"It's eight meters short of the two-mile," Luke said. "But yeah."
Jesse turned to me with the shake in his hand. I knew what was coming before he opened his mouth, the way you know a pitch is coming inside when the catcher shifts.
"Dad. What if we went."
"Went where."
"To Amicalola. To watch him. Practice is over at six-forty-five. If we left straight from the field, and I didn't shower, we could—"
"You're not going to make a seven o'clock race thirty miles up the mountain leaving at six-forty-five," I said. "Not on fifty-two. Not behind a chicken truck."
"So I leave early. I ask Coach to leave at six."
"In the first week."
"It's spring practice."
"It's the first week," I said again, "of the first spring you've got a shot at the job, and you want to walk up to Carl Haskell and ask to leave forty-five minutes early. You know what he'll hear? He'll hear, I don't want it bad enough. That's what he'll hear. Dillon Satterfield is not asking to leave early. I promise you that."
Jesse looked at his brother. His brother was still working on his shoe.
"It's fine," Luke said. "Seriously. It's sectionals. I'm just trying to get to state."