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- Story Listed as: Fiction For Adults
- Theme: Fairy Tales & Fantasy
- Subject: Recreation / Sports / Travel
- Published: 09/01/2018
The Freekin Freak.
Born 1951, M, from Wilmington NC, United States.jpeg)
“Coach, you can’t be serious. Are you really going to start a guy who never played a single snap of football - ever.”
“Yes, Tom, I am. I knew him in High School. He can play. He just chose not to. You will see.“
“Coach, no offense, but the Owner of the Team has already publicly stated that he thinks- let me get this quote correct:“ I gave the Coach full power over the roster. I think he went nuts. He gets to give that kid three weeks. If that kid is a bust in three weeks, then both him and Coach will get their pink slips on the same day. Three weeks. That is all I have given him. Don’t ask me again, I think it as stupid as you do. It is the Coach’s team, I only own it.”
The Coach merely smiled.
“That sounds like Mr. Sabbati. And I won’t need to worry about my job after week three.”
Tom shook his head. So did the other twenty members of the Press Corps. The Season opener is tomorrow and this new kid has still never taken a snap. Nobody can believe the Coach is even going to suit him up, let alone play. Not one snap in the preseason. Not one. And the kid is going to start?
Mr. Sabatti might be right. Coach has gone nuts.
*****
The big kid came over Coach’s house about eight PM. As was usual for the big kid, he knocked quietly, and stood patiently. He never looked like he was in a hurry, or rushed, or pressed for time- even when he was. He thought about things before hand, so when he acted - it was with no hesitation or indecisiveness. It is what had made him one of the greatest Piano Prodigies of all time. If not the Greatest Period.
The Coach opened the door with a smile almost as wide as the big kid was tall.
“I see you got here in time. Come on in. Did you memorize the playbook like I asked?”
“Yes, Coach. I have a few questions about coverage. I looked at the films you gave me, and need to know if they will use man to man, or zone on me.”
“Well I think they will use man to man, until they see how fast you are. Then they will use zone to cover. Then, well, I think they will try to be physical with you- double teams, and hits as you break off the line. It won’t really matter. They don’t know what you can do. Just have fun.”
The big kid smiled as the Coach closed the door. They both walked to the film room in the basement. “Just have fun.” The big kid liked the sound of that.
*****
The Coach was in his last year as a High School Football Coach. He had taken his team to the State finals seven out of the last nine years. He had won the State Championship five of those years. Now he was off to be the New Head Coach at State College after this final year as a HS Coach.
When the big kid was a Sophomore, the Coach saw him for the first time. Not at Football Practice, but in the Music Room. The Coach was walking to his Office when he heard the most amazing Piano Playing he had ever heard. Music ran in the Coach’s Family. His mother was the Church Organist, his Father was a rather brilliant amateur Saxophone player. His brother Chris was First Chair Cello player with the LA Symphony; Coach himself could hold his own on the Acoustic Guitar. His sister was the lead vocalist at church, and had put out a couple of albums before she settled down to be a Mom.
It was rumored that both his Grandfather and Grandmother played during the War with Count Basie- until they produced a child for every year of that decade and couldn’t travel anymore. Music of all kinds had filled the Coach’s childhood just as much as Athletics had. His sister was an all state basketball player, his brother Chris was a State Champ Wrester (126 pounds). Coach, of course, had chosen baseball and football as his sports. By college Coach had decided that football was his ticket.
It was. Until…
“Boom!” One hit. A broken hip. And a career in the NFL over in the first pre-season game. Back to Ohio he went, with a limp and a better understanding of the game of Football. He started Coaching at his Alma Matter that very year.
So when Coach heard that incredible control, fine pitch, the emotion focused into each note, he went to the Music room to see who it was, or if it was a CD by one of the Masters. It was neither.
The person at the piano was huge. Even sitting down he dominated the room. Coach could see how broad his shoulders were. How those giant hands caressed notes out of that bang upped piano, giving the piano delusions of grandeur, as if it were a Steinway at Carnegie Hall, and not a beat up standard piano in a High school in Ohio. The music was pouring out of the kid, through his hands, and out into any ear that accepts beauty and perfection as a matched pair.
The room was full with about a dozen students, twenty teachers, and a few Janitors. All just listening. When the big kid stopped playing- no one clapped. They just bowed. The big kid turned beat red- whispered: “Thanks,” and closed the keyboard. Then he stood up.
Coach whistled… silently to himself. The big kid had to be Six foot six or seven. He must have weighed 265 pounds or more…and if he had more than three percent body fat, Coach would give you the pink slip to his 1963 Camaro. 'I am going to win every game with that kid playing.' Was his first thought. He was wrong.
*****
The big kid did not want to play football. He told the Coach that. He did like to run though. If the Coach wanted him to come out for track in the Spring…he would. Coach explained that by then he would be coaching the State College.
“Why won’t you play football?”
“I don’t want to hurt my hands. And I am not done growing. I think.”
“Why are you worried about your hands?”
“You heard me play. I need them to be in good shape to make my dream of being a Concert Pianist come true. I read that you shouldn’t play football until your joints are fully formed. The Doctors tell me that will be when I am 21 years old.
So I can run track, and will - for fun. But no contact sports until I am old enough.”
And that was that. Coach forgot all about the big kid, until his former assistant football Coach, who was the HS track Coach, called him in April.
*****
“Hey Coach. You remember that big kid that turned you down for Football in the Fall?”
“Oh, yeah. The Piano Player. What about him?”
“Well…I am going to send you a tape of him running.”
“Why?”
“Because he just ran his first track meet for us. He won the Mile…and the 100 Meters.”
Coach whistled at that. Nobody since Jim Thorpe (that Coach new of) had ever recorded that double in track.
“Wow!”
“Oh, don’t “Wow” yet. There is more.”
Coach laughed into the phone:
“What did he win the High Jump too?”
“No. But he probably could (that sobered the Coach’s humor right up). What he did do was break the State record in the Mile run AND he ran the fastest 100 meter in High School History.”
“That is impressive, but our High School was never noted for sprinters.”
“No Coach. Not our High School record. The United States High School Record.”
Coach almost dropped the phone, but managed to choke out a short:
“You don’t say.”
******
The next time Coach heard about the big kid, was five years later. Coach had won two National Championships at State College and narrowly missed a third. The NFL was sniffing around at the end of every season now. “Come Coach in the Big Leagues” was the siren call that seduced every coach worth his salt. And Coach had plenty of salt. So he did.
But he promised his wife a month of no Football. None. In fact, she wanted a month to herself with just Coach - and no Football buddies, players, or owners. The Coach put it in writing. He would start Coaching in the NFL, after a six week vacation. Coach smiled when he showed his wife the tickets to the Mediterranean. Two weeks onboard a luxury Cruise Ship and then they would pick which city to stay in for the rest of the time.
Even though it wasn’t on the ship’s itinerary, they chose Paris. It was as Romantic as they thought it would be. His wife grew up with a concert Pianist as one of her Brother’s, and her Mom was a famous Opera Singer- so when they heard there was a special recital by a young phenom from America, they bought tickets.
When the lights went down, and the Pianist came out on stage, there was an audible gasp from the crowd. Coach almost choked. It was the big kid. And he was bigger. He must be six foot eight and 300 pounds…or more, thought the Coach, and I would still bet he doesn’t have three percent body fat. (And the Coach was right)
After words, the reviewers and reviews reflected just how good the big kid really was. Critics are hard to please, these Critics must have been from a different breed, because they fought over finding adjectives that would convey the intense feeling the big kid created with his music. One even said in print:
“If keys produced color instead of sound, there would be yellows that blind the eyes, reds that drip wine and blood into your soul, and raging electric blues that arouse even the most indifferent ear.”
And that was understatement.
Coach and his wife smuggled themselves past the gatekeepers by using the simple tactic of stating that they taught at the High School the big kid learned to play at. The Publicist recognized the name of the High School, checked with the big kid, and agreed to let them come back stage.
For five nights in a row, Coach and his wife went to the Sold Out concerts. During the day they went sightseeing with the big kid in tow. At night, after the concerts, they went to dinner together.
“Come play football for me.”
The big kid would smile every time the Coach asked him.
“When I retire from my Concert Playing Days.”
“Ok. When will that be?”
“As soon as they don’t want me anymore.”
*****
The big kid was only 21 years old when it happened. His recordings would last forever. But the big kid had played his last concert. It was one of those things nobody could have predicted. It was an accident. A cruel one. In one of the most beautiful cities in the world: Venice, Italy. The gondola he was riding in was swamped by a drunk rich Venetian with too much money and no sense. As the motor boat sped by, the wake pushed his gondola up against the brick of a villa. Unfortunately, he was holding the gondolas gunwale with his left hand.
That moment altered his life, ended his career, and changed his plans. The Doctors were good, the Surgeons even better. The big kid’s hand and thumb had been broken in thirteen places. They put it together again, but he would never play the piano again. His hand worked for ordinary things like holding a cup, or catching a ball, but not for the fine motor control to play at the Maestro level.
So he called Coach.
******
The Phone rang. Coach picked it up not recognizing the number, but he knew the voice as soon as he heard it speak:
“Coach, I am retired now. Do you want me to come play?”
“Yes.”
*****
“Nothing that big should be that fast. Nothing that fast should be that big.”
That was the Headline of the biggest newspaper in the State. The big kid had changed the game. Six foot eight inches tall, weighing three hundred twenty pounds, with a sixty inch chest and a thirty two inch waist and the speed of an Olympic Sprinter. He played his first game as a wide receiver.
The stats speak for themselves, and will echo down the generations of Football Fans forever:
Catches: 14
Yards: 1,084
Touchdowns: 11
One game.
*****
Mister Sabatti promptly signed both the big kid and the Coach to long term contracts. The week three deadline was ignored. If not forgotten.
Tom spoke up at the Press Conference:
“Coach, I called you nuts. I am sorry. How did you know he could do that?”
Before Coach could answer, the big kid stood up and went to the podium.
“I told him I could. I like to run, and he told me if I could catch - it would work out fine. It did.” And that laughter drowned out most of the next ten minutes until the Quarter Back (who had just thrown for a NFL record One thousand, one hundred and six yards) said (when asked what he thought of the big kid’s play):
“He’s a Freekin Freak.”
The name stuck.
“Yes, Tom, I am. I knew him in High School. He can play. He just chose not to. You will see.“
“Coach, no offense, but the Owner of the Team has already publicly stated that he thinks- let me get this quote correct:“ I gave the Coach full power over the roster. I think he went nuts. He gets to give that kid three weeks. If that kid is a bust in three weeks, then both him and Coach will get their pink slips on the same day. Three weeks. That is all I have given him. Don’t ask me again, I think it as stupid as you do. It is the Coach’s team, I only own it.”
The Coach merely smiled.
“That sounds like Mr. Sabbati. And I won’t need to worry about my job after week three.”
Tom shook his head. So did the other twenty members of the Press Corps. The Season opener is tomorrow and this new kid has still never taken a snap. Nobody can believe the Coach is even going to suit him up, let alone play. Not one snap in the preseason. Not one. And the kid is going to start?
Mr. Sabatti might be right. Coach has gone nuts.
*****
The big kid came over Coach’s house about eight PM. As was usual for the big kid, he knocked quietly, and stood patiently. He never looked like he was in a hurry, or rushed, or pressed for time- even when he was. He thought about things before hand, so when he acted - it was with no hesitation or indecisiveness. It is what had made him one of the greatest Piano Prodigies of all time. If not the Greatest Period.
The Coach opened the door with a smile almost as wide as the big kid was tall.
“I see you got here in time. Come on in. Did you memorize the playbook like I asked?”
“Yes, Coach. I have a few questions about coverage. I looked at the films you gave me, and need to know if they will use man to man, or zone on me.”
“Well I think they will use man to man, until they see how fast you are. Then they will use zone to cover. Then, well, I think they will try to be physical with you- double teams, and hits as you break off the line. It won’t really matter. They don’t know what you can do. Just have fun.”
The big kid smiled as the Coach closed the door. They both walked to the film room in the basement. “Just have fun.” The big kid liked the sound of that.
*****
The Coach was in his last year as a High School Football Coach. He had taken his team to the State finals seven out of the last nine years. He had won the State Championship five of those years. Now he was off to be the New Head Coach at State College after this final year as a HS Coach.
When the big kid was a Sophomore, the Coach saw him for the first time. Not at Football Practice, but in the Music Room. The Coach was walking to his Office when he heard the most amazing Piano Playing he had ever heard. Music ran in the Coach’s Family. His mother was the Church Organist, his Father was a rather brilliant amateur Saxophone player. His brother Chris was First Chair Cello player with the LA Symphony; Coach himself could hold his own on the Acoustic Guitar. His sister was the lead vocalist at church, and had put out a couple of albums before she settled down to be a Mom.
It was rumored that both his Grandfather and Grandmother played during the War with Count Basie- until they produced a child for every year of that decade and couldn’t travel anymore. Music of all kinds had filled the Coach’s childhood just as much as Athletics had. His sister was an all state basketball player, his brother Chris was a State Champ Wrester (126 pounds). Coach, of course, had chosen baseball and football as his sports. By college Coach had decided that football was his ticket.
It was. Until…
“Boom!” One hit. A broken hip. And a career in the NFL over in the first pre-season game. Back to Ohio he went, with a limp and a better understanding of the game of Football. He started Coaching at his Alma Matter that very year.
So when Coach heard that incredible control, fine pitch, the emotion focused into each note, he went to the Music room to see who it was, or if it was a CD by one of the Masters. It was neither.
The person at the piano was huge. Even sitting down he dominated the room. Coach could see how broad his shoulders were. How those giant hands caressed notes out of that bang upped piano, giving the piano delusions of grandeur, as if it were a Steinway at Carnegie Hall, and not a beat up standard piano in a High school in Ohio. The music was pouring out of the kid, through his hands, and out into any ear that accepts beauty and perfection as a matched pair.
The room was full with about a dozen students, twenty teachers, and a few Janitors. All just listening. When the big kid stopped playing- no one clapped. They just bowed. The big kid turned beat red- whispered: “Thanks,” and closed the keyboard. Then he stood up.
Coach whistled… silently to himself. The big kid had to be Six foot six or seven. He must have weighed 265 pounds or more…and if he had more than three percent body fat, Coach would give you the pink slip to his 1963 Camaro. 'I am going to win every game with that kid playing.' Was his first thought. He was wrong.
*****
The big kid did not want to play football. He told the Coach that. He did like to run though. If the Coach wanted him to come out for track in the Spring…he would. Coach explained that by then he would be coaching the State College.
“Why won’t you play football?”
“I don’t want to hurt my hands. And I am not done growing. I think.”
“Why are you worried about your hands?”
“You heard me play. I need them to be in good shape to make my dream of being a Concert Pianist come true. I read that you shouldn’t play football until your joints are fully formed. The Doctors tell me that will be when I am 21 years old.
So I can run track, and will - for fun. But no contact sports until I am old enough.”
And that was that. Coach forgot all about the big kid, until his former assistant football Coach, who was the HS track Coach, called him in April.
*****
“Hey Coach. You remember that big kid that turned you down for Football in the Fall?”
“Oh, yeah. The Piano Player. What about him?”
“Well…I am going to send you a tape of him running.”
“Why?”
“Because he just ran his first track meet for us. He won the Mile…and the 100 Meters.”
Coach whistled at that. Nobody since Jim Thorpe (that Coach new of) had ever recorded that double in track.
“Wow!”
“Oh, don’t “Wow” yet. There is more.”
Coach laughed into the phone:
“What did he win the High Jump too?”
“No. But he probably could (that sobered the Coach’s humor right up). What he did do was break the State record in the Mile run AND he ran the fastest 100 meter in High School History.”
“That is impressive, but our High School was never noted for sprinters.”
“No Coach. Not our High School record. The United States High School Record.”
Coach almost dropped the phone, but managed to choke out a short:
“You don’t say.”
******
The next time Coach heard about the big kid, was five years later. Coach had won two National Championships at State College and narrowly missed a third. The NFL was sniffing around at the end of every season now. “Come Coach in the Big Leagues” was the siren call that seduced every coach worth his salt. And Coach had plenty of salt. So he did.
But he promised his wife a month of no Football. None. In fact, she wanted a month to herself with just Coach - and no Football buddies, players, or owners. The Coach put it in writing. He would start Coaching in the NFL, after a six week vacation. Coach smiled when he showed his wife the tickets to the Mediterranean. Two weeks onboard a luxury Cruise Ship and then they would pick which city to stay in for the rest of the time.
Even though it wasn’t on the ship’s itinerary, they chose Paris. It was as Romantic as they thought it would be. His wife grew up with a concert Pianist as one of her Brother’s, and her Mom was a famous Opera Singer- so when they heard there was a special recital by a young phenom from America, they bought tickets.
When the lights went down, and the Pianist came out on stage, there was an audible gasp from the crowd. Coach almost choked. It was the big kid. And he was bigger. He must be six foot eight and 300 pounds…or more, thought the Coach, and I would still bet he doesn’t have three percent body fat. (And the Coach was right)
After words, the reviewers and reviews reflected just how good the big kid really was. Critics are hard to please, these Critics must have been from a different breed, because they fought over finding adjectives that would convey the intense feeling the big kid created with his music. One even said in print:
“If keys produced color instead of sound, there would be yellows that blind the eyes, reds that drip wine and blood into your soul, and raging electric blues that arouse even the most indifferent ear.”
And that was understatement.
Coach and his wife smuggled themselves past the gatekeepers by using the simple tactic of stating that they taught at the High School the big kid learned to play at. The Publicist recognized the name of the High School, checked with the big kid, and agreed to let them come back stage.
For five nights in a row, Coach and his wife went to the Sold Out concerts. During the day they went sightseeing with the big kid in tow. At night, after the concerts, they went to dinner together.
“Come play football for me.”
The big kid would smile every time the Coach asked him.
“When I retire from my Concert Playing Days.”
“Ok. When will that be?”
“As soon as they don’t want me anymore.”
*****
The big kid was only 21 years old when it happened. His recordings would last forever. But the big kid had played his last concert. It was one of those things nobody could have predicted. It was an accident. A cruel one. In one of the most beautiful cities in the world: Venice, Italy. The gondola he was riding in was swamped by a drunk rich Venetian with too much money and no sense. As the motor boat sped by, the wake pushed his gondola up against the brick of a villa. Unfortunately, he was holding the gondolas gunwale with his left hand.
That moment altered his life, ended his career, and changed his plans. The Doctors were good, the Surgeons even better. The big kid’s hand and thumb had been broken in thirteen places. They put it together again, but he would never play the piano again. His hand worked for ordinary things like holding a cup, or catching a ball, but not for the fine motor control to play at the Maestro level.
So he called Coach.
******
The Phone rang. Coach picked it up not recognizing the number, but he knew the voice as soon as he heard it speak:
“Coach, I am retired now. Do you want me to come play?”
“Yes.”
*****
“Nothing that big should be that fast. Nothing that fast should be that big.”
That was the Headline of the biggest newspaper in the State. The big kid had changed the game. Six foot eight inches tall, weighing three hundred twenty pounds, with a sixty inch chest and a thirty two inch waist and the speed of an Olympic Sprinter. He played his first game as a wide receiver.
The stats speak for themselves, and will echo down the generations of Football Fans forever:
Catches: 14
Yards: 1,084
Touchdowns: 11
One game.
*****
Mister Sabatti promptly signed both the big kid and the Coach to long term contracts. The week three deadline was ignored. If not forgotten.
Tom spoke up at the Press Conference:
“Coach, I called you nuts. I am sorry. How did you know he could do that?”
Before Coach could answer, the big kid stood up and went to the podium.
“I told him I could. I like to run, and he told me if I could catch - it would work out fine. It did.” And that laughter drowned out most of the next ten minutes until the Quarter Back (who had just thrown for a NFL record One thousand, one hundred and six yards) said (when asked what he thought of the big kid’s play):
“He’s a Freekin Freak.”
The name stuck.
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