Heather 101, Page 2

  The game started. I walked up and down the field yelling out orders to my team.

  “What’s his problem?” one woman asked her neighbor as I walked by.

  Katie was the most polite player on the field. If someone else from the other team wanted the ball, she’d get out of their way.

  After a few minutes I’d had it with her. I yelled to her, “Katie, what are you doing? You’re playing like a girl out there!”

  She stopped to look at me, which allowed the other team to score.

  “I am a girl!” she yelled.

  “I know, but you don’t need to play like one, do you? Go after the ball! And if you kick a few shins in the process, that’s okay. It’s just part of the game.”

  Suddenly Katie’s mom was in my face. “Excuse me! Did you just tell my daughter not to play like a girl?”

  “No, of course not. I would never do that.”

  “Don’t give me that! We all heard what you said. My question is—what did you mean by it?”

  “Katie’s too polite out there.”

  “Are you saying that you don’t think girls can be aggressive?”

  “Well, no, of course not. Girls can be very aggressive. Some of the most aggressive people I’ve ever known have been women, and they obviously once were girls. But I don’t want to name names here.”

  Katie’s mom was joined by another mom, equally as aggressive. “What were you thinking, yelling that out to our girls? If you want to have any girls on this team, I suggest you quit saying things like that. We’re not above taking them all home right now, are we?”

  Several mothers nodded.

  “I want my players proactive,” I said. “Like you two. Way to go. If you both lost a few pounds you’d be great soccer players. And I mean that sincerely.”

  Their husbands started laughing until their wives turned around and glared at them.

  I yelled to my team. “Girls, play like your moms if they were playing soccer, okay? Get in people’s faces like they do!”

  Katie’s mom was still in my face. “For your information, I played four years varsity in high school and two years in college. In fact, that jacket you’re wearing—did you get it at the D.I.?”

  “Maybe.”

  “That’s my jacket! I donated it about a week ago. Did you know that TWU is Texas Women’s University?”

  I blushed and took off the jacket.

  “He’s wearing a soccer jacket from a woman’s university!” Katie’s mom yelled to anyone within a half-mile radius. They all laughed. Even the people watching another game laughed.

  “You’re a complete disaster as a coach!” Katie’s mom raged.

  “Maybe so, but I’m still the coach! Sit down and be quiet.”

  A few minutes later we were losing four to nothing.

  At halftime I gave a pep talk. “Guys . . . and of course, when I say ‘guys,’ I also mean girls, we’ve got to be more aggressive. We’re losing by four goals!”

  One of the mothers heard that and came over to talk to me.

  “What now?” I asked.

  “We don’t keep score for these games. That’s in the rules.”

  “Why play a game if you don’t keep score?” I asked.

  “Do you want me to show you the rules?”

  “No, I want you to sit down and let me coach.”

  “My husband isn’t here today but I guarantee he’ll be here next game.”

  “I hope so. We need more men here. They’d understand what I’m trying to do here.”

  Another mom came up to complain. “Excuse me. My son Brian hasn’t played yet.”

  “I’ll put him in when we’re ahead.”

  “Don’t think I haven’t noticed that your son has played the entire game so far.”

  “Kevin is the key to our offense.”

  “We were told that all the kids on the team would get to play every game.”

  “That’s right.”

  “When will that be for my son?”

  “Soon. Very soon.”

  She shook her head and walked off muttering.

  “Katie!” I yelled. “You don’t have to say ‘excuse me’ when you take the ball away from a player on the other team, okay?”

  She and another girl on our team stopped playing and looked at me, giving the other team another easy score.

  “You guys . . . oh, and also girls! It’s five to zero now. Please make at least one point, okay? Try to be the other team’s worst nightmare!”

  One of the boys stopped playing and came over to me. “I have nightmares sometimes.”

  “We all do, Billy. Be a nightmare to somebody on the other team.”

  Billy ran over and lifted up both hands and started walking toward another player like he was Frankenstein.

  “Not that kind of nightmare, Billy!”

  Too late. The other team scored.

  Just then Heather was standing next to me. “How’s it going? You having a good time?”

  “No.”

  She leaned into me and whispered, “If you want, I can get you out of this.”

  “How?”

  “Your boss just called. There’s been an emergency at the office. He needs you right away.”

  “If I leave, who will coach the team?”

  She shrugged her shoulders. “I could do that.”

  “You don’t know anything about soccer.”

  “I know about kids though. To me, that’s what this is about.”

  I reached for my cell phone. “I’ll just call Dave and see what he wants.”

  “Truth is, I made up the part about Dave calling. You’ve got to get out of here before the moms and the dads from both teams come over and beat you up.”

  “You lied to me?”

  “It was for your own good. If you ever become an NFL coach, you can treat your players the way you want, but until that time you’ve got to quit making them feel bad.”

  “I just want to win, that’s all. Is that so bad?”

  “It is when your players feel that whatever they do is wrong. Hand over the clipboard.”

  “I’m that bad?”

  “Look at the other coach. If one of her players gets within five feet of the ball, she’s telling them, ‘Good job!’ That’s what kids this age need from a coach.”

  I felt like a failure. Usually that only makes me want to try harder.

  Heather touched my hand. “Please, just trust me on this, okay?”

  I nodded, sighed, and handed her the clipboard.

  As I started off the field, I heard Heather announce, “My husband just got a call from his boss. There’s been an emergency at the office and he has to go back to work. I’ll be taking over for the rest of the game.”

  The mothers cheered.

  An hour later, Heather and Kevin came home. Kevin burst into my office and shouted, “We only lost by two points!”

  “What was the final score?”

  He looked around to make sure Heather wouldn’t hear us. “Eight to six.”

  “You guys made six goals? That’s amazing! Good job! I’m so proud of you!”

  Kevin beamed. Which taught me an important lesson. It’s not always about winning. Sometimes it’s about not losing too badly.

  I went into the kitchen. “What did you do to turn it around?” I asked Heather.

  “I told them that if they played their hardest, I’d buy them all ice cream cones after the game.”

  “That’s all it took?”

  “Yeah.”

  “Way to go, Coach.”

  “How are you doing?” she asked.

  “Okay. At first I was moping about being a complete failure but then I decided it’s not that I was a bad coach. It was just that I was in the wrong league. Where I need to be is at the college level.”

  Heather paused. “The college level?”

  “So I was thinking—if I go back to college and pick a major that would end up with me being a coach, who knows what could happen?”

&nbs
p; “Go on.”

  “Well, in three or four years I could be an assistant coach in a small college. And who knows where that could end up.”

  “Is that what you really want?”

  When I looked into her eyes, I realized that if I said that’s what I wanted, she’d go along with the idea. Why would she do that? I’m not sure. That’s just the way she is. It made me realize how lucky I am to be married to her.

  I sighed. “No, not really.”

  “If it’s not coaching, what do you want to do?” she asked.

  I sighed. “Sometimes I’d just like to be good at something.”

  “Are you kidding? You’re amazing in so many areas of life. I mean, who got an award at work last month? Who always goes home teaching the first week of the month? Who makes sure we have family home evening every week? And who kills all the spiders that come into the house? I’m just getting started. I could go on and on.”

  I reached out and took her into my arms.

  “Thank you,” I said.

  “For what?”

  “For being so good to me,” I said.

  I helped her prepare dinner, which means she’s the boss and I do what she says. She knows that’s not easy for me to do, which makes her appreciate it even more.

  That night after we got the kids in bed, we went in the kitchen and had ice cream and talked.

  After we’d finished cleaning up, she came closer to me and said in a husky voice, “You can be my coach anytime.”

  I got a silly grin on my face. “You must think that will work every time, don’t you?”

  She whispered in my ear. “Actually, I do . . . Coach.”

  “Let me see you do twenty-five pushups first.”

  “You’re so funny sometimes,” she said as she left to get ready for bed.

  Actually, I was serious about the pushups. But I decided to let it go this time.

  Chapter Three

  Communication Boot Camp

  First of all, it wasn’t my fault.

  In the past, Heather had always reminded me when her birthday was coming. On her last birthday, for some reason, she forgot.

  To make matters worse, on her birthday Dave asked me if I’d stay after work and help him with some quarterly reports.

  I called Heather and told her I’d be late because my boss needed me.

  She seemed disappointed. “How long will you be?”

  “Just an hour.”

  Long pause. “Well . . .” She sighed. “Do what you have to do, then.”

  By the time I got home, it was half past seven. As I walked in the door, she glared at me. “Do you happen to know what day this is?” she asked.

  “Are you kidding? Of course I do! Let me go get your gift. I hid it so you couldn’t find it.”

  I hurried to the garage. Because I’d missed other important dates in the past, I’d stashed some gifts in the garage that would work for any occasion.

  In the garage, I glanced at an old notebook where I’d written down all of Heather’s important dates. Today was her birthday.

  I pulled down the backup present bin and opened the lid. There weren’t any presents, only a stack of special occasion cards. I must have used the last one on our anniversary.

  To make matters worse, when I shuffled through the cards, I found that I’d used my last birthday card. I did find a Mother’s Day card.

  I decided I could make it work. I altered it to read, “Happy Mother’s BirthDay!”

  Now the only thing missing was a gift. I found a new socket wrench set I’d bought on sale a few weeks earlier, still unopened.

  To make it seem more personal, I scrawled inside the card: “To the one who can always loosen me up. Happy Mother’s BirthDay!”

  A minute later I gave her the card and the socket set.

  She opened the card, read it, shook her head, and then picked up the set of socket wrenches, sighed, and said softly, “Is this the best you could do?”

  “No, not really, but you know, Dave . . .”

  “Dave did not make you forget my birthday!” She threw the wrenches in the garbage. “Your food is in the fridge! I’m taking the kids out for ice cream and cake.” She glared at me and left with the kids.

  I sat in front of the TV, ate my dinner, and watched the end of a Yankees game. The Yankees won in the tenth inning by a score of 9–8.

  When Heather and the kids returned home, the kids seemed happy. “Mommy took us for dessert!” Benjamin told me. “We got cake and ice cream. All the people who worked there sang ‘Happy Birthday’ to Mommy!”

  “Great!”

  Heather glared at me. “Kids, Daddy and I are going to take a walk. I need you all to get ready for bed. We’re just going to walk around the block. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”

  For the first block she didn’t say anything. And then she shook her head. “I can’t believe you forgot my birthday again.”

  “I gave you a present and a card, didn’t I?”

  “You call a bunch of stupid wrenches a birthday gift?”

  “They’re metric.”

  “You think I care?”

  “If you didn’t like my choice of a gift, I truly apologize. Some women would appreciate a nice set of metric wrenches.”

  “What am I to you, anyway?”

  “I said I was sorry, didn’t I? What more do you want me to do?”

  “Sometimes I feel like I’m at the bottom of your list.”

  “Okay, look, I hurt your feelings. I already said I’m sorry. How many times do you want me to say it? I’m sorry. I’m sorry. I’m sorry. There, you happy now? Are you going to keep throwing this in my face like you do everything else I’ve done wrong since we got married?”

  She glared at me, turned, and quickly headed back home.

  I tried to catch up to her.

  She turned around. “I don’t want you around me right now!”

  “This is a public sidewalk. I have rights, you know.”

  “Walk behind me then!”

  “Do you have to make a big scene in front of all our neighbors?” I asked.

  She turned around. “You want me to show you what a big scene really looks like?”

  I got the hint and kept my distance.

  At my cousin Cody’s place she walked up and rang the doorbell. I figured she was going to complain to them about me, so I kept walking.

  At home I got the kids ready for bed.

  Heather came in at half past ten. “Guess which one of us is going to sleep on the couch?”

  “Me?”

  “Good guess.”

  I didn’t sleep very well that night. I wondered how long Heather was going to make me suffer for a simple mistake.

  The next day, when I got home from work, she said, “We need to weed the garden now.”

  “Kids, Mom and I are going to weed the garden! Who wants to help?” I called out. It was the only way we’d get any privacy.

  The kids were suddenly very interested in something on the other side of the house.

  And so we began weeding.

  “Amanda and I had a good talk last night,” she said.

  “That’s good.”

  “She has some of the same issues with Cody that I have with you.”

  “Oh.”

  “We tried to figure out how to let you both know what we need from you. You both seem so clueless.”

  “Do you want me to apologize again? Because I can do that.”

  She shook her head. “As Amanda and I were talking, we realized the only big change we’ve seen in you and Cody was when Chief Dietician Jones showed you what to do for Mother’s Day.” She paused. “So, this afternoon, we both went down and talked to her at the county jail. We asked her to help us, and she agreed. So on Saturday, the four of us are going to meet with her in the jail kitchen.”

  “Are you out of your mind? You don’t know this woman like I do! This is such a bad idea!”

  “Amanda and I each wrote her a check for fifty dol
lars for her time.”

  “We can’t afford that!”

  “Maybe you could take it from the money you should have spent on my birthday,” she shot back.

  “Look, I do not want to meet with that woman again!”

  “Well, that’s too bad, because that’s what’s going to happen. Get used to the idea.”

  “I need to talk to Cody.”

  She shrugged. “So? Who’s stopping you? Go talk to him.”

  I hurried over to Cody’s house. He opened the door, saw me, and slammed it in my face.

  “We need to talk!” I yelled through the door.

  Amanda answered the door.

  “I need to talk to Cody,” I said.

  “Cody, come out and talk to Jason.”

  “No, tell him to go away!”

  “He’s your cousin. Talk to him.”

  Cody came to the door. “What is wrong with you? Why do you manage to get me dragged into it every time you mess up with Heather?”

  “Sorry.”

  “Sorry? That’s it?”

  “It’s not my fault.”

  “Well, whose fault do you think it is? You think I want to be around Chief Dietician Jones again?”

  “Maybe she’ll act better with Heather and Amanda there with us.”

  “Or maybe the three of them will gang up on us,” he said. “That’s way more likely.”

  “I don’t see we have much of a choice, do you?” I asked him.

  “You know what? From now on find someone else to golf with!” He slammed the door in my face again.

  On Saturday, a deputy led the four of us to the kitchen at the county jail.

  After about five minutes, Chief Dietician Jones entered carrying a yardstick in her hand. She greeted Heather and Amanda warmly, and then she asked Cody and me, “How are you two clowns doing?”

  “Okay,” I said.

  She slammed the yardstick on the counter. “You are not doing okay! If you were, you wouldn’t be here. Isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said.

  She slammed the yardstick on the counter again. “You will address me as Chief Dietician Jones. Is that clear?”

  “Yes, sir! I mean yes, Chief Dietician Jones!” I yelled back.

  “Fine, then let us proceed. You two, stand at attention!”

  We snapped to attention.

  She pulled up two stools for Heather and Amanda, went to the oven, and pulled out a pan of hot muffins. She put a muffin on each of two plates, placed a pat of butter and some homemade jam on each plate, set the plate in front of Heather and Amanda, and then poured them some hot chocolate.