Im a wild man, dont you know it, [They cant capture me.]
[How Hard Did You Try?]
“Riggins!”
Coach’s voice has that gravel to it that makes Tim’s day.
“Coach?” Tim says as he takes his helmet off and walks up to Coach Taylor. He’s already got that cocky grin on his face that is trademark Riggins.
“Want to tell me what that says on the back of your jersey?”
“Well, Coach, last time I looked it said God.”
Coach gets real quiet and the vein in his temple stands out. Holy shit…Tim can actually see Coach’s blood pulsing in that vein. He’s kind of afraid he might have a stroke and then Mrs. Taylor will kill him.
“Coach, think I’m gonna go ‘head and hit the bleachers,” Tim says, dropping his helmet and jogging toward the metal bleachers.
Coach can’t even talk he’s so furious, flustered and Tim knows…just a little bit amused. He can see it in the tug at the corner of his lips. Or that could be another sign of a stroke. Tim’s cleats hit the metal of the bleachers with a familiar metallic ring-clack. It doesn’t take him long to fall into a rhythm. Bleachers are old hat to him by now. The truth is, one way or another he was going to be running bleachers for something. He just tried harder for today’s punishment.
“Riggins!”
Coach’s voice has that gravel to it that makes Tim’s day.
“Coach?” Tim says as he takes his helmet off and walks up to Coach Taylor. He’s already got that cocky grin on his face that is trademark Riggins.
“Want to tell me what that says on the back of your jersey?”
“Well, Coach, last time I looked it said God.”
Coach gets real quiet and the vein in his temple stands out. Holy shit…Tim can actually see Coach’s blood pulsing in that vein. He’s kind of afraid he might have a stroke and then Mrs. Taylor will kill him.
“Coach, think I’m gonna go ‘head and hit the bleachers,” Tim says, dropping his helmet and jogging toward the metal bleachers.
Coach can’t even talk he’s so furious, flustered and Tim knows…just a little bit amused. He can see it in the tug at the corner of his lips. Or that could be another sign of a stroke. Tim’s cleats hit the metal of the bleachers with a familiar metallic ring-clack. It doesn’t take him long to fall into a rhythm. Bleachers are old hat to him by now. The truth is, one way or another he was going to be running bleachers for something. He just tried harder for today’s punishment.