stood. Helmet in hand, he slowly made his way down the line collecting bills and small change. As Gator counted his loot by the fence, the men gathered around, jabbing the air with their fingers. Coaching.
“I tell the kids one thing, and these guys tell ’em another,” Hester said. “Somebody’s always in their ear. Come game time, they can’t remember nothin.”
Subversion had infected his own coaching staff, which he’d been forced to purge. Over the past two seasons he’d fired two assistants who were reversing play calls, thwarting his control, going above the program. One had even screamed at the boys after the loss to Cocoa, calling them quitters.
“Some of those guys didn’t see it like I did,” he said, “like a high school game. It was too big to them and I had to let them go.”
The coaches had been former Bobcats and Raiders, men who’d been part of the program for decades. Their dismissal had caused a backlash among many fans, due partly to the men Hester hired to replace them. Out of his twelve assistant coaches, four had never worn the maroon and gold. Even worse, one was from Connecticut. In fact, the only person to carryover from Snead’s staff was assistant head coach Sam King, who’d overseen special teams for Glade Central for thirty-one years. Nobody fired Sam, especially someone as superstitious as Jet. Sam King
was
the Raiders. The man came with the field.
As for the other coaches, Hester felt the Raiders needed more than just hard-nosed football guys. Given the kinds of problems affecting his team, what the kids needed most of all were mentors.
“The coaches I chose are guys who worked well with kids, guys who kids would respond to,” Hester said. “You want people who are there for the right reasons.”
Kids responded to defensive line coach Sherman Adams, the interloper from Hartford, especially when he’d load his SUV with linemen after practice and spring for fried chicken. Sherm stood six foot seven and worked for Geek Squad in West Palm Beach installing televisions. Despite Sherm’s Yankee roots, Hester and the others had accepted him as a born-again muckstepper. He even spoke of “sprinkling some of that in your food” for strength and magic. Until Sherm started eating muck, he said, he and his wife had been unable to have children. “Now we got a beautiful baby girl. There’s power in this ground.”
During summers, the boys pumped iron with strength coach JD Patrick, who was another assistant who’d never been a Raider. In fact, JD had been so small in high school that his nickname was “Squeaky.” A sharp mind for numbers and electronics had later served him well in the army, where he’d worked at Fort Bliss preparing the Hawk missile for deployment. Once out, he’d gotten through a nasty divorce by embracing weightlifting, which added bulk and kept him lean and strong in his later years. He was now a youthful man of fifty-five, with a new wife and a two-year-old daughter at home. And despite a bald patch on top, JD let his salt-and-pepper hair grow long in back, almost to his shoulders. Aside from coaching, he worked as Belle Glade’s director of parks and recreation. His office was inside the community recreational center off MLK Boulevard where the team did their summer workouts.
The kids responded to Randy Williams, the running backs coach. He’d played on the fabled Raider teams of the mid 1990s that had produced so many pros. After graduation, he ran the football on a scholarship at Savannah State before a broken ankle and tibia ended his career. He now worked as an officer at Glades Correctional Institution, transporting inmates to trials and appointments. At school he spoke the kids’ language and often dished hard advice to any potential “danks and jitterbugs” who’d show up bleary-eyed and loiter on the sidelines.
“Stop being a dank,” he would tell them.
But out of Hester’s coaches, Greg Moreland was the most beloved. He was two
“I tell the kids one thing, and these guys tell ’em another,” Hester said. “Somebody’s always in their ear. Come game time, they can’t remember nothin.”
Subversion had infected his own coaching staff, which he’d been forced to purge. Over the past two seasons he’d fired two assistants who were reversing play calls, thwarting his control, going above the program. One had even screamed at the boys after the loss to Cocoa, calling them quitters.
“Some of those guys didn’t see it like I did,” he said, “like a high school game. It was too big to them and I had to let them go.”
The coaches had been former Bobcats and Raiders, men who’d been part of the program for decades. Their dismissal had caused a backlash among many fans, due partly to the men Hester hired to replace them. Out of his twelve assistant coaches, four had never worn the maroon and gold. Even worse, one was from Connecticut. In fact, the only person to carryover from Snead’s staff was assistant head coach Sam King, who’d overseen special teams for Glade Central for thirty-one years. Nobody fired Sam, especially someone as superstitious as Jet. Sam King
was
the Raiders. The man came with the field.
As for the other coaches, Hester felt the Raiders needed more than just hard-nosed football guys. Given the kinds of problems affecting his team, what the kids needed most of all were mentors.
“The coaches I chose are guys who worked well with kids, guys who kids would respond to,” Hester said. “You want people who are there for the right reasons.”
Kids responded to defensive line coach Sherman Adams, the interloper from Hartford, especially when he’d load his SUV with linemen after practice and spring for fried chicken. Sherm stood six foot seven and worked for Geek Squad in West Palm Beach installing televisions. Despite Sherm’s Yankee roots, Hester and the others had accepted him as a born-again muckstepper. He even spoke of “sprinkling some of that in your food” for strength and magic. Until Sherm started eating muck, he said, he and his wife had been unable to have children. “Now we got a beautiful baby girl. There’s power in this ground.”
During summers, the boys pumped iron with strength coach JD Patrick, who was another assistant who’d never been a Raider. In fact, JD had been so small in high school that his nickname was “Squeaky.” A sharp mind for numbers and electronics had later served him well in the army, where he’d worked at Fort Bliss preparing the Hawk missile for deployment. Once out, he’d gotten through a nasty divorce by embracing weightlifting, which added bulk and kept him lean and strong in his later years. He was now a youthful man of fifty-five, with a new wife and a two-year-old daughter at home. And despite a bald patch on top, JD let his salt-and-pepper hair grow long in back, almost to his shoulders. Aside from coaching, he worked as Belle Glade’s director of parks and recreation. His office was inside the community recreational center off MLK Boulevard where the team did their summer workouts.
The kids responded to Randy Williams, the running backs coach. He’d played on the fabled Raider teams of the mid 1990s that had produced so many pros. After graduation, he ran the football on a scholarship at Savannah State before a broken ankle and tibia ended his career. He now worked as an officer at Glades Correctional Institution, transporting inmates to trials and appointments. At school he spoke the kids’ language and often dished hard advice to any potential “danks and jitterbugs” who’d show up bleary-eyed and loiter on the sidelines.
“Stop being a dank,” he would tell them.
But out of Hester’s coaches, Greg Moreland was the most beloved. He was two
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