The Odd Ballerz Read online

  “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 sha
pe, 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.

  Most boys that came to his camps were here to learn, wanted to play football, and were eager to do what was asked. However, every so often he’d get one or two that were too sure of themselves, cocky, didn’t have to listen to a quarterback, NFL or not, who hadn’t made it to the level of, insert whatever famous quarterback they admired, and thought to give him cheek or, perhaps like Jones, less than their best. He wasn’t having it.

  “Twenty squats,” he said, giving her the stone look he’d perfected long ago, perfect for times when intimidation was necessary.

  “I thought you said ten. The boys only had to do ten.”

  “Whining is not a good look for you and they weren’t late or goofing off. Twenty,” he said.

  “I’m not whining, nor was I goofing off,” she said, meeting his eyes. He and his shady shades continued to stare at her. “Fine,” she said, squeezing the words out between her lips.

  He could tell she was starting to flag at eleven. Her legs were wobbly, more so than earlier and that was saying something, shaking in that way they did when one was tired, so he walked over and stood beside her. “Eleven,” he said, and she jumped, surprised again, he guessed, but she perked up.

  “Twelve,” they said together.

  “Thirteen,” she said alone and went back to wobbling. He continued to stand beside her until she finished, and the word “twenty,” passed through her lips.

  “So here is the deal, Jones, for you to take or leave. If you don’t want to become my demonstration dummy—the person I call on to illustrate what ever drill I need illustrating—I suggest you do what we ask and stop dragging your feet.”

  “I wasn’t… intentionally dragging… my feet… or any… other part… of my… body,” she said, sarcastic in tone when she could get a word in between breaths of air and trying to stand on legs reduced to jelly. “I’m… just… not… into sports,” she said.

  “Yeah, well, that’s too bad. Your sister asked me to help you and I intend to. She thinks there is some talent somewhere within you,” he said, his hand pointing to her. “Now, I don’t have time to babysit you. So I’ll need you to try. Give me your word that you’ll try your best each and every time you step out on my field.”

  “Just your field?” Memphis asked, pulling forth her most formidable snarky smile to go along with her question. She couldn’t resist it, watching as he smiled in response, if you could call it that. Only one side of his mouth had moved out of its straight line, so maybe it wasn’t a complete smile. “No one should be this serious about sports,” she added.

  “Well, I am this serious about sports. So what are you going to do, Jones?”

  “I give you my word.”

  “And what words would those be?”

  “I’ll try,” she said, rolling her eyes.

  “Good. We are running forties next,” he said, pointing toward the end zone again, where the boys were lined up in three rows. The three coaches were standing near the forty-yard line, with what must be stopwatches in their hand, waiting for them. Z waited until her eyes met his again.

  She twisted her lips. Bit the bottom one, to hold in the smart remarks she wanted to make. He was not going to get the best of her.

  “Cool,” she said and smiled, feeling anything but.

  “Yep,” he said before he walked away and over to the front of the line, while she made her way to the end of one.

  TWO

  Memphis watched the goings on from the last place in line number three, as Coach Z, the ready-set-go guy, blew his whistle and the first boys from each of the three lines took off, running as fast as they could toward the coaches at the finish line, who stood ready to mark their times.

  “Hi, I’m Gabriel, but you can call me Gabe. All my friends do,” the kid beside her said, the last of his line to go, interrupting Memphis’s study of Coach Z. Gabe stood to her right, in line number two. He was a tall kid, one of the tallest ones out here, matching up to her five-ten height. The boys’ heights were all over the place but most of them came to about her chest, hadn’t gone through puberty yet. Sandy would have been a better name for Gabe, with his short blond buzzcut and his sun-touched skin.

  “Memphis,” she said.

  “Is this your first time playing football?”

  “Yes. You?”

  “Yep, I play baseball mostly. My dad thinks it’s good idea to cross-train.”

  “Right,” Memphis said. Whatever that meant. She smiled. “Well, nice to meet you, Gabe.”

  “Nice to meet you too, Ms. Memphis,” Gabe said, extending his fist out to her.

  “It’s just Memphis,” she said, touching her fist to his.

  Ten minutes later she’d moved up to the front of her line, with Gabe standing to her right in line two and a shorter African American kid to Gabe’s right, the last of line number one. They were not in competition with each other, only with themselves and the clock, as she’d learned from Coach Z and his instructions before this running deal started.

  She took a deep breath, to calm herself, and looked up to find his gaze turned in her direction.

  “Relax and run as fast as you can,” Coach Z said.

  No pressure there, Memphis thought, staring back at him.

  “Yes, sir,” Gabe said.

  “Yes, sir,” the African-American kid in line one said.

  “Yes, sir,” she said. It’s what all of the boys said in response to whatever coach was talking at the time and she’d taken to responding in the same manner to all except Coach Z. For him she added just a hint of derision. If he was bothered by it, he hadn’t let on.

  She turned her thoughts inward then, where they had to be if she had any chance of doing what he’d asked. It took plenty internal preparation on her part to get her body to cooperate in any athletic venture, which is why she steered clear of sports in the first place. She wiped her brow, where beads of sweat had popped up. “You can do this, Memphis,” she whispered to herself. Exercise is a good thing and you are not that girl anymore. You’re the number one insurance salesperson, in control and kicking ass. I know you know this, just as I know you can do this. Now, take a deep breath, yep, that’s good, in and out, yes, good, deep breaths, in and out. That’s it. Good, now let’s shake out those arms. She did; shook them by her side, one by one. See, this exercising is great, the best and it’s about time you tried it. Relax those legs and let’s shake the
m out now, yep, one at a time, you got this. Following her internal instructions, she kicked out her right leg and then her left, something she’d seen her sister do countless times before the start of a race.

  “Set. Go,” Z shouted, startling her, interrupting her self-talk and internal build-up, and way before she was ready. She felt a surge in panic energy shoot through her veins. I’m not ready she wanted to say, but she took off anyway, a reaction to “go” more than it was a plan to run, and well before she was mentally prepared and thus the explanation of how her feet became tangled at the start and before she knew it, the track was rising up to meet her. She landed on her knees first, and then her face, and dang that hurt, her final thoughts on the subject.

  Some of the boys started to snicker, but it stopped before it had a chance to start good. She looked up to find Coach Z, his face stern, and those glasses directed at the boys, the explanation for the truncated laughter she guessed. Nothing but silence followed.

  “Jones? You okay?” he said, moving swiftly and quietly towards her, his expression one of concern as he squatted down beside her. It was not her best look.

  “Yep, just tripped, sometimes that happens,” she said, chuckling, accepting his outstretched hand to help her stand.

  “Let’s try it again, then,” he said, still watching her.

  “Right,” she said, stretching out her fingers.

  “Relax,” he said, those reflector-covered eyes staring back at her.

  She ran her hand over her hair, pretending to primp, using his glasses as a mirror, before she smiled and then laughed. This laughing at herself was an old habit, a cover for past failures. She took the few steps back to the starting line for her second attempt.

  “Runners. Set. Go,” Z said, back in the starter’s position. He was speaking to her only. Gabe and the other kid had continued their run and were done now, standing, watching her along with everyone else.

  She took off again, nerves and all, slowly and wobbling a bit at the start, but managing to remain on her feet, determination and purpose taking over, and crowding out the I can’t in her brain. She was running as hard as she could by the end.