The nose, long and thin came to a point under the brim of his red baseball cap, lest you forget his name. The narrow slits on the long fragile face followed the ball bouncing around the field. He flashed a glance over his peppered beard at the professional he hired to run his team. They were losing, again.

Red paced the sideline, clenching his clipboard tightly. "They're stealing this. We're letting them steal this," he mumbled to no one particular, rotating his head from side-to-side in disapproval. "We should have scored 5 times!" He looked down, whispering, stomach in knots.

Everything has a place, a proper way. His house immaculate, because everything has a place. Separate closets for him and her, with his shoes polished side-by-side beneath the suits hung in hue, from black to dark blue. Nothing was allowed out of place. Nothing personal infringed upon the image of his space. Everything clean, fastidious. His wife stood her role, thin, pale, quiet. She hated him as much as he hated himself, but they were parents, and he was a good catch, her parents once thought.

The children were always neatly attired. Each started school a year late, to give them a competitive edge. It seemed to work, as they were encouraged to their strengths, whether athletic or academic, they were propelled to succeed. There was no need for them to be multi-disciplined, they were pushed to the strength Red identified. Everything has a proper way, Red's way.

"No! No! No!" he shouted from under his brim, as the opponents scored, again. He turned to his professional hired gun and stated in demand, "We're better than this!"

"Dad, can I come out?!"

No matter what it took, Red was a closer. Sure, he sued some of his clients and his clients and partners occasionally sued him. Yeah, he had unusually high legal bills for his kind of business, but the business made money, image money, and that was the goal, as he had responsibilities. Everyone quietly knew he loved seeing his name on the signs all over town, but they also knew he could close, no one had ever outlasted him in persuasive conversations, and wearing people down works, he found. Red could be unrelenting.

There were two kinds of people in Red's life, those who did not care for him, and those wanting to be included, too naive to realize their place was as an accessory. He was sure those who did not care for him were envious, which made it easy for him to put them aside, in their place, though he wished his wife would shut-up and better understand her place.

"Dad, can I come out? I don't want to play goalie anymore! I want to play forward," the 10 year old shouted across the field.

The professional trainer, the only person being paid in the children's recreational soccer league, dropped his head and turned away. Red pulled his son out of the goal box and positioned him on the field where he wanted to play. The professional knew Red's son was off limits.

"You played great," Red lied to himself and his son, aloud. Then he turned to the rest of the team on the field. As they neared the end of their loss he shouted "You guys are better than this! Come on, pick it up!"

"It's 'cause your son sucks," one ten-year-old whispered to another, very aware the wrath of Red was beyond earshot. They both laughed.

"Get into the game, boys! I'm not going to lose," he demanded.

Red walked the sideline, his mind spinning. He was not a loser. He paid for a professional. These kids had the best. "Perhaps the professional was losing his touch? There is someone better out there. This problem can be fixed," he bounced around his head.

He crossed the field to shake the coaches hand.

"Good game," the winning coach offered Red with a smile, proud of his kids.

"I'd like to play again, a rematch," Red whined in his high pitch, not letting go of the victor's hand. "We should have beaten you 5-0."

The winning coach smiled, knowing how desperate Red was, how important it was he not lose, he not be a loser. "We'll do it to you again, Red, don't worry," he smirked, clenching Red's bony, fragile hand tightly, then running off to be with his kids.

Under the brim of his hat, Red turned towards his players, who were waiting with their professional for the speech. "They're not losers," Red told himself. "We're not losers," he repeated in his head, over and over, adjusting his shirt, tugging his shorts. "Not losers," he said again. "I should have beaten him 7-0," the voice in his head yelled, as he approached his team. "I'm not going to lose."

Red talked for forty minutes under his red hat. The kids did not hear a single word, they wanted their snacks, and some shade, but they sat waited as Red lectured himself aloud, he too not hearing a word.