the reasons he’d enjoyed EOD, where every mission could prove a challenge. He might not make all the fans in Shelter Bay happy by taking his team to state this first season, but at least he wasn’t going to be bored.
Deciding that he should probably intervene before those fists balled at the two players’ sides began swinging and he ended up with a melee on his hands, he blew his whistle, then walked out onto the court, through the semicircle of kids watching the showdown.
The shirts on the even-numbered players were soaked with perspiration, clinging to their bodies. The other players’ skin glistened with sweat. More sweat rolled down all their faces.
“That’s enough. For what it’s worth, I played high school ball in Texas for a real hard-ass of a coach. On away games we’d go to schools where anyone could tell the players ran the place. We’d bitch about how we’d have to run up and down the bleachers whenever we mouthed off or got in a fight with one of our teammates.
“I don’t think there was a single player on the team who didn’t spend four years believing we’d been dealt a lousy hand to land in such a tough program.
“But later on, when I was downrange, crawling on my belly across a field loaded with land mines, working to keep my focus so I didn’t blow up myself and all the other guys around me while taking apart an IED, I was damn grateful for that discipline Coach Randall hammered into me. . . .
“So here’s the deal. This team is going to be run by the grown-ups. Shelter Bay players don’t trash-talk with opponents, and they don’t disrespect or get in fights with teammates.”
Dillon didn’t raise his voice. Given the fact that very few, if any, people had grown up in families like the Cosbys or the Waltons, it was logical to assume that some of these kids had learned to tune out yelling.
So he kept his tone quiet. Calm. But firm enough to let everyone know that he damn well meant business.
“Shelter Bay players don’t—ever—argue with an official,” he continued. “Try it and you’ll find yourself suspended from the team so fast you’ll think you’ve been shot into hyperspace.
“The Dolphins may not take state, like a lot of people around here keep talking about, but we are going to be a team people look up to. A team admired for our poise on the court and our leadership off the court. Each and every one of you is going to set an example for every student in this school. And for the younger kids, many of whom are your brothers and sisters, who come to the games and dream of someday wearing a Dolphins letterman jacket.
“There will be rules. And I don’t care if you’re Wilt Chamberlain reincarnated—every Dolphin player will be held accountable. And if those rules I just stated are broken, believe me, there will be consequences.”
He waved an arm around the gym. “This isn’t your court. It’s mine.” He jabbed a thumb against his chest to drive his point home. “And on this court, we play by my rules. And the first rule is from Coach Wooden’s handbook—the star of the team is the team. We supersedes me . The Dolphins will be Coach Wooden’s type of team at all times. On the court and off. Anyone who doesn’t think they can get with the program is invited to leave now.”
He paused. Waited. The only sounds were a few squeaks from sneakers’ toes being rubbed onto the polished wood floor. Not a single player said a word. Or moved to take Dillon up on his offer.
“Good.” He nodded his satisfaction. “Now, go shower, change, and come back here and wait. We’re going to have ourselves a little discussion here; then I’ll talk to each of you individually in my office.”
One of the players tentatively raised his hand.
“Travis,” Dillon recognized the small forward.
“Are you choosing the team today?”
“That’s the plan.”
Everyone exchanged looks.
Dillon knew such a quick decision wasn’t always the case, but he knew all but
Deciding that he should probably intervene before those fists balled at the two players’ sides began swinging and he ended up with a melee on his hands, he blew his whistle, then walked out onto the court, through the semicircle of kids watching the showdown.
The shirts on the even-numbered players were soaked with perspiration, clinging to their bodies. The other players’ skin glistened with sweat. More sweat rolled down all their faces.
“That’s enough. For what it’s worth, I played high school ball in Texas for a real hard-ass of a coach. On away games we’d go to schools where anyone could tell the players ran the place. We’d bitch about how we’d have to run up and down the bleachers whenever we mouthed off or got in a fight with one of our teammates.
“I don’t think there was a single player on the team who didn’t spend four years believing we’d been dealt a lousy hand to land in such a tough program.
“But later on, when I was downrange, crawling on my belly across a field loaded with land mines, working to keep my focus so I didn’t blow up myself and all the other guys around me while taking apart an IED, I was damn grateful for that discipline Coach Randall hammered into me. . . .
“So here’s the deal. This team is going to be run by the grown-ups. Shelter Bay players don’t trash-talk with opponents, and they don’t disrespect or get in fights with teammates.”
Dillon didn’t raise his voice. Given the fact that very few, if any, people had grown up in families like the Cosbys or the Waltons, it was logical to assume that some of these kids had learned to tune out yelling.
So he kept his tone quiet. Calm. But firm enough to let everyone know that he damn well meant business.
“Shelter Bay players don’t—ever—argue with an official,” he continued. “Try it and you’ll find yourself suspended from the team so fast you’ll think you’ve been shot into hyperspace.
“The Dolphins may not take state, like a lot of people around here keep talking about, but we are going to be a team people look up to. A team admired for our poise on the court and our leadership off the court. Each and every one of you is going to set an example for every student in this school. And for the younger kids, many of whom are your brothers and sisters, who come to the games and dream of someday wearing a Dolphins letterman jacket.
“There will be rules. And I don’t care if you’re Wilt Chamberlain reincarnated—every Dolphin player will be held accountable. And if those rules I just stated are broken, believe me, there will be consequences.”
He waved an arm around the gym. “This isn’t your court. It’s mine.” He jabbed a thumb against his chest to drive his point home. “And on this court, we play by my rules. And the first rule is from Coach Wooden’s handbook—the star of the team is the team. We supersedes me . The Dolphins will be Coach Wooden’s type of team at all times. On the court and off. Anyone who doesn’t think they can get with the program is invited to leave now.”
He paused. Waited. The only sounds were a few squeaks from sneakers’ toes being rubbed onto the polished wood floor. Not a single player said a word. Or moved to take Dillon up on his offer.
“Good.” He nodded his satisfaction. “Now, go shower, change, and come back here and wait. We’re going to have ourselves a little discussion here; then I’ll talk to each of you individually in my office.”
One of the players tentatively raised his hand.
“Travis,” Dillon recognized the small forward.
“Are you choosing the team today?”
“That’s the plan.”
Everyone exchanged looks.
Dillon knew such a quick decision wasn’t always the case, but he knew all but
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