From his oversized calves to his bright green nylon coach’s jacket he always wore, Coach Samson exuded coachness. He filled the client chair to its capacity, as he did all chairs unfortunate enough to cross paths with his profuse posterior. His skin was a black so deep it sometimes appeared purple. Then again I’m color blind, so what did I know?
Coach Samson looked around the office, breathing loudly through his wide nostrils. I could hear his neck scraping against the collar of his coach’s jacket.
“You think pretty highly of yourself, Knighthorse.” His voice was gritty and guttural. It came from deep within his barrel chest, able to reach across football fields and high into stadiums.
“No, sir. I mean, yes, sir. Those were good memories. If you look hard enough at the picture over my right shoulder, the one with two bullet holes in it-don’t ask-you can even see yourself.”
He leaned forward, squinting. “All I see is someone’s belly.”
“Yes, sir. Your belly.”
He shook his head, and continued his slow inspection of the office. “What happened with the offer from the San Diego Chargers?”
I knew that question was coming. I had spent last summer preparing for a return to football, strengthening my injured leg, only to realize the passion to play was gone.
“I decided football had passed me by.”
His gaze leveled on me. I shifted uncomfortably. “You could have made their squad, Knighthorse. They were desperate for a fullback. Hell, they still are.”
“I’m a good detective.”
“Any idea what the minimum salary is in the NFL?”
“Probably a little more than my fee.”
“What is your fee?”
I told him.
He grunted. “People actually pay you those fees?”
“Lots of people out there want answers. I give them answers.”
He shifted in the seat. The chair creaked. If the subject wasn’t football, Coach Samson grew uncomfortable. “So it wasn’t about the money.”
“No.”
“Then what’s it about?”
“I have a life here. I’m good at what I do. I’m a different man than when I was twenty-two.”
We were silent. I wondered why he was here.
“Do you miss football?” he asked.
“Yes and no. I don’t miss the pain.”
“You want to come back?”
There it was.
“Depends in what capacity.”
“How about the capacity as my assistant coach. The team has fallen on hard times. We’re halfway through the season and we need a spark.”
“You think I can be the spark?”
He leveled his hazel eyes on me. “Stranger things have happened,” he said. “It’s not full time, Jim. I know you’re busy with…whatever the hell it is you do here. Show up when you can, once, twice a week. Be there for the games Friday nights.” He paused, looked down. “I have no money for you, though. Strictly volunteer.”
Inglewood High barely had enough to pay his salary.
I didn’t have to think about it. “Would be an honor.”
“Practices start at two. Don’t be late.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, sir.”