Storm on the Field

THE FURORover Harold’s email still hadn’t died down by the next day.

Oh sure, everybody in the locker room thought it had died down. There were no more questions for morning practice, and slurs hadn’t been tolerated anyway, so that didn’t happen. The coaches, the team, the physical therapist, the equipment managers: everybody went out to the field like it was an ordinary, average day.

And it was. Until about fifteen minutes before practice ended and the field was suddenly filled with reporters, waiting on the sidelines, microphones out, trying to get quotes from the players as they came in for water.

Harold was a pretty good coach—the team went to state and division finals regularly—and he called running formation as soon as he realized what the nicely dressed group of people flooding the sidelines really was.

As the players were gathering, giving the press distrustful glances, Harold signaled the equipment managers to get the water bottles off the field, told Casey and Russell to guard the flanks, and then pointed to Trey before pointing to the press corps.

“Aw, Harold, no!” he tried to protest, but Harold shook his head.

“Buddy, talk about inclusiveness and safe spaces, and tell these people they’re fucking this place up for both things.” Harold stopped and scowled. “But don’t say fuck.”

“I’ve dealt with the press before,” Trey said dryly, and Harold nodded.

“See? Go do the thing. Say the thing. Make me look good.” He gave an overbright grin and held both thumbs up before trotting off with the team, starting a running chant.

I don’t know but I been told—

Those news folks are mighty bold

They’ll talk and talk till they turn blue

Then hope the stuff they quote is true

Sound off….

“Wow,” Trey muttered to Russell as Russ brought up the end.

“One, two,” Russell replied in time to the chant.

“I’ll get you all for this,” Trey said.

“Three, four,” Russell called at him gaily, along with the rest of the team.

“One, two, three, four—I’m screwed!” Trey muttered to himself as he walked up to the press corps. “Hello, ladies and gentlemen,” he called, setting himself up in the middle with the field behind him. “Can I ask what brought on this invasion of our practice space?”

The first reporter to speak was a local girl, curvy and bold, in a bright red trench coat. “We were wondering if you had any comment about Coach Frantz’s schoolwide memo reminding the team that he allows no discrimination or hate speech on his team. Was this addressing a particular incident?”

“Not on this team, no,” Trey said, relieved it was a question he could answer. “He just felt the time had come to make it very clear that his athletes needed to respect all players—and all people—if they’re going to play on the team. So far the athletes have been very positive in response. They want their teammates to feel that the team is a safe space.”

“Have any players come out as a response to the memo?”

Trey snorted. “No. Because people don’t work that way. You can’t just tell people ‘Hey, you’re safe!’ They have to feel safe, and part of that, whether you all like it or not, is the press staying the hell away from their personal lives.”

The reporter grimaced, and Trey could tell she keenly felt the irony.

She frowned, and after fielding a couple of questions from other reporters, she raised her hand one more time. He called on her because she seemed to be thoughtful in a way he hadn’t always seen in the press.

“What advice would you give to a player who was thinking about coming out?”

Trey cocked his head, impressed. “I’d say to come out in your own time, to people you feel safe with,” he said with feeling, remembering the kid the night before. “I’d say remember that no matter what anybody says, nobody has the right to make you feel small about who you are, and your sexuality—and your sex life for that matter—is nobody’s business but yours. If you feel like you need to share it, you deserve to be treated with respect. Don’t settle for anything less. If you feel like nobody but the people close to you deserve to know, then there is nothing shameful about that. And that goes for any athlete of any orientation. Your heart is your heart, not your coach’s, not your team’s. And like all human beings, you need to do with it what makes you happiest.” He grimaced. “And that is pretty much the squishiest thing I’ve ever said about feelings in any situation,” he admitted frankly.

The reporters laughed, and he was able to turn away, satisfied that the matter had been dealt with.

THE MATTERhad not been dealt with.

“Oh my God,” Harold said as Trey came back into the locker room. The guys were all showering and changing and getting ready for class or work or whatever their days held. The coaching office had Russell, Harold, and Casey gathered around the widescreen while Harold wielded the remote control like the wand of a god.

“What?” Trey asked, taking off his ball cap and scrubbing at his hair. He’d take his own shower after the locker room cleared out a little. They all did if they got a chance because they got just as sweaty as the guys when they were running around the field, and much of their work outside the hours of practice involved dealing with the public. Everybody wore sweats, yeah, but the ones with the holes stayed home as pajamas.

“Your little speech!” Harold told him, smiling. “Dude, you’re going to be a hero!”

Russell and Casey were not nearly as enthusiastic.

“Dude,” Russell said. “You’d better hope your private information stays private. There’s going to be hate groups making you their target practice!”

Trey’s eyes popped open. “You guys!” he said. “This cannot possibly be that big. I mean, it’s a college team in Sacramento—how bad could it be?”

“NICE PRESSconference,” Don told him that afternoon as they were setting up. “I told my super liberal daughter you were the one coaching her brother’s team, and now she thinks I’m a hero.”

“Oh Jesus,” Trey muttered. Everybody had seen it. He’d gotten texts from Pete—who asked in all innocence if he could send a copy to Trey’s parents, who hadn’t spoken to him since he’d come out. Trey had sent back an emphatic Please, you asshole, no! and that had been that.

He’d gotten a text from his aunt Nan, who had sent lots of “Good job, honey!” and so had his sister, who had wanted to know if he wanted her to come over after practice in case he needed to talk.

Sorry, Deb, he’d replied. You cannot imagine how much I’m over this.

She’d sent back, LOL—understood. Let me know if you need anything, and remember—I’m coming over next week to make love to your cat.

He’d laughed like he was supposed to, gave thanks for sisters who got him, and then went on to deal with absolutely everybody in his life who had seen the damned video clip.

Everybody except Dewey, who had served him his sandwich and his coffee—which was not tasty, was never tasty, and Trey was going to have to learn not to get his hopes up in that department—with a smile.

And who had then proceeded to charm him for the next ten minutes with more smiles and a story about how his mother had sent him pictures of his nieces dressing their dogs up in their clothes and then letting them run around the yard. The story had been sweet, and Dewey was very entertaining, and the whole lunch had felt like the thing Trey needed to breathe through an otherwise suffocating day.

“Good thing you’re up to the talking to the press thing,” Don said, “’cause I think some of the parents are planning to ambush you after practice tonight.”

Trey straightened abruptly and dropped the cone he’d been placing. “I’m sorry?”

Don grimaced and strode over to Trey’s part of the field. Short and stocky, with graying blond hair and a goatee, Don had a presence—and a reputation as a bulldog of a midfielder.

“Yeah, apparently all the kids went home and said, ‘Corbin’s gay, but the coach is fine with it,’ and then Mike sent out that email, and some of the parents were not fine with it, so instead of emailing you like grown-ups, they’re going to show up on the field for a spectacle.” He shrugged. “This is why I’m an engineer. I don’t have to deal with people.”

Trey gaped at him. “How do you know this?”

“Because they asked me if I wanted to be in on it. I said no, I was fine with how you dealt with it, and I’m not a bigot, and then somebody said I was part of the problem, but whatever. So yeah. You’re gonna have a mob on the field today.”

Trey opened and closed his mouth. “Remember what you said about emailing like a grown-up?”

“Hey, this happened right after school. That’s why I’m giving you the heads-up now.”

Trey shook his head and bent down to pick up the cone. “Look, run the kids through their drills and let me deal with the parents, then. For the record, I hate people. All people. Even you.”

“Fair,” Don said, like he’d expected nothing less. “But you were on the news this morning, so remember, you got hero cred.”

Trey snorted, shook his head, and stalked off to call the club president and tell him what was going down.