The boys skipped and shifted in nervous clusters, jogging their knees high and occasionally dashing out of the group. I could hear someone’s laugh carried on the wind as I approached them. Jonathan was already there, rummaging around in his gym bag, probably for his roster and a stopwatch, but really waiting for me. He was the closest thing I had to a friend on the faculty, though he was a good ten years younger and led a very different life. He had three young children and a cheerful, harried air. He was never cautious around me. So many of the other faculty members treated me as if I were some sort of dangerous explosive. Walk wide here. We don’t know what’s going to happen. I had adjusted to that sort of reaction and saw little reason to change my habits on account of it, but I have to admit, I enjoyed Jonathan’s easy jocularity to a degree that surprised me.

“Hey, Jerome,” he said as he stood up, “good to see you. We got a nice crop of boys out here this year.” His hand, as he shook mine, was rough and dry, but warm.

Some of last year’s stars—Rob Hanrahan, Ben Gould, Max Harrison—were all there and greeted me with distracted waves and “How ya doin’, Mr. Washington.” A number of freshmen were there as well, among them the Bryson boy. He eyed me warily as he stretched his quadriceps muscles. Jonathan called the boys to attention.

“Okay, guys. I’m Mr. Sasser, and this is Mr. Washington, the assistant coach. It’s a new season. We’re going to start with a clean slate, just go for a half mile to warm up, see where you guys are. We’re even gonna jog it with you—though that’s not gonna happen every practice.” He laughed. “Okay, then. Let’s go.” We broke into an easy lope down past the football field.