The second week of August was always hot, but this year the heat felt hotter and heavier. Perfect for the start of football practice. Derrick woke up early, couldn’t even stay in bed. His stomach wasn’t nervous, exactly—it was just full. Full of excitement. Full of that feeling you get when something good is about to start. He pulled on his shorts, tied his shoes tight, and grabbed the beat-up football he always carried around. By the time he got to the park, the field was already buzzing with voices, laughter, and the thumping sound of cleats on hard summer grass.
There were kids everywhere—soon to be fifth graders mostly, plus a few sixth graders who had the height of grown men (at least in the eyes of the younger kids). A couple of fourth graders ran around too, tiny but full of fire. Phelps didn’t do tryouts. Everybody made the team. If you showed up and came to practices, you were on the team. Coach Thompson, a sixteen year old white kid who lived a block away from the park, stood near the equipment shed wearing his wide-brimmed hat, a whistle around his neck, clipboard under his arm. The kids all called him Tommy. Next to him was Coach Riley, or Riley, who was a little older, maybe about nineteen. He didn’t talk as much but his stare could straighten any kid’s posture in two seconds.
“Alright, team!” Tommy shouted. “Bring it in!”
They gathered in a big semicircle around him—some kids bouncing on their toes, others standing tall, a few looking like they weren’t sure if they wanted to be there after all.
Coach Tommy grinned. “Last year… what did we do?” A chorus erupted:
“WE WON THE CHAMPIONSHIP!”
They had won their league championship, but they lost the city championship to Clinton, by a touchdown.
“That’s right,” Coach said. “We brought the league trophy home to Phelps Park. And I got news for you—this season we defend our league championship, but we’re gonna win that city championship too.
“We gonna get it this year!” yelled a sixth grader named Bo, who played fullback on last year’s team.
Coach pointed at him.
“They are coming. And we gonna be ready.”
The boys slapped hands, bumped shoulders, and grinned. Even Derrick felt taller.
“OKAY!” Coach Thompson called. “Let’s stretch it out! Then we line up by positions!”
The boys dropped into stretches—legs out, arms reaching, backs cracking, kids groaning louder than grown men. When Coach called for positions, Derrick headed to the line with the other ends, tackles, and guards.
“What position do you play?” Bo asked him.
“Tommy said he wanted me to play end,” Derrick said proudly. “Offense and defense.”
Bo slapped his back.
“Cool.”
Derrick felt the slap through his whole chest. Coming from a sixth grader—especially Bo—that meant something.
Leon went with the linebackers, looking ready. Marcus and Tony were halfbacks, so they went with the backfield. Reggie stood with the wide receivers, nervously adjusting his shirt. The two fourth graders—Skeeter and Mike-Mike—ran back and forth between groups because neither one could decide what they wanted to be.
Coach Thompson blew the whistle. “DOWN LINE! On the bags!”
The whistle shrieked again and the linemen charged the blocking pads—legs pumping, hands slapping, shoulders driving hard. Derrick felt the impact vibrate up his arms. It hurt a little, but the good kind of hurt—the kind that made him feel like a real football player.
“Keep those feet MOVING!”
Coach Thompson barked.
“Don’t stop till I blow this whistle!”
The whistle blew.
“Stop. Good. Again!”
They did it again. And again. Sweat rolled down Derrick’s face. His shirt clung to him. His legs burned. But he didn’t stop. He wanted to earn his place. He wanted to be part of something big. He wanted to defend that championship.
After the drills, Coach Thompson split them into two groups.
“Offense on this side! Defense over there!”
Derrick hustled to the defensive side first. He loved defense—loved the chase, loved the way the world slowed down for a second right before a play snapped into chaos. He crouched low in his stance, eyes on the ball.
“HIKE!”
The play exploded. Tony charged through the middle with the ball. Derrick pushed past his blocker and got an arm on him, slowing him just enough for Leon to finish the tackle. Leon whooped.
“YEAH! That’s how we do it!”
Derrick grinned, panting.
“I got him first!”
“Half of him!” Leon teased.
“Still counts!”
Whistle.
After a little while.
“Switch sides!”
Now Derrick lined up on offense. He wasn’t a ball carrier, but ends were crucial—they blocked, they opened the lane, they protected the running backs.
Coach Thompson shouted,
“This is a sweep right! Ends—seal the edge! I want that edge so wide I can walk around it myself!”
They broke the huddle. Derrick took his stance.
“HIKE!”
He lunged right, pushing back the defender with everything he had. Tony swept around the outside, cleats kicking up grass, and raced downfield. Bo threw a block ahead of him. Tony made it fifteen yards before Coach blew the whistle.
“THAT’S A PLAY!” Coach yelled.
“Derrick—good seal!”
Derrick’s heart swelled. He didn’t need to be the star. He just needed to do his job. And today, he did it well.
After almost an hour, Coach called for a water break. Kids collapsed under the big oak tree near the parkhouse. Some lay flat on their backs. Others drank like they’d been stranded in a desert. Reggie flopped down next to Derrick.
“Man… I didn’t know football was this much WORK.”
Tony laughed.
“This ain’t nothing. Next week is gonna be even harder.”
“Next week?” Marcus said dramatically. “I ain’t gonna survive next week.”
“You’ll live,” Leon said. “Maybe.”
Derrick leaned back in the grass, feeling tired but good—like he belonged there with the rest of them. He could still hear the echoes of drills across the field, smell the sweat and dirt, feel the thud of pads and the rush of the game. This was it. This was football. This was Phelps Park. And he was a Panther now.
Practice ended with the sky turning orange. The boys walked home together, dragging their bags, shirts damp with sweat. Tony punched Derrick’s arm lightly. “You did good today. Coach likes you at end.”
“Yeah,” Derrick said. “Felt good.”
“Man. School starts in two weeks. Gonna be different for me.” Leon said thoughtfully. “New school and everything.”
“Yeah. Your first school in Minnesota. No more St. Louis.” Marcus said.
“Seems like you been here forever.” Reggie grinned.
They all started talking at once—football plays, new teachers, state fair rides, corn dogs, goals for the season. The sun dipped behind the houses on Oakland. Their shadows stretched long. Their voices carried through the warm evening. And summer, for a moment, felt like it might last forever.