“They say gymnastics and rock climbing are individual sports but I don’t believe that for a second,” Coach Nelson continues. He’s dangling by one foothold and one handhold, letting the other side of his body swivel out into space while he looks down at us. “No man is an island,” he says. “Do you know who wrote that?” he asks. While we chew on the question, Coach Nelson turns back to the wall and expertly scurries over and up another four feet. The harness clipped around his waist and thighs connects to two ropes that ripple as he moves. The ropes go up into the rafters through bolted pulleys and drop down to the floor, where Bruce is holding them. Bruce tracks Coach Nelson’s ascent with a lifeguard’s watchfulness.

Coach Nelson now dangles from only one small rock handhold, his Popeye forearm flexing as three fingers form a claw attaching him to the wall. He swings a leg and catches a small rock chunk with his toe, then holds the position like he’s been spattered by a giant flyswatter.

“It’s tempting to pretend you don’t need anyone else, that your work and your score are yours alone,” Coach calls down to us. “You pretend if you do poorly, you only hurt yourself, and if you do well, the glory is all yours.” Coach Nelson grapples with a few smaller chunks bolted into the wall, then reaches with an outstretched hand for a piece of round stone that is beyond his splayed fingertips. No way is he going to grab it—and then somehow he does and pulls himself another two feet higher. He’s almost at the top now. “But glory is no fun if, when you look around, you have no one to share it with,” he calls down to us. “Make no mistake, gymnastics is a team sport. We count on each other in this gym: to spot each other on tricks, to offer advice and guidance on better technique, to push each other to do an extra strength set, to lead by example. The judges count the three best scores, not just your score. Remember that.”

I glance around at my teammates and every set of eyes follows Coach Nelson as he makes his way upward. Some guys sit on the thick vaulting mats, some stand, some work on their hamstrings and straddle stretch, but all faces tilt up to watch Coach Nelson’s progress. Since everyone but Ronnie and Pete—the two freshmen—have attempted the wall climb, we know how impossible it is to do what Coach Nelson makes look so easy. Only Bruce has made it all the way since I’ve been on the team.

A small bell jingles.

“Most importantly,” Coach Nelson calls down from the top of the wall, where his outstretched hand flicks the dinner bell attached to the rafter—good for a free KFC meal with Coach if any of us can repeat the performance—“you need your teammates to be around when you need help because just when you think you’ve conquered the world all by yourself, something comes along and sweeps you right down to the bottom . . .waahhh . . . oh . . .”

Coach Nelson begins waving his free hand theatrically and then slips from the wall. He plummets eight feet before the ropes on his harness snap taut. The pulleys squeak, and at the other end, Bruce’s arms flex as the momentum of the winding ropes lifts his anchoring body four feet up in the air. Gradley reaches over to help stop the rope and pull Bruce back down to the ground.

“Good catch, boys,” Coach Nelson calls down, seeming to enjoy hovering in the air in the harness. Paul Kim reaches for the rope after the fact and Bruce, Paul, and Gradley slowly play the rope out through their hands, lowering Coach Nelson to the ground. When his feet touch, he unclips the harness. He claps his hand on Bruce’s shoulder. “Thanks again.”

Bruce nods, looking like he just aced a test.

“If your captain can catch your coach, he’ll damn well catch you,” Coach Nelson says. “The old cliché is true. There is no ‘I’ in ‘team.’ You see a teammate needing help, you help him. You see a teammate goofing off—in the gym, in class, outside of school at a party where he might get hurt or hurt others—it’s your responsibility to step up and help him.” Coach Nelson cracks a grin at Fisher. “And, no, Fish, that doesn’t mean help him drink more.”

“Aw, Uncle Jesus.”

“When old guys like me tell you backup’s coming and they’re on the way, that the cavalry is coming, they’re lying,” Coach Nelson continues. “No one’s going to help you but you and your teammates. So, look around you. This is it. You guys rely on each other. This is your unit. This is what you have and that’s more than most get, so consider yourselves lucky.”

We look at each other, our eyes meeting, and I feel close to my teammates. They may not be gunning for a scholarship like I am, and maybe they don’t and won’t train as hard as I do, but they respect this sport and they respect me when I’m up on the bars. They want me to get good scores like I want them to get good scores.

“First two weeks of freshman season is, mentally, tough as it gets,” Coach Nelson says. “You don’t know anyone and you realize what we do in here is hard.” We all start laughing. “Now that we’re past the two-week mark and you haven’t quit, I want to officially welcome this year’s freshmen Pete Delray and Ronnie Gunderson to the team. Keep up the good work.”

Coach Nelson walks over to a bag and pulls out two faded, really faded, cotton T-shirts old as dirt. They’ve been washed and worn so many times, the fabric is like tissue paper and the original silk screen is barely legible. FRESHMAN CAPTAIN IN TRAINING, the shirts read if you look close enough. Coach Nelson hands the shirts to Pete and Ronnie. Pete looks confused but Ronnie looks like if you squeezed him, soap bubbles would come out of his open mouth because he’s so astonished he’s getting the shirt. I can’t help but smile watching Ronnie. It’s how I felt last year when Coach Nelson handed me and Paul Kim the same shirts. We returned them (laundered) at the end of the season. I wore mine a lot. I mean, a lot. Way more than Paul did. Judging from Ronnie’s face, he’ll be wearing it every other practice. Coach’s speech while he climbed the wall I didn’t mind hearing again, either.