Coaching.
Tim. He takes a drink from his water bottle and wipes the sweat from his brow. It's fucking hot out. His eyes are focused on a running back as he gets taken down by a defensive end. Before he can say anything, he hears Coach T. explode.
"Seriously, Skolnick? What was that? You missed that block by a mile! He had your back, and you missed it!" Eric Taylor yells.
Tim bites his lip. He motions to Number 42 – the now-shamed running back – and wordlessly and taps another player – "go" – onto the field. Number 42's head hangs low as he ambles toward Tim.
"Watch that, watch that!" Coach Taylor's attention is back on the field.
"We talked about that play seven times, Skol," Tim shakes his head. "You keep hesitating – right there – you keep hesitating," he slams one of his fists into his open hands. "He will be there for you every time – you've just gotta time it right."
"Right, Coach, I know. I screwed up," Number 42 is nodding. "Sorry. I'll get it right."
"Good one," Coach Taylor calls out to a player on the field. "You see that?" he looks at Tim. "We might just win this thing on Saturday," he grins.
"Get back out there," Tim nods his head toward Number 42. "Count on two – remember that. He'll be there for you every time," he calls after him.
"So just what is the over-under on us kicking your alma mater's ass, son?" Coach Taylor winks at Tim as he adjusts his baseball cap.
Tim grins at Coach Taylor before turning his focus back on the field. "Well, since I'm not playing, I think our chances are pretty good."
"Please, if you were still playin', our chances would be better. Hey, Bradley – what are you doin'? Get after him, go!" Coach Taylor's attention is back on the field now.
Tim laughs and shakes his head, turning his attention back to the players.
"Carter, where are you?" Coach Taylor is calling. "Men, are we gonna kick some ass on Saturday or not? I'll tell you something – not if we play like this! Comeon, comeon! Let's go!"
As practice ends, Tim watches the players file by him and the other coaches, slowly ambling off of the field, slapping each other on the backs, laughing with one another, prematurely planning the upcoming weekend's victory party. Tim smiles slightly, viscerally remembering what it meant – what it means – to be a college football player. What that feels like. Like you're the king of the world.
He feels a hand on his shoulder. "– coming?" It's Coach.
"Sorry, what?" Tim looks behind him. Coach Taylor is standing there, with assistant coaches Morgan, O'Connor, and Hawkins; they appear to be waiting for something. An answer, apparently.
"A beer? You, me, Brad, Oakie, Hawk. Dubliner," Coach Taylor says. "We need to go over some route changes – San Antonio has a strong pass-rush – maybe you remember that from your playin' days, old man?" he smiles at Tim. "We have some work to do."
"Yeah, sure," Tim grins.
"Besides," Coach Taylor laughs, "Tami took Gracie to Chicago to see Jules, so I'm livin' a bachelor existence this week. Takin' full advantage of it."
Tim's smile widens as he nods. "Sounds good."
He follows the others – his fellow coaches (feels good to say that, "fellow coaches") – into the field house, stopping briefly to glance back out at the practice field. He loves this place. It's his second home. He has spent his entire life playing football. Living football. Breathing football. Being out here today – every day – it's an honor. One he couldn't have imagined being part of several years ago, when he was just another drunk, aimless high school football player. A vaunted Dillon Panther. Who needs a future when you're king of the present? That was before everything changed. Before Coach T. took him under his wing.
Watching Coach T. on the field every day – learning from him out here – is such a privilege. Tim knows it. When Coach made him that offer – when he agreed to give Tim a shot out here, not as some ex-star player for whom Coach had a soft spot, but as a leader, a teacher – that meant everything to him. When Tim watches Coach beam at a player with pride, or even chew him out, he sees himself out there on that field. All those years ago. Coach pushing him, willing him, driving him to work harder. Get better. Be a better player. A better man. Tim is grateful for those years. He is grateful to be here on this field today. He is grateful to be coaching for a man who invested so much in him. In his future. Who gave him a chance to prove himself when no one believed in him. Who gave a shit when so few others did. He is here today because of that. Because of Coach T. He knows this. He will forever be grateful for it.
Eric. He sips a beer as he watches his assistant coaches mapping out counter-strategies for this Saturday's game. He closes his eyes and leans back against his chair. He's exhausted. But it's a good kind of exhausted. A college football game week kind of exhausted – the kind you come to expect after five years of coaching a Division I college football program.
It's not that college football is so different from high school football – not at its core, anyway. It's about a group of boys who want something – who want something so desperately – that they will give up their friends, their girlfriends, their families – day in and day out, week after week, month after month, season after season. It's about being part of a community, finding a place in that community, bringing that community together, every fall. One Saturday at a time. It's a way of life. A pretty damn good one.
Of course, in other ways, college football is a different animal – it's a business, a multi-million dollar business. Eric has never liked that part of college ball, the NFL-training-ground part. But if you care about the kids playing, really care – if you invest in them and raise them up – it matters. Eric knows that. In that sense, football is football, and football – stripped of all the bull shit – is about turning boys into men.
Eric smiles slightly as he watches Tim arguing possible routes with one of the more senior assistant coaches. Watching Tim Riggins become a man – that's a testament to what he loves most about coaching. Eric remembers the drunken screw-up Tim used to be. An incredibly talented drunken screw-up, but a screw-up nonetheless. To watch Tim transform from that high school kid – one who cared little beyond the next rally girl or beer – into a leader of the team, someone the younger players looked up to – that was something special. To watch Tim become a man – to see him graduate from college and enthusiastically rise to the challenges Eric offered (and continues to offer), to watch him transform himself from player to coach – a real coach, and a pretty damn astute one – this is why Eric coaches. He knows that one day Tim will step into his shoes – that he will become the man that lifts young men up on his shoulder and makes them want to achieve. Makes them want to succeed. Eric knows this because this is what he did for Tim. And Jason Street. And Smash Williams. And so many others that Eric will always remember. They made him proud. They make him proud. That Eric has had a hand in this – in Tim's life, in these boys' lives – in turning them into men – good men – that is why Eric loves coaching. And always will.