Boy's locker rooms are notoriously horrible places, and yet this is the place where Beiste's memory is set. There's a set of boys in pads and uniforms sitting on all the benches, and Shannon is pacing in front of them silently. It's half time, and things are looking rough. The boys' expressions range from uncertain to scared to simply expectant. A certain group is sitting closer to her than the others, and while they're sweaty and exhausted, they look at Coach Shannon Beiste like she's a commander about to lead them off to war.

The way she bellows her speech, she might as well be. The words are blurred, misremembered over time. When Beiste watches, she can't even say for sure which game this was. Those details aren't important. What is important is how her words strike courage into boys that go home with fear. What matters is that they stand taller, that they focus so intently, that for a moment they are a team with a single goal. What matters is that when she finishes, the boys stand up and cheer, and win or lose, they are better than before.

As the boys crowd out back onto the field, Shannon Beiste follows, hands trembling with adrenaline, lipstick smeared.