Huggstown

Exiting his office, Bob Huggins spared one moment to glance back into the room, his eye lingering on the Maker’s Mark bottle: it is a struggle every day, but for now, at least, there were more important things to worry about. He shut the door forcefully, walking out in a bad mood, again. His players just weren’t working hard enough. He made them run and all they did was complain. He looked out across the Mountainlair plaza, noticing his team running in the dying light of evening. The light dies early this time of year, in the heart of winter, but Bob just presses his players harder, blowing a whistle to indicate a short break. As the players collapse on the cold, hard ground, exhausted, he turns away in disgust and begins to descend the stairs with the hopes of a Philly Cheese Steak Sandwich from a local diner.
As several students stumbled past him-drunk already on a weekday evening-he called to mind the thoughts of his own struggle, of the bottle glistening red as fire back in his office. As these thoughts invaded his consciousness, his eyes wandered to the university employees hanging the Christmas decorations, one dancing an Irish jig on top of a cherry picker. Geez, it really was beautiful. But you had to be a loser to fully appreciate it: the ornaments gleaming in the windows, the lights placed daintily along the streetlights, all watching over the perfect picture of youth—a thriving university. He really did love it here sometimes, but damn, it was hard.
Everywhere he went his mistakes were thrown in his face; all the drunk students, the drugs being passed around, the apathy of his players, it all was almost too much to handle. Each time he saw someone making a mistake, he realized it was like looking in a mirror. How much of his life had he wasted? Was he basically a zombie, walking around like the living dead? He let out a long sigh and entered the diner where an attractive waitress politely asked him what his order would be. Saying nothing he walked to the corner to observe the menu in silence as his regret washed over him.
Standing in the corner of the restaurant, he looked out upon the customers, a few older guys watching the game on TV, and a young student sitting at a table quietly eating a hamburger with several large, mean looking chemistry books piled up around him. The boy was working at a ferocious pace, turning page after page, scribbling so quickly in a spiral notebook that Bob thought his wrist would break with the effort. Now that, he thought, is an effort my players could learn from. No longer hungry, but feeling much better, Bob opened the door and walked back towards his team, no longer aware of the reason he had been feeling so miserable in the first place. A blizzard had started, and the heavy flakes poured down upon his shoulders as he trudged back up the steps towards the team. As he gazed inside at them, laughing and carrying on as kids do, he felt a faint smile play across his lips. He turned away and walked back towards the diner, thinking he would buy that kid a milkshake to cool the fire burning deep within his heart, forcing him to work through his hardship.