Paul Sulzbacher's Arc

Chapter 1 of 1

Paul Sulzbacher wanted a championship, but he had no players to coach. He stood in his front yard at dawn, holding a whistle and a clipboard with nothing written on it. His garnet roof glowed above him. A sign on his fence read Gators suck! He had the dream. He had the field marked out behind his house. He had no team. He had come to Palta to build something. Back on Earth, he cheered for the Seminoles from the stands. Here, on this strange new world, he could actually coach. He could win. But a coach with no players was just a man yelling at grass. Paul had knocked on doors for a week. Nobody signed up. The people of Palta had never seen the game. They watched him mark chalk lines and thought he was mad. So he tried something new. He walked to the tan brick cathedral at the center of town, the biggest building for miles. Its stained glass burned with color in the morning sun. Inside, people gathered every day. If he wanted a crowd, he had to go where the crowd already was. He pushed open the heavy doors. Dark oak pews stretched toward a bright altar. Above him, a huge pipe organ filled the choir loft. Faces turned. Paul climbed the steps to the front and held up his clipboard. "I need eleven of you," he said. His voice echoed off the stone. "I'm building a team. We're going to win a championship." Silence. A red and gold cat wandered down the aisle and sat, watching him. Somewhere a child laughed. Paul's face went hot. He gripped the clipboard harder. Then a broad-shouldered young man in the third pew stood up. "What's a championship?" he asked. "It's the reason you get up in the morning," Paul said. "It's proving you're the best. Together." The young man walked forward. Two of his friends followed. Then a tall woman near the back rose. Then four more. They did not fully understand the game. But they understood Paul meant it. By the time the organ started for the service, eleven people stood around Paul at the altar. He wrote their names on his clipboard, one after another. His hand shook. "Practice starts tomorrow," Paul told them. "Behind the house with the garnet roof." They nodded. They filed out into the light, his first team, laughing and asking questions he could not yet answer. Paul walked home alone with a full clipboard. He had players now. But he stopped at his fence and looked at his chalk lines. Eleven bodies did not make a team. They knew nothing of the game. He had promised them a championship, and none of them could catch a ball.