“All right, 25 suicides now!” yelled Coach Prue, blowing his whistle and turning to stare at the records on the wall as the boy’s basketball team began training. Always second, never first. Always silver, never gold. Not this year West Creek. This year is Marksville’s turn. It’s my last year of coaching after 20 years of second place. This year, my final year, we WILL have first.
He continued staring at the records, listening to the sound of the rubber tennis shoes squeaking on the wood floors.
“How’s it going, Mitch?” came a surprise voice from behind him.
Amelia Prue was his second wife, about 12 years younger, and pregnant with his first child. And of course, she was there with his lunch, as usual. However, the doctor and demanded she be on bed rest.
“You’ve come early today!” he said, turning to kiss her cheek and laid his hand on her stomach, lowering to belly button level.
“Hello baby. Are you going to play for the WNBA? Or be the first female president? Or a famous novelist?” he asked, then turned and put his ear to her stomach, “What’s that? You want to smoke crack and be a hooker and live off fast food and mayonnaise because your mommy won’t stay in bed? Well that just won’t do.”
“I hate laying in bed all day.” Amelia growled, opening the lunch and forcing his apple into his hand. “I can get up once a day to bring you some damn lunch and go to the bathroom if I want to.”
“Honey, I get you’re angry but this isn’t for you, it’s for the baby. And we want her bun to bake in your oven for as long as you can hold her in.”
Just then, Mitch felt a splash on his feet. He looked down to see water all over the floor and felt the warm liquid soak through his shoes, into his sock, making his feet damp. Amelia looked at the mess and then at her husband, a smile on her face.
“I guess I really couldn’t wait.”
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