Westbrook Academy for Metahumans: Forums

The rules changed a bit from back when Coach Armstrong was coaching regular football. He’d spent the past month catching up on regulation changes and new articles in relation to competitive high school playbooks, but it was a labor of love. He was looking forward to it. Real football, real contact, real competition.

In the past, the Mustangs mostly did battle with each other on the intramural level Now and again, they’d have a ‘friendly’ flag football game with some of the other meta academies around Paragon, but this was the first year of an organized league. He’d be damned if they weren’t ready for it.

Practice for now was open, anyone could walk on the field and work out, but with hell week starting soon, two-a-day practices - that would likely make it clear who was serious about football, and who wanted to warm a bench just to get a uniform.

Coach Armstrong inhaled the scent of freshly cut grass before blowing twice on his whistle, surveying the players over the field, a smile spreading across his usually stoic face.

“Who’s all ready to run some drills?”

Espy immediately stepped up and give a huge grin. This was his first practice, the opening sentence the next big chapter of his life. For him football was more than just a game, it was art, it was life. If anyone could enjoy practice, it was him.

"I'm ready for anything, coach. What are we starting with? Laps? Sprints? I'm pumped."

Espy stretched his arms behind his head, looking to his teammates. He brought his attention back to the coach. "This is hell-week, and I'm challenging you to wipe this big handsome grin off of my face before the day is done."

"Hold your horses hot shot." Coach Armstrong said with a grin his own. 'Two-a-days are starting soon, right after we separate the players from the pretenders who want to look pretty in their Letterman jackets. Right now we're just going to shake off some rust and dust for anyone who took it easy over the summer. Stretch out those hamstrings boys and girls, we're going to hit a little of everything today - starting off easy." He smiled again. "With wind sprints."

Guillermo took his place on the line, looking to both sides, gauging the athleticism of his teammates. This was a competition. He wanted to win, even in practice, he was going to try and make sure he beat everyone to every line, and last longer than everyone else. He touched his fingers down, getting into a perfect three-point stance, watching as the two kids to his side shrugged and copied him. He smirked, and turn his face towards the other side of the field.

"Ready when you are, coach."

Diya walked onto the field just in time to hear the commandment from Coach Armstrong about "windsprints." Those hadn't come up in any of her Google searches. She didn't have Brook's Google-fu, so it was possible she missed something, but she wasn't about to let anyone know her confusion.

She watched for a moment as the other students started lining up, some like Espy assuming a sort of crouched position - oh, like some of the track runners she'd seen before. Okay, maybe this wouldn't be so weird after all. She shrugged out of her old team jacket, taking a moment to look ruefully at it's bright red fabric, which really did clash against Westbrook maroon. The TEAM USA emblem she'd been so proud of once was beginning to crack and fade.

Oh well, she'd have a new letterman jacket to replace it soon enough. She tossed the jacket aside and jogged up to join her new teammates.

Coach Armstrong blew a short blast on his whistle, setting the first line of players in motion. The players sprinted to the 40 yard line, then jogged back on the outside of the cones. As soon as the first line cleared the 40, Coach Armstrong blew his whistle again, and the second line sprinted towards the 40.

Guillermo sprinted at the first blow of the whistle, sprinting full speed, grunting, pumping his arms in perfect form while extending the opposite leg forward with each pump. He had his hands open like he was doing a karate chop, and his head up as he leaned forward to get to the line. Instead of jogging back, he sprinted again, taking his place behind the second line, immediately getting into his three point stance again as the second line sprinted forward. He took the moments to catch his breath, but kept his eyes on the prize.

Lauren stood up from her stretch and looked toward the field where future football stars and wannabes both ran sprints. Likely there were a few people who fit in between the two extremes to be second stringers or benchwarmers. She called to Peyton and jerked her head in the direction of the field, as if Peyton could have somehow missed the blasts of Coach Armstrong’s whistle.

“It looks like we’re not the only ones out here making the field look good,” she quipped.

She watched the hopefuls sprint a few more times, mostly out of curiosity, not watching any particular person.

“Hey, Lauren? Are you going to join us?” At the sound of Peyton’s voice, Lauren snapped her attention back to the practice she was actually there for.

Coach Armstrong crossed his arms, his whistle still dangling on his lip as he watched the hopefuls try to impress him. Now and again he'd make some sort of notation on his clipboard. He thought back to the difference between last years drills and this year. Last year, the team was lackluster. Intramural - you show up, you get a jersey. But this? He smiled a bit to himself. To say a fire was lit under a few asses was an understatement. But this was just the first drill. Already one or two wannabees were tiring themselves out. He let them have one more go round, then blew his whistle and pointed to the rope ladders on the ground.

"One foot!" He boomed. "Two times, then two times crossovers. Anyone who has no idea what that means, back of the line. Watch and learn."

Espy grinned. He thought briefly about Terrell Owens posting a video of this online to show teams his still had it, now, he was going to show the coach what he was made of. He'd be damned if anyone got to the head of the line before he did. He put one foot between each of the rungs, keeping his knees high and his feet tapping. This was one of the view drills his brief stint with ballet helped with the most. As he finished the one foot drill, he made his way to the second rope ladder, doing the drill a second time.

He snaked his way over to the third ladder on the the field, hopping side to side over the line as he performed crossovers easily, he grinned as he felt the enjoyable burn in his legs. When he finally finished the drill, he made his way back to the line, patting the last guy on the shoulder. He was still trying to catch his breath.

"Try not to think of the pain, man. Football is 30% Physical, 70% Mental. You got this."