By Donald Hubbard
Coach cocks back his right arm and with the knuckle of his middle finger protruding from his fist, he punches my sternum.
I know this time that it’s because I smiled for the team yearbook photo.
A skinny sprinter, I’m subjecting myself to an unprovoked drowning to avoid being cut. The bruises will only fade after assuming all colors of the rainbow.
I sense coach isn’t finished. His pupils dilate: two pools of unsated sadism.
“You flinched. It didn’t count. Back against the wall,” he demands.
Unblinking, I return to attention. Coach flicks out his knuckle, cocking back his right arm.
Fine writing — the rainbow-colored bruises caught my eye — and the bizarre, high treasonous crime of smiling. I remember a pee-wee/drill sargeant football coach who made his own son quarterback and subjected that poor kid to never-ending torment, extra wind-sprints etc. Glad I got cut from that dumb squad.