years older than Hester, with a shiny bald dome and a sculpted goatee that he kept dyed jet black. His job as a counselor at a youth mental-health facility in Jupiter had given him an easy, natural rapport with players, many of whom he’d given nicknames such as “Standstill,” “Little Hands,” and “Muscle Mutt.”
His own nickname was “Q,” which was short for “GQ,” which he’d earned after spending some time once as a male model. For a football coach, Q had personal style to spare, from the fifty-six pairs of shoes in his closet to the white convertible Sebring he drove to practice with late-seventies-era Isley Brothers playing softly in the deck.
What kids loved most was Coach Q’s bawdy humor, which was irresistible. On a road game later that season, he would leave the team weeping with laughter after complimenting a woman on her eyes, then asking, “If God forbid anything ever happened to you, could I take them things out and keep ’em in a pickle jar?”
His conquests in the bedroom were also public information. “I’m taking my Cialis early,” he announced once at the end of practice. “I told my wife to get ready, ’cause tonight I’m puttin on the cape and jumpin off the dresser.”
Another time he confided, “Cats and midgets terrify me.”
• • •
AS PRACTICE GOT under way, the coaches busied themselves dragging bags of footballs and water, reading excuse notes from doctors and mothers, organizing warm-ups—squats and high knees, lunges and jumping jacks. They downloaded football apps on each other’s phones. They ate candy.
Coach Q and a few others stood around Greg Hall, the heavyset receivers coach whom they called Minute. Hall was one of Hester’s oldest friends and now worked as a sheriff’s deputy. He also struggled with diabetes.
“Minute don’t carry a gun ’cause they know he got the sugar,” Q said. “When they send Minute out, all they give him is a flashlight and a roll of quarters.”
He straightened his face, all serious. “They know he could go at any time.”
Hester, behind dark sunglasses, paid no attention. He was busy watching his young squad slowly trickle onto the field while trying to ignore the newspaper article he held in his hand. Mario was already loosening up. Robert Way and Davonte Allen were getting dressed. But there was no sign of Benjamin. In fact, half the team was already late.
“Let’s go,” he said. “You jitterbugs done wasted enough time.”
“Hey, Coach Hester,” one player yelled. “You seen us in the papers?”
The coach just scowled.
After the team gathered for prayer and fell into laps around the field, Hester finally looked down at the
USA Today
cinched under his clipboard. The paper’s preseason Top 25 poll listed Glades Central at number twenty-one in the nation.
Hester hated national rankings. The way he saw it, of all the outside forces working against him and his coaches, a national ranking only gave them footing. Rankings were a distraction that built false hope and ratcheted expectations. They also gave life to a growing sense of entitlement that many believed had infected the program for years.
As far as expectations, the Raiders’ dominating performance at the seven-on-seven in Tallahassee had certainly fed the community’s hopes ofanother title run. Several weeks later in Tampa, the NFL had hosted its annual seven-on-seven with elite teams from all over the country. Already the reigning champions, the Raiders clinched the title again.
But these tournaments were deceiving because they were merely a showcase for the flyboys who came a dime a dozen in the Glades. They provided no window into the health of the team’s interior core, which was the offensive and defensive lines. And like rankings, they told you little about the character and chemistry of the squad.
Standing at practice, Hester looked out at the group of kids crowned one of the best teams in the nation. As much as he loathed
His own nickname was “Q,” which was short for “GQ,” which he’d earned after spending some time once as a male model. For a football coach, Q had personal style to spare, from the fifty-six pairs of shoes in his closet to the white convertible Sebring he drove to practice with late-seventies-era Isley Brothers playing softly in the deck.
What kids loved most was Coach Q’s bawdy humor, which was irresistible. On a road game later that season, he would leave the team weeping with laughter after complimenting a woman on her eyes, then asking, “If God forbid anything ever happened to you, could I take them things out and keep ’em in a pickle jar?”
His conquests in the bedroom were also public information. “I’m taking my Cialis early,” he announced once at the end of practice. “I told my wife to get ready, ’cause tonight I’m puttin on the cape and jumpin off the dresser.”
Another time he confided, “Cats and midgets terrify me.”
• • •
AS PRACTICE GOT under way, the coaches busied themselves dragging bags of footballs and water, reading excuse notes from doctors and mothers, organizing warm-ups—squats and high knees, lunges and jumping jacks. They downloaded football apps on each other’s phones. They ate candy.
Coach Q and a few others stood around Greg Hall, the heavyset receivers coach whom they called Minute. Hall was one of Hester’s oldest friends and now worked as a sheriff’s deputy. He also struggled with diabetes.
“Minute don’t carry a gun ’cause they know he got the sugar,” Q said. “When they send Minute out, all they give him is a flashlight and a roll of quarters.”
He straightened his face, all serious. “They know he could go at any time.”
Hester, behind dark sunglasses, paid no attention. He was busy watching his young squad slowly trickle onto the field while trying to ignore the newspaper article he held in his hand. Mario was already loosening up. Robert Way and Davonte Allen were getting dressed. But there was no sign of Benjamin. In fact, half the team was already late.
“Let’s go,” he said. “You jitterbugs done wasted enough time.”
“Hey, Coach Hester,” one player yelled. “You seen us in the papers?”
The coach just scowled.
After the team gathered for prayer and fell into laps around the field, Hester finally looked down at the
USA Today
cinched under his clipboard. The paper’s preseason Top 25 poll listed Glades Central at number twenty-one in the nation.
Hester hated national rankings. The way he saw it, of all the outside forces working against him and his coaches, a national ranking only gave them footing. Rankings were a distraction that built false hope and ratcheted expectations. They also gave life to a growing sense of entitlement that many believed had infected the program for years.
As far as expectations, the Raiders’ dominating performance at the seven-on-seven in Tallahassee had certainly fed the community’s hopes ofanother title run. Several weeks later in Tampa, the NFL had hosted its annual seven-on-seven with elite teams from all over the country. Already the reigning champions, the Raiders clinched the title again.
But these tournaments were deceiving because they were merely a showcase for the flyboys who came a dime a dozen in the Glades. They provided no window into the health of the team’s interior core, which was the offensive and defensive lines. And like rankings, they told you little about the character and chemistry of the squad.
Standing at practice, Hester looked out at the group of kids crowned one of the best teams in the nation. As much as he loathed
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