The Line You Don’t Cross
Coach Stone stood at the edge of the javelin runway with a stopwatch in one hand and a whistle hanging against the shine of his gold shirt.
Wells and Brock stood beside the throwing line, each holding a javelin, each pretending they were not already nervous.
Coach pointed down at the white mark across the track.
“That line,” he said, “is not decoration.”
Wells rolled his shoulders. “Coach, it’s a throw. Big run, big arm, big distance.”
Brock smirked. “Yeah. Let it fly.”
Coach Stone slowly lowered his sunglasses.
“It is a javelin,” he said. “Not a flex contest. Not two golden idiots trying to impress the grass.”
Wells shut his mouth.
Brock looked away.
Coach stepped between them and tapped the line with his shoe.
“You cross this, the throw is dead. You lose control, the throw is dead. You rush the release, the throw is dead.” His gaze moved from Wells to Brock. “Power means nothing if discipline does not carry it.”
Then he glanced at the javelins in their hands.
“And boys, when you’re handling something long, sharp, and dangerous, I expect control from start to finish.”
Wells blinked.
Brock coughed.
Coach smiled like he had said nothing unusual.
“Wells. You’re first.”
Wells charged down the runway like he was attacking a finish line, muscles tight, jaw clenched, javelin pulled back too hard. His release cracked through the air, but the point dipped early and stabbed into the field short of the marker.
Coach did not move.
“Again.”
Wells frowned. “That had power.”
“That had panic.”
Brock laughed once.
Coach turned his head. “You’re next.”
Brock’s run was smoother, lighter, almost cocky. His javelin flew farther than Wells’, but his final step slid over the line by half a shoe.
Coach blew the whistle.
“Dead throw.”
Brock looked down. “Barely.”
“Barely disqualified is still disqualified.” Coach tilted his head. “You got too excited at the end. Common problem. Fix it.”
Wells grinned.
Coach pointed at both of them.
“Again.”
The afternoon became repetition. Run. Plant. Pull. Release. Stop before the line. Wells kept trying to force distance with strength. Brock kept floating too close to the mark, trusting talent instead of form.
Each mistake earned the same answer.
“Again.”
By the tenth round, Wells’ arms were shining with sweat. Brock’s grin had vanished. The javelins no longer felt like props. They felt like tests.
Coach stepped behind Wells and adjusted his grip.
“Loose hand. Tall chest. Eyes forward. Don’t squeeze the life out of it, Wells. Guide it.”
Wells swallowed. “Yes, Coach.”
Then Coach moved to Brock and tapped his shoulder.
“Respect the line. It is not stopping you. It is shaping you.” He paused, letting the words land. “You can get right up to the edge, Brock. But you do not cross unless I say so.”
Brock’s ears went red.
Wells muttered, “Bro.”
Coach’s smile widened.
“Focus.”
The next throws changed.
Wells breathed first. He ran with control instead of fury, planted clean, and released high. The javelin cut through the evening light and landed past his previous mark.
Brock followed. Fast, smooth, disciplined. His foot stopped just short of the white line as his javelin sailed after Wells’.
Both throws landed deep in the field.
Coach looked at the marks, then back at them.
“Better.”
Wells bent forward, hands on knees, grinning. “So we’re good?”
Coach stepped closer, sunglasses catching the gold of the setting sun.
“You’re learning,” he said. “And when you finally learn to control the thrust, the release takes care of itself.”
Brock covered his face with one hand.
Wells laughed under his breath.
Coach blew the whistle once and pointed to the line.
“Again. Show me you can do it twice.”
For the first time all afternoon, neither of them stepped over it.
Better throws. Better discipline. Better bros. Step onto the field, lock into the rhythm, and let the Golden Army shape you into the player you were meant to become. Contact recruiters: @alton-gold77, @polo-drone-125
Featuring: @brockgold