"Alright, save the stand-up comedy for later," Coach Miller clapped his hands, his voice booming. "Last ten minutes of practice! We are running laps from the top of the field to the bottom! Go, go, go! Move those legs!"
The boys immediately broke into a synchronized jog.
My competitive gamer spirit suddenly flared up. I wanted to impress the coach and get this over with as fast as possible, so I pushed off the grass hard. I sprinted right to the front of the pack, pumping my arms, determined to show that I wasn't completely useless when it came to raw speed.
For the first minute, I was in first place. The wind was in my hair. I felt like an absolute track star.
Then, minute two hit.
My lungs instantly felt like they were on fire. My heart was hammering against my ribs so violently I thought it might crack them open. The pudgy, soft belly I was carrying suddenly felt like a twenty-pound weight strapped to my waist. My stamina bar had completely drained to zero. I was breathing so heavily I was practically wheezing, and my triumphant sprint rapidly slowed down to a pathetic, dragging walk.
One by one, the other boys easily jogged past me, their breathing steady and completely unfazed.
"Dunphy!" Coach Miller shouted from the sidelines, jogging to keep pace with me. "What are you doing? Don't place your full energy into the very first lap! This isn't a fifty-yard dash! It's an endurance test!"
I bent over, resting my hands heavily on my knees, gasping desperately for air. "But... I wanted to be... first."
"Use your stamina bit by bit!" the coach instructed loudly, pointing at the boys lapping me. "Even if you have to run slowly, you must keep running! Do not stop! In football, the most important thing that matters is stamina. If you get tired too quickly, you become a useless statue on the field. You cannot pass the ball to your teammates if you can't even stand up!"
I closed my eyes, absorbing the advice through the pounding in my ears. My nineteen-year-old brain knew he was absolutely right. I was acting like a total amateur who didn't understand stamina management.
I nodded slowly, forcing myself to stand up straight despite the burning in my thighs. I took a deep, controlled breath—in through the nose, out through the mouth. I started to run again, but this time, I swallowed my pride. I kept my pace to a very slow, manageable jog. I used my energy bit by bit, pacing myself perfectly.
After a few minutes of agonizing effort, I finally found my rhythm. My legs still ached terribly, and I was dead last, trailing far behind the rest of the team, but I was running consistently. I didn't stop to walk again for the rest of the ten minutes.
TWEET! TWEET!
"Bring it in! Practice is over!" Coach Miller yelled, signaling the end of my torture. "Good work today. Go home, stretch those muscles, and I'll see you tomorrow morning."
The boys cheered tiredly and started slowly walking back toward the locker rooms.
I dragged my feet over to the coach, still taking deep, heavy breaths. I wiped the stinging sweat from my eyes and looked up at him.
"Coach..." I panted. "When will we play football? I mean, a real game. A scrimmage."
Coach Miller turned a serious, evaluating gaze toward me. He looked at my sweaty, red face, my completely exhausted posture, and the oversized jersey clinging to my skin.
"I wouldn't let you join a real game right now, Dunphy," he told me bluntly, pulling no punches. "You'd get run over in five seconds. First, you need to build up your physical foundation to play for real, and then you can join the scrimmages. Give yourself a few days of conditioning."
He reached out and slightly punched my soft stomach with his knuckles. "And kid, you need to lose this weight. These fats are heavy to carry around the pitch for ninety minutes."
I winced slightly, looking down at my belly. He's right, I thought, a new determination setting in. The MC six-pack project officially starts today. If I want to be lazy later, I have to work hard now.
Coach Miller's stern expression softened into a small, encouraging grin. "But don't worry. After a few days on my drills, you will be in your best shape. I will make sure of it." He patted my shoulder firmly. "Go hit the showers. You earned it."
I finally gave him a hesitant but genuine smile. "Um... thanks for guiding me, Coach. I will definitely follow your routines. I just want to play and do something useful out here."
The coach laughed heartily, shaking his head. "Go back and rest, kid. Because tomorrow morning, you're going to think you woke up in hell. Goodbye."
"Goodbye, Coach," I sighed, turning around and making the long, painful trek to the locker room.
When I pushed open the heavy metal doors, the cool, air-conditioned air inside felt like absolute heaven. Most of the boys had already changed at lightning speed and gone home. There were only four other guys left, likely my peers or maybe one grade senior, grabbing their bags from the metal benches.
As I walked slowly to my locker, one of them— wearing a pair of expensive headphones around his neck—looked at me with a disapproving, mocking smirk.
"Oh, Luke..." he said, his tone dripping with fake pity. "I really think you should change your mind and quit while you're ahead. This sport cannot be for a boy like you. You spent half the practice falling over your own feet."
Another boy, much shorter but clearly very athletic with defined calf muscles, slammed his locker shut and chimed in. "Yeah, he's right. You were actually really weak on the running today. We lapped you twice. It was sad."
The third boy leaned against the tiled wall, laughing slightly. "Ah, really, boy, you should just go home and drink more milk. Leave the field to the actual athletes."
They stood there, waiting for a reaction. They wanted me to get defensive. They wanted me to get angry, or maybe even cry and run away like a typical frustrated, insecure middle-schooler facing locker room bullying. It was a classic power play.
Instead, I just calmly pulled my sweaty jersey over my head and tossed it into my bag. I ran a hand through my damp, messy blond hair, scratching my head lazily as if I hadn't a care in the world.
I turned to them, leaning my back against my locker, and gave them a completely calm, relaxed, and utterly confident smile.
"Don't worry about me, guys," I told them, my voice smooth and entirely unbothered. "After some days, you guys will be the ones welcoming me to the starting lineup. I will be better."
The locker room went dead silent.
All four of them were completely surprised. They exchanged confused, bewildered glances. The new kid didn't get sad? He didn't throw a tantrum or look traumatized like a child? He just replied with absolute, calm confidence? It completely shattered their bullying momentum. They had no idea how to handle someone who simply refused to be a victim.
After a few seconds of awkward silence, the guy with the headphones laughed, though it sounded incredibly forced and uncomfortable this time.
"Oh, really?" he scoffed, grabbing his duffel bag tightly. "Then we will see, Dunphy. We will see."
They walked out of the locker room in a group, whispering among themselves about how weird and arrogant the new kid was.
Once the locker room was completely empty, I let out a long breath, my confident facade dropping just a bit as my sore muscles screamed at me. I quickly changed back into my comfortable jeans and my gray hoodie. I grabbed my water bottle, chugging half of it for some much-needed refreshment, and picked up my blue backpack.
My legs felt like overcooked noodles, but my mind felt surprisingly clear and focused.
I pushed through the exit doors and walked back out toward the field. The sun was beginning to set, casting long, beautiful golden shadows across the artificial turf.
I walked over to the metal bleachers. I went over to the bottom row, and right where I left her, I spotted her.