Coach Me

The bigger boys were on the other side of the gym, running in place and doing squat-thrusts to the encouragement of the team coach. He was a large guy, solidly built and broad chested. His dark hair was flecked with silver, and his heavy sideburns were almost entirely gray. He had a tracksuit on, in the school colors of crimson and white. As he faced away from me I noticed his expansive shoulders taper down to a firm, round ass. Quite a specimen. The man turned to face the bleachers, and I realized who I was drooling over...Tom Davis! 

It couldn’t be...Coach Davis. Older, grayer, but unbelievably handsome. He was still powerfully built, great definition, a mature version of the stunning man that had changed my life for the better. Like cognac, he had mellowed and improved with age. He had to be in his mid forties, but looked l better than most men in their thirties. I shivered with anticipation. I wondered if he would know me if we spoke today, I wondered if he would remember the little guy on the podium in the crimson unitard who dedicated his championship to Coach Davis twenty years ago.

Matt took to the floor as the matches began. There were several weight classes competing at the same time, so people began to move around the bleachers to be nearer to their little warrior. I did the same, and moved forward to get closer to Matt as he prepared to meet the champ from Baldwin Prep. 

I saw Coach Davis giving Matt a pep talk. He held him by both shoulders, his strong hands pressing down on his collarbone. He leaned forward; his heavy muscular chest just inches from Matt’s delicate face, and spoke in Matt’s ear. I could almost hear his encouragement, feel the coach’s positive vibe flow into Matt, as it flowed into me when I was wearing Matt’s sneakers. I knew what Matt felt as he stepped to the edge of the mat. The exhilaration would carry him to victory, the conclusion of the match already decided, Matt’s championship title assured. As Matt pinned his opponent helplessly to the floor, I glanced at the coach. He was looking right at me, and he was smiling. 

After the match, I waited for Matt at the locker room entrance, with the other parents. The kids jumped through the door with their faces flushed, their hair still wet from the showers. Matt came out, beaming with pride and satisfaction. He ran to me and I lifted him high into the air. His joy was infectious, I was feeling giddy. Matt was talking a mile-a-minute, high on adrenaline. He pulled me to the stairway leading back into the gym; he wanted me to meet his coach.

Tom Davis looked much as he did twenty years ago, a little thicker, a little less toned, but still remarkably fit. He radiated masculinity. His body was filling out the tracksuit in just the right places: straining across the shoulders, draping attractively over bulky pectorals and hugging his still slender waist. The bulge in his pants clearly confirmed his generous endowment, for I couldn’t help noticing the outline of his thick cock slung down his right leg. He walked toward us, his powerful body flexing like a thoroughbred. Matt ran to him, and Coach Davis rubbed his head affectionately and slapped him on the back.

I introduced myself to the coach, which was totally unnecessary. He knew I was coming, Matt had told him days ago when I accepted the invitation to drive up and see the match. Of course the coach remembered me. Of course he recalled that day so long ago when his student had won the championship. Odd how history repeats itself again and again. Now it was Matt’s turn to feel the glow of victory. In fact, the coach was hoping to have a talk with me. He had asked Matt to bring me to him. Could I spare some time to discuss Matt?

“I met your nephew Matt in much the same way I met you, Jimmy. Do you remember? I sensed his insecurity, I felt his confusion. I know that athletics can help Matthew mature, help him develop into a man. I was aware of the same issues in you two decades ago. It’s hard to come to terms with who you are, where you fit into the world. Matt is special, like you were special. Awakening sexuality is difficult to handle, and realizing you are gay is even harder. I’m proud of him. I’ve worked hard with Matt to make him proud of himself.”

I was astounded. What was he saying to me? Coach Davis was telling me he knew I was gay, even then. He had encouraged me, prodded and pushed me, because he knew I was gay! It had been his way of making me accept myself and take pride in who I was. And now he was doing the same for Matt. Why? We spoke about Matt for a few more minutes, and he told me an all too familiar story of a shy and introverted boy with little self-esteem. The focus and effort involved in training and competing in athletics had helped Matt expand his physical and interpersonal abilities. He was making friends, finding other interests, and feeling pretty good about who he was. I had been there, and Coach Davis had been part of my development as well. 

I wrote my home number on the back of my business card and handed it to Tom Davis.

“Please call me, coach, if there is anything Matt needs or if you need to tell me anything about his progress. He looks great, you’ve done him a lot of good. I want to be involved. I’m glad he found you, or you found him!”

His hand brushed against mine as he took the card from my hand. I hesitated a beat too long before releasing the card, looking into his eyes and trying to read what was behind them. He grinned and pushed the card into his pocket, next to that very distinct bulge in his pants.

The drive back to New York that night was full of mixed emotions for me. I thrilled at having seen and spoken to Tom again. God, what a man! I couldn’t help having lusty thoughts about the big lug. How did he know about my sexual orientation at the age of twelve? What made him now think that Matt was gay? Was he merely judging Matt based on stereotypes, drawing conclusions because of his delicate features, his soft voice and his graceful mannerisms? Yet, Tom’s guidance had helped make me the optimistic and uncompromising man I am today, and I could only hope he could do the same for Matt. There was no question that Matt was thriving on Tom’s attention.

Weeks went by, the weather continued to get colder, and New York took on that icy gray sheen that comes with approaching winter. Yet, here and there were signs of a gentler world outside the city. A bale of hay and a few pumpkins in front of the school on the corner, the Thanksgiving cornucopias and fat turkeys the window of the corner grocery. Wollman Rink in Central Park was open again, and the citizens falling and sliding across the frosty white ice always made me cheer up. I called Matt a couple weeks after my trip to Trexler. He told me that Coach Davis had asked how I was doing. Then one morning, very early, the phone rang.

“Jimmy? It’s Tom, Tom Davis...Yeah, Hi! Did I wake you? Good. I’ve been in New York for a couple days now, I don’t know anyone here, and I’m feeling a little homesick. I wonder... um, if you might want to meet me for a drink tonight, or maybe dinner?

He was in Manhattan for a national conference on physical education, representing the southern Pennsylvania district. 

“My meetings should be over by 5:00 or so, and I can’t stand the thought of sitting in this hotel room another night. I guess I could go see a movie or something, but...”

Of course I jumped at the chance to have Tom to myself, if only for a few hours. We arranged to meet at the Millennium bar, a swanky, very New York watering hole in a sleek stainless steel and smoked glass hotel downtown near the Twin Towers site. I thought of him all day at the office, my concentration gone, daydreaming like a silly schoolgirl about the handsome man that I was going to meet later that night. I rushed back to my apartment, showered, and hopped a cab to Chambers Street.

He was already at the bar when I walked in. Everyone was wearing black, including me, the official uniform for trendy downtown New York society. (Severe, elegant, yet still flattering.) Tom looked sorely out of place in his khakis and Trexler letter jacket. I could sense his discomfort, and immediately regretted my choice of meeting place. I ordered a dirty Martini, but neither of us finished our drinks. I grabbed his big, brawny arm and led him out of the bar, through the Graves designed lobby, through gleaming chrome doors and into the blustery late November night.