Free Snow Melts in Spring by Deborah Vogts

ENTERED THE COACH’S SAN FRANCISCO OFFICE and handed him a folded piece of paper. “How many more of these documents do I have to sign?”
    The man’s smile revealed crooked teeth. “That’s the last of them, if you’re sure you want to go through with this.”
    A moment’s hesitation struck Gil before he nodded. “It’s time to give someone else a shot at the game. I had my chance.”
    “The fans will remember you, don’t worry. Your numbers are right up there with Young and Montana.” The cheerfulness faded in his eyes. “I’ve scheduled one more news conference with reporters later this afternoon and then you’re free to go.”
    His coach leaned over his desk and picked up a wood-framed photograph of the 49ers in their early years. “Nowadays, it’s hard to find players with staying power. You’re the last from the old team, who cared more about the game and the team you played for than the money you made. The boys and I are going to miss you.”
    “You’ll probably see me in the announcer’s box one of these days and then you’ll sing a different tune.”
    The man laughed and stood from behind his desk. “With you at the microphone, I know we’ll be in trouble.” He squeezed Gil’s shoulder with affection. “What will you do now?”
    Gil stared at the oak bookcase in his coach’s office, at the many pictures of his team through the years. “I’m not sure. Spend more time with the foundation — maybe buy a ranch up north.”
    “Why not take some time off and visit your dad? Repair the damage done after all these years.”
    “I just came from there. I’m not sure I want to go back so soon.”
    His coach reached into his pocket and pulled out a silver watch. He played with the chain between his thick fingers. “Here, I want you to have this.” The gray-haired man pressed the timepiece into Gil’s palm. “My first coach gave it to me when I was a boy. You’ve been like a son to me. I guess it’s time to hand it down.”
    Uncomfortable with the emotional display, Gil shook his head. “I can’t take your watch, Coach. You’ll never arrive to practice on time if I do.” He slapped his coach on the forearm in an effort to lighten the mood.
    The man glared at him. Gil had witnessed that determined look often enough to know not to argue. “My dad gave it to me, now I’m turning it over to you. Don’t lose it. It keeps good time . . . but remember, even the steadiest of us old-timers will stop running one day.”
    Coach always did have a way with words. Gil gripped the watch with his fingers and felt the smooth metal beneath his touch. “Thanks, Coach. I won’t forget.”
    After lunch, Gil’s secretary greeted him as he entered the fifth-floor office space where he ran his private foundation.
    “Welcome home, Mr. McCray.” The young blonde straightened in her chair, her posture perfect, and her nails a shade of dark pink that matched her lipstick.
    “Is everyone here for the meeting?” he asked as he passed her desk.
    She smiled and handed him a folder. “The last one slipped in about two minutes before you arrived.”
    “Good.” Gil took the document from her. He appreciated punctuality in his board members. “Hold any calls for the next few hours and don’t schedule me for anything this afternoon. Seems I have an appointment with some reporters.”
    He moved down the hall to the conference room. The second he opened the door, the flurry of conversation halted.
    “Good afternoon, everyone. Nothing like a few traffic jams and the smell of exhaust to welcome a person back to the city.” He raised his eyebrows, and they chuckled in return. Prepared to go to work, he removed his gray tweed jacket. “Show me what you’ve done while I’ve been gone.”
    For the next sixty minutes, Gil and his five board members discussed possible contributions, as they did every month. At the end of the session, a stack of paperwork sat in front of Gil on the table to review. His role as