Almighty Coach

Trash was scattered on the uneven road. A car whose rims had long been stolen was parked on a patch of grass that hadn’t been cut in a long time. The car’s front windows were shattered, and stains of dried blood could be seen on the messy seats.

On both sides were old and rundown apartments. The paint of the upper walls was peeling off, whereas the lower walls were covered in graffiti. Those who didn’t know any better might have thought that these were art pieces, but they were actually gang signs. It was to tell the outside world that the place was their territory, and at the same time, it warned rival gangs to stay out.

This was a poor neighborhood, and it was the same as every other poor neighborhood in America. It was chaotic and run down, and violence and crime were common. When it got dark, even the LAPD was not willing to go there. And those so-called cultural facilities distanced themselves from areas like these.

A black youth lay in a corner. His body was curled up, his hands raised to protect his head. Surrounding him were four youths who were hitting and kicking him.

On the hood of the old car sat a youth with blonde shaved hair. He was covered in tattoos and had half a cigarette in his mouth. He was looking down at the black youth condescendingly. He said fiercely, "Tim, did you spend too much time at the youth detention center? Even your brain got disciplined until it became dull? I am giving you one more chance. Say it again."

"No, I’m not going to sling for you!" The black youth shouted in a trembling voice, twisting his body.

"It seems like your brain is still not awake after a beating." The blond-haired youth flicked his cigarette and looked at the black youth with contempt. He waved his hands, and the others continued the beating.

"Tim, do you understand what you need to do now?" the blonde haired youth asked.

"If I deal for you, once I get caught by the cops, I’ll get sent back to the detention center. I won’t be able to keep boxing," the youth said while panting heavily.

"So what? It won’t be your first time going to the youth detention center. Who here hasn’t been to that damned place!" the blonde haired youth said coldly.

"I promised Kevin Taylor that I will practice boxing seriously. I will not get involved in any sort of crime. I want to become a boxer," the youth said.

"A boxer? Hehehe. You need to wake up from your dream!" The blonde haired youth jumped off the hood, bent down, grabbed the black youth’s hair, and said, "Tim, you should understand, you live here and you are poor. In this neighborhood, you either steal, or you follow me! There is no third option. This is your fate in life. You can’t change it... So, you need to help me deliver some goods. You’ve got no choice."

As the blonde haired youth spoke, he kicked the black youth again. He then waved his hands, turned around, and walked away with his lackeys.

After about ten minutes, the black youth got up with difficulty, and limped away in the other direction...

...

Kevin Taylor’s boxing gym.

Taylor walked leisurely around the boxing gym, and finally stopped in front of Chris Payton.

"These kids aren’t giving you any trouble, right?" Taylor asked.

"No," Payton shook his head. "Their behavior is much better than I thought. My impression was that kids who came out of youth detention centers were dangerous people, each one like an explosive barrel, just a bit of spark and they blow up."

"Actually they are just trying to make themselves seem stronger; that is how they survive. In reality, they want a peaceful life. I was the same when I was young. I fought everywhere. Using violence to solve everything. My aim was to make sure my peers didn’t bully me," Taylor said with a sigh.

Payton pointed to a black youth who was training. "Something happened to Tim. When he came in today, he was covered in bruises, and they aren’t there because of boxing practice. He most likely got into a fight with someone."

Taylor looked at the black youth and thought for a few seconds. He said, "According to the information we have, he was sent to the youth detention center twice. The first time was because of theft, and the second was because he had a small number of drugs on him."

"Did he touch any of that stuff?" Payton asked.

"Of course he didn’t touch any of that stuff. Otherwise, he would be in a drug rehabilitation center, and not here." Taylor lowered his voice as he spoke, and continued, "He lives in the south side. That place is dangerous. There are a lot of Mexicans who snuck in illegally. Fighting should be something that is very common there."

...

"Coach, I didn’t fight with anyone. Please don’t send me away!" The black youth called Tim looked very nervous.

"Then how did your injuries come about? Don’t tell me you got them during your boxing training. My training doesn’t cause injuries like that," Payton asked.

Tim hung his head low and stayed silent for a while before saying, "Some guys who live near me wanted me to deliver some goods for them. I didn’t agree to it, so they beat me up. But I didn’t fight back, I didn’t fight."

"Delivering goods? Drugs, right?" Payton said. He suddenly had a feeling of deja vu, as if he saw a small-time drug pusher specializing in using minors to deliver drugs to buyers.

"I will never deliver for them again," Tim said firmly. "Even if they beat me up again, I still won’t do it. I want to become a professional boxer, just like Kevin Taylor. Win the title of the boxing champion. I know that he and I are the same, we both came from youth detention centers. I believe that I will be able to do it."

Having a role model is really powerful! Payton sighed and asked, "You rejected those gangsters, but they wouldn’t let you off so easily, right?"

Tim didn’t answer, but the panic in his eyes said everything.

"Where is your house?" Payton asked.

"In the south side..." Tim gave him an address.

"Haha. No wonder I had a feeling of deja vu." Payton suddenly laughed and continued, "Tim, this afternoon, after you finish practicing, I will take you home! Coincidently, my home is also nearby. It’s been a while since I last went home."

...

An old Chevrolet Impala entered the rundown neighborhood.

The car was very popular in America. It was a typical American-style economy car. The car was large enough, with plenty of interior space, and the trunk was spacious as well. It was not a very high tech car, but it was enough. The engine was strong, and the car was cheap. To Americans, who typically practiced pragmatism, it was a very cost-effective choice.

On the side of the street, a short tattooed man had noticed the car quite a while ago. The tattooed man was obviously a gang member. At that point, he unconsciously touched the gun on his waist.

The Impala was too common in America. A lot of criminals chose to steal conventional cars in order to avoid being tracked by the police. So the tattooed man worried that the person in the car might be dangerous. They might pull out a submachine gun in the next second and start spraying everyone.

"Don’t be nervous, he is one of our own. That is Chris’s car." A bald black man who was wearing sunglasses and a large gold chain patted the short guy’s shoulder and said, "Although Chris only comes back a few times a year, I still recognize his license plate number."

"Chris? Which Chris?" The short guy hadn’t registered what was said.

"Chris Payton! Payton’s third son. This neighborhood is all part of their family’s turf. But I’ve heard Chris doesn’t get involved with his family’s business. He became a sports coach elsewhere. He usually doesn’t come back," the bald black man with the glasses said.

"A sports coach? A Payton working in a proper job? Hahaha, only an idiot would believe that!" The short guy laughed and looked in the direction the Impala had gone. "Is he driving to ’Yellow Hair’ Jack’s territory? Payton’s house is on the left, isn’t it?"

"Maybe he has some other business." The bald man with the sunglasses lit the cigarette in his hands, took a deep breath, and blew out a smoke circle. "Jack only took control of that street last year. I’m not sure if he’ll recognize Chris Payton."

...

In the car, Tim looked nervously around him.

"Coach, you don’t need to drive me. You can just stop here. I can walk back by myself," Tim said.

"It’s no problem. I’ve been here before. I don’t even need a navigational system," Payton said nonchalantly.

"Coach, it has been very chaotic here recently. There are a lot of gangsters, and there are also many illegal immigrants from Mexico. If a stranger lingers here too long, it will be dangerous. If we meet with any issues, even if we call the cops, the cops will take a long time to arrive," Tim said in a worried tone.

"I said it’s okay. You don’t need to worry about me. Oh, I need to make a right turn here?" Payton pointed at the crossroad in front.

"Yes, a right turn, and then a left turn, and you will arrive at my house," Tim said, while praying that they won’t meet the blonde haired youth. Otherwise, it might bring trouble to Payton.

...

"Boss, Tim lives there. He should have just returned home." The thug pointed at a run-down apartment from far away.

"Go, go find him. Right now I lack delivery men." The blonde haired youth waved his hands at some of his lackeys.

An old Chevrolet Impala came from a distance, stopping at the apartment entrance.

Tim stepped out of the car, turned around, and saw the yellow-haired youth coming for him.

"Coach, you need to leave now!" Tim shouted loudly.

Payton didn’t listen to Tim. He opened his car door, got down, turned around, and looked at the yellow-haired youth.

...

"Boss, it’s Tim! And it looks like he brought help."

"So what if he has help? This street is my turf. What I say goes," the blonde haired youth snorted coldly and brought his lackeys forward.

...

"Mind your own business and get the hell out of here, f*cker!" The blonde-haired youth’s tone was very arrogant.

"Who are you?" Payton stared coldly at the blonde haired youth.

"This entire street belongs to me. If I kill you right here, the police won’t be able to do anything. The only thing that will happen is that the missing persons’ statistics gets an additional number. So get out of here while I am still in a good mood!" The blonde haired youth’s attitude became more and more arrogant.

But Payton just smiled disdainfully and said, "As far as I know, all the streets around this area belong to the Paytons."

He knows about the Paytons. The blonde haired youth paused. He stared at Payton, trying to figure out whether or not he was a gangster. But from his appearance, besides looking very muscular, the youth couldn’t see anything different.

"Who exactly are you?" the blonde haired youth asked impatiently.

"I am a coach. I’m Tim’s coach," Payton pointed at Tim.

"Only a coach? Hahaha... sticking your neck out like this, and here I thought you were Batman or Captain America!" The blonde haired youth couldn’t help but laugh maniacally, and the gangsters around him also started to laugh.

However, Payton ignored the ridicule of the gangsters and said, "I am Chris Payton."

"Like I care what your... Wait. Payton? Did he just say, Payton?" The blonde haired youth’s laughter suddenly stopped. His expression was frozen.

In the next second, the blonde haired youth asked his lackeys, "What did he say his name was?"

"Boss, he said his name was Chris Payton," the gangster beside him said immediately.

"Chris Payton. What a familiar sounding name. He’s a Payton, and a coach. And he has such a fearless look even though he is here..." The blonde haired youth suddenly thought about the rumored third son of the Payton family.

Although Chris Payton didn’t participate in his family’s business, the street gangs in that area all knew of his existence. As someone who grew up in a gangster household, yet chose to leave their world and work a proper job, Chris Payton was definitely different from the sort of people they new. It was easy for people to remember him.

"You are Chris!" The blonde haired youth finally realized that he had kicked against a piece of iron. He was just a small time street gangster. At most, he was only an affiliate member of the Payton family. All the blocks nearby were part of the Payton family’s sphere of influence. If got on the Payton family’s bad side, someone would most likely bring his head to the Paytons as a tribute. So the blonde haired youth could not afford to offend Chris Payton.

"I prefer people to call me Coach Payton. I also don’t want to see people bullying my students." Payton’s expression had become cold.

"I understand, Coach Payton. I swear I will never harass Tim again!" The blonde haired youth was able to control a street. He wasn’t brainless.

...

"Okay, you don’t have to worry about them giving you trouble anymore. If they still continue to harass you, just let me know. At least on these few blocks, my words still carry some weight." Payton patted Tim on his back.

"Coach Payton, thank you!" Tim’s eyes were filled with admiration. Payton was not used to that.

I think a lot of athletes look at Coach Li with this kind of expression! It feels pretty nice." Payton laughed as he entered his Chevrolet.

Payton started his engine, placed it into gear, and looked forward.

In the distance, the blonde haired youth and his lackeys had already gone far, but their backs could still be vaguely seen.

Even if they can’t get Tim, they will find some other teenager to help them deliver their goods... Payton’s felt a strange sort of sadness.

He could help the first Tim, or even the second or third Tim, but he couldn’t help everyone. The blonde haired youth could always find some other kid.

There were too many poor people in the area. It was just like the blonde haired youth said; if the poor wished to live, they could only follow the laws of survival.

The cruel reality. Helplessness and desperation! But I am not the one who has the strength to change things... Chris Payton turned his head to look into the distance. High up, there was a billboard, and on the billboard, a presidential candidate’s huge promotional poster was smiling at him.

Chris Payton gave a mocking smile. He suddenly didn’t want to go home. He stepped on his gas pedal and headed in a different direction.