Naked Ambition. Dan Roberts
hand, he surveyed the lineup of young faces before him. These adolescent males—the ones that Clarkson liked to call ‘my boys’—were in various states of concentration. Some eyes totally focused and ready for instruction while others were looking anywhere and everywhere but where they should be—on Nick and the ball. That’s when Nick used his best interpretation of a coaching voice. “Okay, guys,” he said rather loudly and a bit gruffly, “Listen up.” Immediately, all eyes zoomed in his direction.
“We worked on serving yesterday,” Nick said as he continued. “Today we’re going to try improving your skill in hitting the ball. A very important thing in volleyball is not just to be able to hit the ball but return it with control. Now, I know you all know how your arms need to be for a return hit. Right?” Not a single head nodded; not a mouth opened. “Okay,” Nick said with an edge of frustration, “then let’s go over it again.”
At this time Nick asked Jack, whom he knew to be the better player of this group, to step forward. Nick then had Jack put his two arms together in demonstration of the proper position. “Now, guys, look at how Jack’s arms are. They’re together. This is the proper form. The way you should be as the ball comes toward you. Every time.” Nick, again, was watching the eyes of the boys. He still had them involved. “The important thing is to make sure you return the ball from your platform.” To make sure they knew specifically what he was talking about, Nick pointed to Jack’s forearms. “This is the platform. This is where you have both power and control for a good return.”
Nick now had Jack walk to a position about eight feet away. “I’m going to hit this ball toward Jack and he’s going to return it to me. We’re going to do this several times to show you the proper form.” Nick looked toward Jack. He was ready. Nick then tossed the ball into the air, put his arms together as instructed and hit the ball toward Jack. In like fashion, Jack returned the ball to Nick. Back and forth the ball went, slowly, gently, very much controlled as both young men held the proper form. Finally, Nick spread out his fingers, grabbed the ball as it came toward him and said, “That’s the way it’s done, guys. Any questions?”
Nick looked over the gaggle of young faces. There was no response. “Okay,” he said to his awaiting student athletes, “Now, it’s your turn. Buddy up with someone and make two lines about eight feet apart so that each one of you is facing a partner.” The boys did as they were told. Nick then went to a netted bag filled with volleyballs and started throwing them to each boy standing in the line on the right. As he did so he said, “Once I give the word, you’re going to hit the ball back and forth, the way I just showed you, until I tell you to stop.” After the last ball was thrown out, Nick yelled, “Go to it, guys.”
Immediately, volleyballs started being hit from the right line to the left. Some balls arced high, some not so high. Some balls reached their destination while others completely missed their mark and went bouncing into the field with a partner chasing after it. Frustrated, Nick yelled out, “Keep your eyes on the ball, guys. Eyes on the ball!”
From the sidelines Coach Clarkson had been viewing the three groups of ‘his boys’ as they received instruction from Nick and two other instructors, one being Max Fisher. He was so proud of these groups and their coaches. He was especially happy with how well Nick was doing in his teaching of some basic skills. Clarkson’s thought was that he was looking at a gifted young man, one who looked and acted much more mature than his age—sixteen.
Over the next 30 minutes, Nick led his group in some basic drills that included passing the ball in a variety of situations. Then, for the next hour, the boys were divided up into teams and sent to the nets to play. By the end of that hour most of the boys were drenched in sweat and slowing to a pace that reflected a state of immense weariness. At approximately 7:50 pm, Coach Clarkson’s whistle blew. “Okay, guys. That’s it for today. See you tomorrow. Same time.” He then pointed to an ice chest located on the sidelines. “Make sure you get plenty of water before you leave. Gotta keep you guys hydrated.” After grabbing a cold water bottle from the chest, some of the boys would call out, “Later, Coach,” or “Thanks, Coach” or “See ya tomorrow, Coach.”
Even as those parting words were being said, there were slight, but growing, rumblings of thunder coming from a group of dark clouds that were building in intensity along the horizon. Given these substantial indicators of a possibly severe storm gathering strength, it did not take long for the field to empty of people. Most of the boys were picked up by a waiting parent. However, some headed in a dead run toward their bikes for a quick, and hopefully dry, ride home. The other coach, Harold Stoudt, left as soon as all of his team members were gone.
Coach Clarkson was one of the few people still left. He was talking with Max Fisher as Nick approached him. When Clarkson saw Nick he put his hand on this young assistant’s shoulder, drawing him into the circle of conversation.
Clarkson further acknowledged Nick’s presence by saying, “Max, have you met my new helper?”
“No,” was Max’s reply.
With that, Clarkson introduced Nick to Max. “Hey,” was Nick’s response. Max, a bit aloof, nodded his head and said, “Hey,” in return.
With a sense of parental pride, Clarkson patted Nick on the back and added, “Nick’s doing an excellent job. A really excellent job.”
Nick’s eyes lowered a bit as his face winced, revealing his uneasiness with the coach’s statement, especially since it was said in front of a peer.
Without any comment on Clarkson’s observation of Nick, Max looked heavenward and then toward the parking lot nearby. “Looks like a storm brewing, Coach. I’d better get going.” Max then turned and walked away.
Nick looked at the parting Max and said, “See ya tomorrow.”
Max nodded his head and said, “Later.”
Almost immediately, Nick turned toward Clarkson and said, “Hey, Coach. I’ve got a little problem.”
“What’s that?” said Clarkson with concern.
“Zach was supposed to pick me up tonight. He just texted me and said he can’t because his replacement at work is running late. So,” Nick paused and then said, “I was wondering if you could....” Nick’s voice trailed off.
“Could take you home?” said Clarkson, completing the sentence.
“Well, yeah.”
“Sure. No problem.” The relaxed look on Clarkson’s face showed that he was totally fine with it. “You’re talking about the Baker’s house, right?”
“Yeah. I’m staying with them for the rest of the week.”
“That’s what George told me. He’s asked me to take you home tomorrow night, too.”
“Yeah, I heard. I really appreciate your help.”
“Glad to do it, Nick,” was Clarkson’s reply. With a light pat from the hand that had not yet been removed from Nick’s shoulder, the senior coach smiled and said, “Looks like I’m turning into a chauffeur for my boys.” He then added, “I’m taking Jack home, too.”
Clarkson, along with Nick, looked suddenly at the sky as they both heard an extremely loud clap of thunder. It was so intense that it seemed to shake the earth beneath their feet. That clap was followed by a streak of lightening that zigzagged low in the sky. Since it was the responsibility of Nick’s team to put away the equipment, Jack and a couple of the other boys were just finishing up when Clarkson said, “Better get the lead out ‘cause the rains are coming. Don’t want to get soaked, do we?”
Once the equipment was in the storage shed— and after feeling a few heavy raindrops—Jack, Nick and the coach ran toward Clarkson’s Lexus sedan. Seemingly very familiar with the car, Jack hopped into the front passenger’s seat, leaving no doubt about where Nick was to sit—in the back. It was only seconds after the last door closed that the occupants of the car both saw and heard the rain. It came in sheets, pounding the car with bullet-like