Sam made it out to the athletic field, notebook in hand, just moments before Coach Burlington did. The coach hadn't noticed Sam's tardiness, but that wouldn't matter after a few moments. Mid-way through a run-down of what practice would be like, Sam got a blistering headache.
He shrugged off the headache easily enough, but when he looked back up at Coach Burlington, instead of the stout, hardened, stubble-chinned forty year-old in loose T-shirt and shorts, he saw a stout, not-so hardened, smooth-chinned teenager in a uniform identical to all the boys around him.
"Coach?" one of the boys prodded, "Are you okay?"
Sam covered for himself, "Yeah, it's just been an insane day." Then Sam got an idea. He indicated the notebook still in his hand, "In fact, it's not even over. I've still got some stuff I need to go through, so I've decided that I'm handing over the, uh," Sam reached for his neck and pulled off the silver whistle that was now resting there, "handing over the whistle to Terry. A good QB is a good leader, and I think this'll be a good experience for you all." Sam handed the necklace to Terry and addressed him directly, "Archer, you know what our normal workout is like. Be creative, but make sure you don't go easy. I'll be watching from the bleachers."
As Sam turned away, he had to pat himself on the back: he'd managed to get himself reasonably away from people and avoid having to lead a practice for a sport he'd never even played.
Sam examined himself, noting that he simply seemed to have aged twenty or so years, with no other physical changes. He hoped the changes were limited to that and his new position as coach, and wrote them down in his notebook.
Sarisfied with himself, Sam looked down at the field to where the boys were practicing, and then farther down to where the cheerleaders were just now taking their place at the far end of the field for their own practice.
