at the horizon to see how much longer the sun had for this day. All the sun was visible between the two houses across the street. Somebody had hit the street sign near the corner of his property. The marker indicating the street was Berra Drive was hanging loosely. Cole didn’t know why the county named the road “Berra Drive” since no Berras ever lived here. He guessed whoever named it must have been a Yogi fan.
There was little traffic, only an occasional car or truck going to or from Hooper’s Grocery, the main store in town. Traffic was lighter than usual as most people preferred staying inside the air conditioning instead of fighting the sauna waiting outside.
The heat was rising from the asphalt road, looking like waves. Somebody ran over a black snake earlier in the day and the remnants were still there. A crow was attacking the dead snake like it had not eaten in days. Back behind the house, there was a small pond and the bullfrogs that called the pond home were starting their daily call, mixing their noises in with the grasshoppers.
He tried to relax, but couldn’t. Cole was troubled this evening. He closed his eyes for a second and sighed heavily. After what happened a few months ago, Cole never expected to be in this position again.
Ever since that day, he planned to call the superintendent of the Petros Independent School District and tell his boss they could stick a fork in him. Cole was done. He had enough coaching young men at Petros High School and wanted a change.
But every day, something came up and he put it off. Now Cole had put it off so long, he was pretty much past the point of no return.
It wasn’t just the bad experience that bothered him. His youngest son, Lynn, who everybody other than Cole called “Lucky” would be a sophomore and playing varsity ball for the first time. Cole had coached his oldest son, Lloyd, a few years ago. That was a difficult time for Cole as he worried either about favoring Lloyd or being too tough on his son.
Cole had not wanted his youngest son to go through the same things they went through with Lloyd. He had seen too many other coaches harm their relationships with their kids by coaching them. That was something he never wanted to happen. No job was worth that. Especially one that almost guaranteed each year would end in disappointment, like the last baseball season did.
He still thought about calling the superintendent to quit and had not ruled it out. He heard a thumping sound in the driveway and saw Lucky, not paying any attention to the heat as he flew through the air and laid a basketball in the rim, soaring in a way his father never could. His son wore black shorts, a gray shirt with the sleeves cut off and high-topped basketball shoes that hid his socks.
A backboard and goal were anchored to the front of the garage, sticking out several feet so a layup did not send the shooter into the front of the garage. Cole saw the net needed replaced, not that it surprised him. As much as Lucky played, the net seldom lasted very long.
Cole watched his son soar again through the air, his hand easily reaching above the rim. Both his sons were fortunate to get their height from their mother, certainly not from him. Cole was barely five-foot-nine. Lloyd stood six-foot-two and Lucky caught his brother earlier this summer and showed no sign of slowing.
The boy was a little on the lanky side, all arms and legs. But while it was not evident looking at him, his strength was a match for most of his teammates, especially in his legs.
Cole enjoyed watching his son play basketball, more than the other sports. Lucky was so smooth, sporting an expression that never changed. It was impossible to tell if he was scoring thirty points or in a slump, nobody could read him.
He turned away to watch the sun set. The last rays of the day were fighting a losing battle to keep the land lit. The rim clanged and Cole turned again in that direction. He saw Lucky rebound the ball where the free-throw line would be if they had one, around fifteen feet from the goal. He spun quickly, took two steps, leaped high above the concrete and slammed the ball through the goal, leaving the rim shaking for several seconds afterwards.
The ball was delivered with such force it bounced and almost caught Lucky as he descended back to the ground, forcing him to dodge to keep the faded orange ball from smacking him in the face.
Lucky paused to collect his breath and wipe away some sweat and dirt from his face.
His shirt was drenched with sweat, standing out against the skin tanned a dark brown from the hours spent working in the sun.
Cole always liked the name “Lynn” and used it for his son. The nickname “Lucky” was a natural one, given to him by his classmates because it always seemed like whichever team he was on, that team always won. It didn’t matter what sport or who was on his team. The name slowly spread until everybody else called him that.
Cole grabbed his glass and took a drink of the ice water, letting it slowly slide down his throat. He wished for anything resembling a cool breeze to provide some relief. Cole had done very little this evening, but was still sweating badly.
The cool of fall was still a couple of months away. Cole knew that wasn’t long, but trapped in the searing heat of an August day, it might as well be a year away.
It seemed impossible that his summer was basically over. For Cole, it was like baseball season just ended, but football practice was already starting in the morning. Actually, it had already started as Cole and the other coaches handed out the equipment yesterday.
His house was thirteen-years old now and showing signs of aging. Some paint was chipping away around the windows and the porch could use a new coat. That was natural since the brutal summer heat and the cold winters would wear anything down. This was something Cole put on his mental “to do” list, but doubted this project would be completed for a while.
He remembered when they moved in this house, back when it was brand new. They were so proud, owning their own home. Lucky was only two then, at an age when he got into everything.
Cole still liked the house and considered it as nice as most of the others in town. It was around 1,500 square feet with three bedrooms, two bathrooms and a detached two-car garage that seldom housed a vehicle since it was used for other projects. Cole had not used vinyl siding and regretted it, tired of painting the house every two years. It was not the biggest or best house, but it was home and where the two boys were raised.
It was certainly not fancy, a trait most people would say the house shared with Cole and the teams he had coached at Petros High School over the last 15 years.
The ball clanged loudly off the rim. In the distance, a few clouds were trying to form. There was a small chance of rain, but while Cole knew rain was sorely needed, he hoped it waited.
Cole wanted it hot and dry for practice in the morning. Not because he wanted to be cruel, but because that was the best way to get his boys in condition.
Lucky kept shooting, causing the net to swish with nearly every shot. He shot, retrieved the ball, dribbled a few times against an imaginary defender then shot again. Cole knew Lucky wished his father would come out for a little game of one-on-one, but those games had ended when Lucky started beating his father. Plus, since the last game was not even close, Cole had no interest in a rematch.
The boy was just too good and he was too old. Cole hated to lose, maybe even more than Lucky did. It didn’t matter if it was his son handing out the beating. Cole knew that was one of the reasons he had not quit coaching and probably wouldn’t. He loved coaching, to take something and build it, mold it and shape it, hoping for that rare moment when all the parts came together and clicked.
That made all the heat and disappointment worthwhile.
posted by Craig Hall at 4:14 AM
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