DISCLAIMER: I do not own Remember The Titans, nor is this about real people. I am strictly writing this for the dramatized characters. I own Diana Yoast and any hijinks she may cause along the way.

CHAPTER ONE

The heat wave that swarmed Alexandria the summer of '71 was record breaking, according to the disk jockey on WKRV. Daddy's truck was obnoxiously loud, and desperately needed the muffler replaced, but the radio was just powerful enough to cut through. Hot wind blew in from the windows and mussed mine and Sheryl's hair around our faces, it was a sweet relief that cooled the sweat on my neck.

The football field felt like the center of our little universe, especially when it was lit up for a game. Even now, in the field by the freight tracks, with empty stands and a dozen senior boys running plays on the fifty yard line, that hot gridiron beckoned the Yoast family like a sailor to the sea.

Sheryl followed Coach out to the field like she was his shadow, her wild mane flying behind her. Football was always their thing. She helped him write his playbooks and review his game tapes, never afraid to offer up her two bits.

I, on the other hand, didn't have the same inkling to chase pigskin as my baby sister or my dad. I appreciated the game (there wasn't much room for you in the Yoast house if you didn't, according to Mama) and there was no escaping the fun of watching a game on Friday nights, munching on popcorn and cheering my daddy and his boys on. But, Sheryl had seemed to sail right over the enjoyment aspect of spectatorship, and on game nights, you'd be hard pressed to find her anywhere except the sideline, hootin' and hollerin'. She was a real hit with the refs.

My dusty Chuck Taylor's kicked up the sand on a track that encased the field. The scorching sun made my Samantha Stevens tee shirt cling uncomfortably to my chest, and when I sat down in the first row of bleachers, I had to fan my face with my hand. The pant legs of my denim dungarees were much too long, I realized, as they stopped all the way down at my ankles. Mama always hated when I wore them outside of our backyard, but Coach didn't seem to mind one bit. There were a lot of things these days that Daddy grinned about, but would've driven Mama to an early grave.

I think Daddy was glad that Sheryl and I were coming up rougher than other girls, dirtier and louder. (Made us less appealing to boys, or so I was told by the chumps at school.) Mama tried really hard to make me into a little lady, always pushing my shoulders back and my chin up. Keep your knees crossed. Take smaller bites. Never go to bed without curlers in your hair. But, whatever she taught me, Coach turned right around and undid. Sometimes I wondered if that was part of the reason she left. Couldn't stand to watch Daddy turn her two precious daughters into the sons he never had.

Alexandria had fallen into a pit of anger and hatred that summer. A black boy was shot and killed by the white man who owned Hudson Drug Store, and there was something in the air that seemed to tell me our whole world was about to be flipped on its axis. I didn't say it out loud, but maybe some revolution wouldn't be so bad for the stale, little Virginia town. Our TVs got technicolor back in 1963, and not much else has changed since.

"C'mon, Kurt! Don't let Ray back you down like that! You're twice his size!" Sheryl's soprano was a stark contrast to the clatter of muscle knocking together and the grunts of boys getting tackled to the dry grass. "What are they doing? If they keep playin' like that we'll lose every game!"

"Lay off, Sheryl!" I chided her from the stands, making her head of curly blonde hair whip in my direction.

"This is the starting team," she argued, her hands on her hips. "If they can't tell a blitz from a pass-action, then the season's over before it even starts!"

"I didn't think that was so bad," Daddy told her, amused. The hardest person to impress was Sheryl, after all.

My baby sister was a regular chip off the old block. She had daddy's golden locks and baby blues, not to mention that natural-born drive to win. If you saw her next to Coach, there was no denying the resemblance. But, I was always told that I was Mama's spitting image. Thick, chestnut hair, dark eyes, and peaches and cream skin. I think, sometimes, Daddy sees me and for a fleeting second, he thinks Mama's home again. Then he blinks, and it's just Diana.

Coach blew the whistle, a smile just dancing on his mouth, and the players broke off the scrimmage line, sighing thankfully. Gerry Bertier jogged up to Coach, taking his helmet off so he could look in Daddy's eyes. His chest heaved, exerted from the hard practice.

"Looks good, Gerry," Coach said, clapping his team captain on the shoulder proudly. Gerry's father died back when he was a kid (courtesy of the big C), and Coach tried really hard to take on that role for Gerry. A young man needs a father, he'd told me. In a way, he sorta held that role for most of the boys. "I can see you've been workin'."

"Thanks a lot, Coach." Gerry's voice came out in huffs. "Listen, with the schools integratin' and all, some of the guys are worried about losing their startin' positions."

"Well," Coach began with a deep inhale, "that's something we're just gonna have to figure out, but you don't worry about that now. You just keep at it, alright?" Gerry pursed his mouth, nodding. Coach blew into his whistle three times, blee blee blee, signaling a five minute break. The players beelined to the water jug at the sideline, and they nearly plowed each other over to grab at the tiny Dixie cups.

Gerry, with his helmet locked in the fingertips of his right hand, glided over to lean against the chain link that fenced in the bleachers, facing me. His thick brows were low over his eyes, and he had to squint through the sunlight from behind his hand. Sweat dripped along his hairline and darkened the collar of his navy shirt.

"You stickin' around for the summer, Di?"

"I was thinking about it," I told him. Gerry and I had a… conditional companionship. I'd known him since Daddy coached the peewee leagues, and I considered us friends. But, during the summer we all turned 14, he started acting like I'd grown an extra head. All the other boys did, too. When we were kids, they were like my brothers, always picking on me and riling me up. With friends like that, I learned how to punch with my thumb on the outside of my fist very quickly. These days, the only one who spared me a second glance was Gerry. But, those aforementioned glances were only spared when his friends or Emma Hoyt weren't looking.

"I figured you were goin' to that summer camp in Roxbury." With the other losers, I imagined he wanted to say. It was no secret that Huntshire Camp was for the undesirables. Sure, there was canoeing and fishing and archery, but the brochures sang of acceptance, comradery. Kids who didn't have any friends during the summer months went to Huntshire. It did get me thinking, though. With Mama gone and Daddy off to Gettysburg for camp, where were Sheryl and I going to go?

"Fat chance," I remarked. He grinned down at me, and my mouth pinched with annoyance. "That little football camp of yours ain't any better."

"My little football camp, huh?"

"Uh huh."

"My little football camp?"

"You heard me."

"You wouldn't last a day doin' what we do at camp, Yoast." His arrogance made me scoff, but the mirthful glint never left his eyes.

"You're full of it, Bertier." A breeze fell over the field, and it ruffled the dark fringe that covered my forehead. I tried not to falter under his unabashed stare, but he looked right through me with no shame to speak of, and it left me squirming in my seat.

"Is that what I am?"

"Yup."

"And what is it I'm so full of?"

"Shit, as a matter of—"

"Diana Nicole!" Coach's booming yell stopped me in my snarky tracks. I jumped from the bench, my mouth clamped shut and my cheeks burnt crimson. There was a line in between Daddy's brows, the one he gets when he's ready to tear me a new one. Gerry barely flinched. "Can you grab the three-ring from my truck, please?"

"Yes, Daddy." My bottom lip fell between my teeth while I scurried away from Gerry and towards the powder blue truck parked next to the bleachers. His not-so-clever way of preserving my modesty for just a little bit longer. Even if he knew Gerry was just a big oaf with a penchant for driving me up the wall.

"Hey, guys! Guys!" Alan Bosley came running to the fence on the west side of the field like there was a fire lit up right under his ass. All the boys' heads snapped to the junior who hooked his fingers through the chain link and yelled to his teammates. "It's comin' down—it's coming down at the store! They wanna burn the place up 'cause that colored kid got shot!"

Without a word, the players dropped their helmets and ran for the concrete path that led to Wilson Street, towards the drug store, Gerry leading the pack like a bunch of rabid dogs. Daddy yelled to stop them, but they were on a warpath. Sometimes their heads were so far up their asses they couldn't see the gridiron for the grass. He ran towards the truck, watching his boys gallop into the fray.

Sheryl yelled for Coach, but Herb Tyrell grabbed her by the shoulders to stop her from running after him. The freight train right next to the field blew its whistle, steel wheels grinding against the tracks so loudly that I winced. Talk about an omen.

"Get the girls to the school, Herb."

Coach Tyrell escorted Sheryl and I to his Volkswagen, and we drove five minutes up to Hammond, listening to Jerry Lee Lewis the whole way. If I had more gull, I'd have tucked and rolled right out of the passenger side door to get away from Coach Tyrell's 8-track collection. My baby sister and I just shared silent, contemptuous looks.

Daddy met us at the east entrance, it led right into the school's gymnasium and the athletic department. The boys followed behind their coach, shoulders slumped and their faces set into brazen scowls. If I didn't know any better, I'd say it looked like pouts on those mugs. Served 'em right.

"You boys are gonna cool off," Daddy warned, "you're gonna come to my office and help me finish packing my things." Sheryl was stuck to Daddy's hip like a little, blonde barnacle, and I brought up the rear of the group. Coach Tyrell grabbed Gerry by the shoulders and gave him a firm shake.

"Gerry, son, your heart's in the right place, but you oughtta know better than to embarrass the coach like that." The defensive running back frowned at the assistant coach's words while everyone piled into Daddy's office.

"Hell, why don't you just kick 'em all off the team?" Gerry growled, his chest puffing out. "I don't wanna play with any of those black animals." Just as he said it, the figure at the far end of the office came into my eyeline. His skin was deep and his wide shoulders were tucked underneath a tan sport coat, the ball from the '69 championship game twirling between his hands. Light filtered in from the blinds over the window, casting lines of sunshine on his face when he turned.

"Gerry," I hissed, giving the back of his arm a quick pinch. He shook me off with a grunt.

"Back off, I seen him." Gerry spoke all tough and tumble, but he made sure to stand behind Coach Tyrell and Daddy. Tyrell crossed his arms over his portly chest, looking down his nose at the unexpected guest. My bottom took up the metal folding chair next to where Gerry stood, watching.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Herman Boone," he answered steadily, "I'm the new assistant coach."

"Well, from the looks of things, I'd say we got about all the help we need around here," Tyrell said, his words soaked in patronizing venom. "Why ain't you outside there with all your little friends, hollerin'?" Herman Boone clenched his fingers around the football and took a deep breath before speaking.

"This was the time that was arranged for me to meet with Coach Yoast." Boone stepped towards us, his shoulders back and his upper lip effectively stiff. Sheryl scurried over and sat on my lap, her little hands clutching anxiously at my arms when they wrapped around her middle. "I never miss an appointment."

"Well, maybe, um—" Tyrell sputtered, "maybe you'd just better reschedule."

"Coach Boone, the school board made the decision to put you on my staff," Daddy told the stranger, "I did not hire you."

"Well, I came up here to coach at GW. I didn't ask the schools to redistrict, and I didn't ask to be assigned to your staff. So, I guess we're both in a situation we don't wanna be in." Boone clearly hadn't been expecting a welcome wagon, but the sheer hatred in the room was so thick it could've been cut with a hot butter knife. "But, I can guarantee you this, Coach: I come to win."

"Win? Coach Yoast here has been nominated to the Virginia High School Hall of Fame. Fifteen winning seasons." Tyrell was being more belligerent than usual, I noticed.

"I won a couple of titles down in North Carolina," Boone assured.

"That's double A ball. This here's Virginia, we play triple A."

"What an opportunity, then," Boone stated through a locked jaw, "for me to learn… from the best."

The discussion seemed to roll over and die there, and before Herman Boone left, he made a point of shaking Daddy's and Tyrell's hands. Maybe I was thinking foolishly, but everyone was getting far too worked up over all of this nonsense. Daddy says I'm too kind hearted for my own good, but if that were true, how come every girl in my grade thought I was a total spaz because I socked a girl who called me a grueler? If it were up to me, anyone with nothing nice to say would get reamed, plain and simple.

Helping Daddy clean out his office was a sure fire way to remind me that summer's just begun. The school was deserted, the air was stuffy and humid, and nothing got the blood flowing like good, old fashioned manual labor. The boys made quick work of putting Daddy's playbooks and handbooks and rulebooks into cardboard boxes, sulking the entire time.

"You look like a kicked puppy," I remarked quietly, standing next to Gerry, tucking Daddy's trophies and plackards into an old hat box. "Buck up."

"It just ain't fair," he told me. Gerry towered over me by at least a foot, and I had to look up at him when he spoke.

"Life ain't fair, Bertier. Didn't your mama ever teach you that?"

AUTHOR'S NOTE: This is a complete impulse publish, so please, be gentle. I watched Remember The Titans and fell in love with it for, like, the tenth time. If anyone has any constructive criticism, feel free to share! Reviews, follows, and favorites are always appreciated, and are the best motivators to get another chapter up! Thank you!

EDIT: in the previous version of this chapter I used the term "zipperhead." I got it from a 60s/70s slang master list and it mentioned NOTHING about it being a slur for people of Asian descent. It just said that it was a term for people with buzzed haircuts. UM I looked it up again recently (thank goodness omg) and yeah I have removed it from this chapter I'm so sorry, that was some genuine ignorant energy that I exhibited and I'll try to do better.