thrived in the captivity of Culpepper Junior/Senior High. I had rebelled and complained and limped my way through the minefields of popularity, academic achievements, and athletic accomplishment. None of those had I any actual personal experience with. At least, not until senior year when I briefly dated Mr. Popularity and temporarily rose out of the middle of the pack only to be brutally slapped back down.
“It’s just for the semester until they can find a permanent replacement. You’d basically be a long-term substitute. The state has emergency contingencies in the case of open teaching positions since they started slashing pay and closing programs. There’s a shortage, you know.”
Before she could launch into her “sorry state of affairs in education” speech, I held up a hand. “I don’t understand. How did Principal Eccles even know I was home?”
“Oh, I have a weekly lunch date with some of my school friends.”
“And you told them I was moving home?”
Mom nodded cheerfully. Great. So all of Culpepper was now aware that the girl permanently banned from Culpepper Homecoming festivities was back, single, and broke.
“I really don’t know anything about gym class or coaching,” I reminded her.
“You can learn anything you put your mind to,” my mother insisted.
“Let’s go out and kick the ball around,” Dad chimed in. “You can talk it through with me and wake up some muscle memory.” He bounced off the bed and clapped his hands in anticipation.
With great reluctance, I dragged myself away from the safety of my mattress. I could always say no. I could just hunker down, lick my wounds, and start applying for jobs anywhere but here. I could do that.
“I hope you don’t mind, but I told them you’d take the job,” Mom said brightly.
2
Marley
While Dad be-bopped into the backyard shed—a dusty, spider-filled museum to my childhood—looking for a soccer ball, I sat on the porch steps and dragged on my sneakers.
It was hot. Pennsylvania mid-August humidity hot. The air was thick enough that it felt like sitting in a bland, nostalgic stew. The fence needed a new coat of paint, but the same trees that I’d climbed and fallen out of as a kid were still there. The same garden beds were still neglected as they had been since Mom’s 1988 homegrown everything experiment. The red brick patio that I’d scraped my knees open on more times than I could count still cut a jagged swath through the green sod.
Stepping into the backyard was like traveling back in time to when I was eight. Except I was thirty years older. My dreams were dead. And I didn’t even own cleats or shin guards anymore. Did coaches need those? Or did they just stand on the sideline yelling as mine had? Were the rules the same? Or had the game evolved into something different with the viral popularity of Abby Wambach and David Beckham?
There was no way I could do this.
“Heads up!” The ball landed with a definitive thud in front of me. It didn’t bounce. “Guess it needs a little air,” Dad noted, jogging toward me with a bicycle pump in one hand.
He was wearing cycling shorts, leftovers from his three-month spin class obsession. He’d had trouble settling on a new hobby since retirement.
“What?” he asked as he pumped.
“I can’t get used to your mustache.”
He patted the furry caterpillar under his lip with pride. It was another post-retirement hobby: facial hair growing. “Think I’m going to try a goatee next.”
“Can’t wait.”
He gave the ball a poke. “Nice and firm.”
I tried not to watch him handle the ball while he said that. Dad had an uncanny knack for saying inappropriate things without ever trying.
“I seem to recall you were quite adept at juggling balls in high school, snack cake,” he said cheekily. “Let’s see if you still remember how.”
“Jesus, Dad. Listen to yourself.” But he was already scampering to the back of the yard.
We kicked the ball and the idea of me being a temporary teacher and coach around.
“What if my team loses every game?” I asked.
“They won one game last season, and that was because the other team’s bus got stuck in the traffic when the cattle escaped the auction. It was a forfeit. I don’t think the district is looking for a winning season.”
“But where do I even begin? Practice starts in two days.”
Dad shrugged and kicked at the ball like he was a puppet with wooden joints. His athletic experience had been deferred in favor of the AV Club during his high school