Jack continues to draw Quin into a Story

Quin of course knew that he was probably committing to much more than that and he was sure that Jack was thinking of it that way.

Preston whipped out the set of keys that Quin had heard jingling through their whole run and undid the padlock that was holding the gate to the outfield shut. After Quin and he had stepped through and he had re-locked the gate, he began walking very briskly towards third base, and shouting simultaneously, “Gentlemen, give me one lap around the field, and then huddle up at third, now go.” Quin followed along behind almost having to trot to keep up with Jack’s walk.

Jack hollered the typical things you would expect a coach to yell the whole time the players circled the field.  As the last players straggled in Jack began his speech, “Men, I’d like to introduce you to Professor Holsten, Professor of English Literature. No he’s not out here to read you a sonnet, whatever the hell that is,” The players all chuckled and looked at their coach with obvious admiration for making fun of the egghead. Quin could feel them look at him, the egghead, with obvious suspicion as he slouched there soaked with sweat and the remains of his beer belly hanging over a too tight pair of old gray sweatpants. He deeply wished that he at least had a hat or glove to partially hide behind.

Coach Preston paused briefly as the players laughed and then continued, “No he’s here for a much more important reason. He’s here, because he was the best Fighting Carny to ever throw a baseball for dear old Appendix High School. A school both he and I are proud to name as our alma mater.” Quin subconsciously sucked in his stomach a little and thrust out his chest a little. He could feel the looks losing the edge of suspicion, and out of the corner of his eye he caught the skinny kid staring at him with great intensity.
“After graduating from dear old Appendix, he attended Stanford where they apparently gave him a degree in something or other,” more laughter, “But, more importantly he was a starting pitcher for two years for the Cardinals, who in case you did not know are one of the premier Division I programs in the country.” “He is here to help those of you who call yourselves pitchers, because he really is a pitcher. So, in the refined world of English Lit-ur-a-chure, those of you fortunate enough to be in one of his classes may refer to him as Professor Holsten,”

“Obviously, Jack hasn’t heard my, just call me Quin speech,” Quin thought. At the same time he was thinking that Jack was making a really nice speech. It was of course not as good as his “Power of Story” lecture was, but Jack’s speech did have passion in its favor, and most in its favor was that Coach Preston actually believed what he was saying.

Jack continued, “But, here where things are really important you will call him Coach Holsten, or if you are truly daring you may call him Coach Quin the Eskimo, because gentlemen, ice water flows through this man’s veins when he steps onto the mound.”

Quin winced inwardly at the thought of being called Coach Quin the Eskimo, and he also winced at how much Jack had built him up. He used to throw pretty hard, but now he was a rather overweight English Professor aging not that gracefully into his late-thirties. He fervently hoped that none of the players would have the balls to call him Coach Quin the Eskimo. Even more he hoped that they wouldn’t ask him to “burn one in here,” because he was all but certain his days of “burning ‘em in here” were past.

He made a very firm resolution there on the spot to survive this practice with a degree of dignity intact, and then very firmly and forcibly inform Jack Preston that he was not the least bit interested in being the pitching coach of a junior college baseball team. He even determined to be insulting and nasty if that were required. Still, he was aware that somewhere in the deepest part of him something had been stirred by the idea of being Quin the Eskimo once again.