Her dreadlocks were caught up in the shoulder strap of her carry on. She had put everything down to untangle herself.

Standing in line had used up every ounce of her patience and energy. Though she was on time. Selah was tired and just wanted to relax. Conferences were exhilarating, learning new ideas and networking, but the challenge was the preparation. Researching the topic and preparing the material was a natural progression for Seal's intellectual and creative talents, but the three weeks preceding the conference were hectic. Three of her clients had major emotional crisis and needed her nurturing support and therefore her time.

I just want to sit down, she thought to herself, as she rowed her luggage forward. "Dammit," this Barry White voice growled. "I'm sorry," Selah exclaimed as she whirled around to see whom she had accidentially hurt. The carryon again rowed over the foot attached to the same sexy growl. "Dammit, Can you move your luggage in another direction besides my foot, I hate to see you drive.”

Selah always had radar for attractive, sexy, and powerful men. When she was younger, pre-AIDS, her feminine radar would be like a heat-seeking missile programmed to hit its mark. Usually the missile hit the right spot and the only thing would be destroyed would be her ego. But AIDS, the natural maturation process, the desire for a real life, and a childhood episode of trauma became a wellspring from which she reconstructed herself and then discovered she had the talent for facilitating the healing process in others. Selah eventually acquired a long list of letters behind her name as well as a reputation for creativity and spiritually in therapy.

Though the radar did not blink or disturb her well-ordered and contented life, her connoisseur's eye rarely missed something this delectable.

Remember the principle of mindfulness and being in the moment, Selah realized she hadn't had a moment of carefree enjoyment or even being in the moment with a man in a very long time. Her mind had already moved to a white sandy beach and…

"Would you please stop attacking me with your luggage?" This smooth honey growl brought her back to the present and she dropped her remaining bag on this god creature's foot. Her radar was beeping loudly and her missile's would not work in his comedy of errors. She flopped down in her seat and attempted to regain her composure, winding her hair in an architectural sculpture of locks.

"I'm sorry, I'm really sorry," Selah said. Their eyes met in a recognition that was frightening yet equally enticing and her radar beeps were off the screen. She hurriedly arranged her luggage in the overhead and settled her purse and laptop for easy access. "Why am I acting like some tongue-tied teenager engaging in conversation with her fantasy lover," she admonished herself.

"He really is grouching, it was just an accident. The radar beeps had calmed down with the recognition of this stranger's self-righteous, but she was still disconcerted. They were just beeping loudly enough to pique her curiosity about this man.

Then Selah remembered her appearance. "Shit, I didn't wear any lipstick and my face is shining like a teenagers." Then Selah remembered her outfit, her home uniform of turtleneck sweater, thick socks and her leather duck clogs. She banged her head against the seat pillow as she silently condemned her tendency to place comfort ahead of fashion.

Even though she had lost eighty pounds and exercise was an integral thread in tightly woven and exquisitely scheduled life, she still dressed frumpy when she wanted to relax. Since she had stopped being a professional student, she tended to dress in elegantly eclectic funky manner. She had worked hard to obtain any type of style, since she was six feet and two inches, voluptuous and had been a professional student, which left little money for any fashion. Ce le vie, Selah signed as she closed her eyes to relax and breathe. Musing about that god she had managed to attack with her luggage. "I sure have a great come-on," laughing out loud at the situation in her imagination, putting her long legs in the aisles.

He was tired. He felt like a sardine in a tight can. Usually he was first class where his six feet and something frame could at least bend and begin to unleash his trussed wings and increase the range of motion in his arms. Too many miles on these bones, as he adjusted his frame into the seats designed for the average American. Have these designer seen today’s children?

The six foot and seven inch former football player looked across the aisle at the woman who had just cold cocked him with her luggage. Her hair reminded him of a piece of sculpture her had seen in an art museum on some dimly remembered date.

They both laughed instantly at each other's plight. The plight of tall people as their feet bumped into each other's at the same time.

He didn’t usually notice women unless they were between 20 –25 youthful then long hair, and light bright to red bone, but it was hard not to notice someone determined to notice them, even if it was an accident. He glanced again across the aisle again at the woman with too many bags; she was laughing quietly to herself, her almond eyes slightly crinkling with a champagne smile.

"My name is Selah Nahila. Where are heading to or running from?"

"Christopher Hamilton and hopefully I'm heading toward the head coaching job with the Cincinnati Scorpions. I have my final interview today. And you?"

"I'm heading home. I live in Cincinnati. And I hope you get the job. Maybe you can cure this decade of losing. Again they always want us to clean up after they have made a mess of everything. They probably should have gotten a black coach sooner and they wouldn't be in such a dismal state," whispering across the aisle conspiratorially.

"Well, I prefer to look at it as a monumental challenge and an opportunity, though you're right.

But I'm tired of being a journeyman assistant coach. It's time to put up or shut up, shit or get off the pot, realizing he had never felt this comfortable with a women, plus I'm tired of moving around," leaning across the aisle.

"What do you do for a living?" her eyes making him suddenly curious.

"I'm a clinical social worker in private practice. Basically I'm a counselor," she said, hoping he wasn’t one of those black people who thought mental health was only for white people.

"They aren't many African American counselors," suddenly solemn after remembering how hard it was to find an African American counselor for one of his players who had snapped after overcoming a horrific childhood only to succumb finally to the pressures of professional football.

"Nope, probably the same proportion as African American coaches," understanding the challenges of climbing the career ladder for African Americans.

The conversation continued, warmly and friendly all the way to the luggage carousel. Cards were exchanged, with the requisite office numbers. Of course, no one wanted to seem too interested.

He grabbed his bag. "That's my bag," she said, reaching simultaneously for the same bag, "No, it isn't, that's my bag, mellowly focused on his purpose. To nail this job.

He grabbed the bag out of her hands and started toward the door and hopefully a waiting cab. He wanted to be early for this interview.

"Look, I know my own bag," she shouted. "Shit, I have all this stuff and now I have to run after him, murmuring under her breath. Trotting after him, her multitude of bags, offbeat wings flapping around her.

"Give me my bags, my bag has a small dot underneath by the crease," he said breathing hard and praying he wouldn't think of her as a coach potato.

"Why didn't you say that before I left the carousel?"

"You stalked away before I could finish what I was about to say. Why are you snapping at me because you chose not to listen? What makes you think I want your bag?"

He pivoted and walked away.

"Mr. Hamilton, I'm glad to finally meet with you. I've heard great things about you. Please have a seat."

"Thanks, can I have a glass of water? I'm just a little thirsty. The plane was late and my luggage was momentarily lost."

"I'm glad to see you are on time," noting how smoothly that little white lie slid off his lips.

His scout at the airport had told him he had left the plane with a woman with dreadlocks, but they had discreetly argued over luggage and went their separate ways. Mr. Hamilton's reputation with women was the only black mark on a remarkable coaching career.

He had coached five Super Bowl offensive teams, but his divorces and the intermittent romances were very high profile.

"Well, I try to plan ahead for the unexpected and I believe in not wasting anyone's time."

"Thank you for your consideration, now could you tell me why you think you are ready to become a head coach for a professional football team?"

"As you can see by my resume, I have about fifteen years of assistant coaching experience. For a short time, I was offensive coordinator for the Scorpions under Sam Williams. My coaching experience is equally divided between college and professional sports. And I have worked with some of the most talented and winniniest coaches working in the field. I really enjoy developing the talent of young men and helping them to grow into responsible manhood."

"So you believe the coach's role extends beyond winning games?"

"Yes, the coaching staff has first-hand knowledge of the pressures of a student-athlete or a young man entering the professional arena of sports"

"Sounds like you believe the coach is also a surrogate father?"

"Yes, I do."

"But how did you come to this conclusion?"

"I'll be honest, during my early years as a player and then a coach, I fell prey to the lifestyle temptations of big-time sports. But I quickly learned, what glitters is not gold." He also knew that Mr. Sorenson was under enormous pressure from city government and the fans to produce a winning team and only have his players in the paper for sports, not vehicular homicide, domestic violence, and other public scandals, which had plagued the Bengal players lately.

"You're speaking of your two divorces and your very public romances. I know one's martial status and private life are not supposed to be integral to the selection process, but you are experienced enough to know the head coach is very much in the public arena, sort of the father figure of the football family in the media. You do remember the flak Jimmy Johnson got for divorcing his wife of 20 years and running off with his barber. Let me be frank, we are very interested in offering the job to you, but Cincinnati is very conservative and though north of the Ohio river, it is still a very Southern town. If we hire you, we need for you to project the right image."

"And if you have a wife, keep your mind on coaching instead of having to fight off the temptations of every gold digger east of the Mississippi," he though quietly to himself. "And the white women were the worst," wearily remembering how hard it was to quiet the potential powder keg surrounding his own daughter and this first round draft pick and his biracial grandson, illegitimate of course. His daughter was fit to be tied and then became very suicidally depressed when the father married his childhood sweetheart from his hometown.

"In other words, if I produce a suitable fiancee', I'll have the job.

"Right".

"If you have a winning season and married after that season, we will contemplate extending your contract to three years."

"I do understand your position, but I have been married twice and I really want to make my next committed relationship to lead to a marriage which lasts."

"Do you want the job or not?"

"Yes," his exhilaration tempered by the realization that there was always some bullshit attached to the career ladder which was only felt by black people and also he had no idea how he was going to produce a fiancée'. Climbing the ladder of success. A ladder where each rung you climbed, tip toeing to avoid slip sliding on the side rails. Trying to crack the last bastion of illusory success in his chosen profession.

“We will probably not extend the current coach’s contract , of course we will conduct the prequisite search, you’ll have to come back a couple of times for appearance’s sake and when we make the announcement I’ll expect your fiancée’ at your side.”

Standing up, he realized he was in a predicament as he shook Mr. Sorensen’s hand. Walking out the room he felt the weariness of African American men across time. Pushing the boulder up the mountain and knowing the boulder could crush you at any moment because the mountain was not his to climb.

Leaving the new opulent offices of the Scorpions, he began to walk around downtown.

"Where my people at?" he wondered to himself. Like most black people he didn’t feel comfortable until he knew where the hood was located, the poor hood, the middle class hood, the upper class hood. Never knew when you had to break, run and hide. Some anxiety producing extra gene, the lynching gene. The people were typical Midwestern for a mid-sized city. The black people had forgotten the age-old custom of nodding or speaking. There was a few who tried to make eye contact, but mainly AFRICAN AMERICAN had taken on the veneer of importance on their midday excursions on the street. He knew he was noticed. It was hard to miss this towering giant of black maleness.

After checking out the sites, the pigs, the fountain, he found himself back at his hotel room. Throwing himself on the bed, trying to gather his strength to fight the elusive obstacle placed on his path. At forty five, he knew football was a business, he just he didn’t want his profession in his personal business. Maybe he should have stayed in the collegiate black football league. The money wasn’t great and the respect and prestige was nominal unless you were Grambling’s Eddie Robinson. But his ambition had propelled him out of that cocoon-like world. Also the fact, it was becoming harder to resist the temptation of this new generation of African American young women.

They were not content to throw themselves at the football players; they enjoyed the challenge of dealing with the sharks; the coaches, the administrators, the grown men.

Too many temptations, too many traps. “Maybe, I should get some room service," he said to himself as he flipped on the TV. But as disgusted with his current predicament, he knew it was now or never. He couldn’t contain his excitement about the possibility of becoming a head coach of a professional football team.

Pulling his Palm Pilot, he flipped through his numbers. Most of the people he knew in Cincinnati were part of the football business and were no longer in the city. Others still at work probably, so he left messages. There were a few women. But he hated calling. Never knew when a man would answer the phone. But then the woman with the sea of honey face came across his mind, laughter tickling at some part of his heart, a part hidden and dormant form even him. He realized he needed to apologize. It was just his mind was on the interview. “Where did I put her card at," he said out loud to himself, going through his jacket and coat pocket and his briefcase. Finding the card and picking the phone, he thought she might be good for some of the more troubled players. Maybe a place to discharge some of the pus from their childhood wounds. I wonder if she knows anything about sports.