Assistant Coaches

We all need assistant coaches in life.  Good assistants keep life in perspective.  They humble us when we’re too full of ourselves, lift us up after we’ve buried ourselves, and straighten our course when we’ve lost focus.  They make us laugh, know when we’re on the verge of tears, share victory and shed defeat.  They can teach us to set priorities.  They show us everything is not work.  They open us to new life, allow us to make mistakes, ignore that which is not important, and encourage positive risk taking.     

            As an offensive coordinator at Parkway South for fifteen years, I ran many runways with “Air South,” as we came to be known, onto the gridiron under the Friday night lights.  Our staff grew to be good friends as well as strategists, students of the game.  Eventually, the Patriots evolved from upending teams we were not expected to beat to a team ranked as a target for others to make their mark on a season.  We were blessed with so many remarkable kids with a great variety of gifts!  As many know, an athlete’s maximum time with our team is four short years, freshman through senior.  However, we were blessed with four who ran the runway each season for eight years!

            Identified in team photographs among trainers, Big Jeff, Jay, Michael, and Ray sprayed water on overheated linemen in the August heat and humidity, brought supplies to our med tech when injuries occurred and fluids to fight dehydration.  Though easily distracted during practice, they had uncanny timing when deciding to joust amongst themselves with foam-padded blocking shields interrupting the most intense moments in scrimmages. 

            After crunching equations in chemistry and physics on game day, I enjoyed “setting the field” to clear my mind for football (don’t get that opportunity with artificial turf).  We may not have seen our four boys for days, but they never missed game days.  Jeff, Jay, Michael and Ray always converged on the freshly cut grass thrilled to play under the colorful fall evenings.  At 6’5” pushing 400 pounds in Nike high-toppers, Jeff waddled out to the 40-yard line carrying a sack like Santa stuffed with footballs.  Scattering them on the field at Ray’s request, they’d launch balls at Joey, a fixed target with ankle braces and wrist crutches, and Michael a slow oscillating target with Down Syndrome.  Though a strike may happen only once every few weeks, it generally resulted in a minor bruising to the face or Joey biting the turf after a missile took out a crutch.  They’d reenact plays hollering teammates’ names rather than assumed professionals’ one might expect.  By the time I’d set my last pregame warmup, the four disappeared to romp and wrestle on the pole vault mats stored beneath the stadium bleachers. 

After an embarrassing, intimidated half of football against a highly-ranked opponent, Michael anticipated Coach Y’s Texas temper before a hushed squad.  As Coach Y entered the visitor’s locker room, Michael awkwardly kicked a trashcan sliding it a short distance.  Expecting to magnify Michael’s prelude and launch the can into orbit, Coach Y side-winded his toe through the base of the rusted can.  The pierced trashcan clamped to his boot.  Guttural pandemonium exploded.  Players erupted along with staff laughing as our deflated head coach hopped around trying to shake the jaws of the can from his cowboy boot.  Little did we know as a young staff, that moment would define us as a coaching unit.  During the second half, we unleashed an explosive aerial attack in an impressive victory.  We learned we didn’t have the fastest, most physically gifted players, but they were sharp and willing to learn.  Rather than emotionally charge the atmosphere, we focused adjustments beyond scouting reports to opponents’ weaknesses without panic.  Constructive instruction and dialogue filled our future halftimes.  During a 12-1 season five years later, we would win 8 of 9 games coming back from deficits of 7 or more at halftime.  South developed an exciting reputation for coming from behind.  Our teams adopted a “never out of this” attitude.  Michael received our only “kick the can” award in Patriot history at the season’s celebratory banquet. 

Though that halftime might have been a tipping point for us as a staff, we still had our moments.  Coach Y often vocalized his disenchantment with officials especially after clipping calls nullified significant yardage gains.  As if on some divine cue, Michael mimicked when the yellow hankie landed.  “You can pick that up and stick it where the sun don’t shine!” 

Resting his lumbering forearm upon my shoulder, Jeff interrupted my halftime instructions.  “Hey, Timmy.” Only Jeff’s mellow signature embraced all coaches by their first names. “Don’t forget to remind Lamar to catch the football.  He can’t drop them.”  I responded quickly before losing my squad to the big boy’s recommendation.  “Jeff, I think Lamar knows that.”

Jeff tried working for McDonald’s in a co-op program.  He shared with me as we walked to the locker room.  He was “let go.” He repeated what he’d overheard a manager say; “the kid’s eating us into bankruptcy.” 

“Timmy, I told Mickie D’s I had to ‘let them go.’  I don’t work during football season!”

When traveling, Big Jeff filled the first bus bench on the left while Joey, Michael, and Ray disappeared in the right bench.  Playing away as visitors seemed to liberate the boys to wander.  With a comfortable lead while playing at a Catholic school, Ray and Jeff had followed our opponents into their locker room.  Their head coach quickly assessed his intruders and graciously escorted them to our locker room.  Ray spontaneously announced, “The announcers drink beer in the booth!”  Ray might have actually been old enough to drink.

Of all activities preceding game time, the boys repeatedly chose to race each other at least once on the stadium track.  It was ugly.  Jeff shifted his weight taking two quicker steps before dropping into his normal low gear.  Ray generally declared victory as Michael veered into entangling Joey’s crutches taking both for a tumble far in advance of Jeff who’d assist them to their feet once he arrived.  They’d say a couple terse words before breaking into laughter.  I’d watch it all unfold again on a different track.

Earlier on a day of travel, we learned just before boarding the bus, Ted, Jeff’s older and bigger brother, suffered from cardiac problems and died while walking home along Manchester Road.  As I attempted to console Jeff, he responded frankly, “Ted’s gone to heaven.  It’s a good place for Ted.”  And that’s where Jeff wanted to leave it.  The boys didn’t race and didn’t wander that night, sticking unusually close to each other along the sideline. 

On another occasion where we narrowly escaped a major upset and played to the level of a weaker opponent, Joey, by far the most vocal, rounded a loaded bus breaking our circled coaches like a cue ball.  “We stunk up the field!  We sucked!”  Lifting a crutch high and striking the ground, an animated Joey continued, “Sometimes you just suck.  You don’t improve.”  He slapped Coach Y on the back with the other crutch, “We’re good, but not tonight!”  Joey hobbled to the door as a couple players lifted him up onto the bus. 

How often in Christ’s parables and along the journey with his apostles did He put situations into perspective?  How often did He request of his followers to live in the moment with Him as He would only be with them a short time?  When did Jesus act spontaneously, directly, yet compassionately?  How often and in what circumstances did Jesus pull folks aside to refocus them?  Why did Jesus request we foster the hearts of children?

The end of each game capped a long day of work and play.  Upon our return, three of the boys’ parents consistently waited to take them home.  Joey’s dad often carried his exhausted son half asleep to the car.  Jeff lived within walking distance of South.  However, he’d wander waiting until after all the players had driven away to mooch a ride.   Jeff filled my passenger side.  He reclined the seat back as he’d always do, reposition his hat, roll down a window, sling his large forearm outside and fiddle his fingers on the roof.  This night, we stopped to exit the lot.  Jeff pointed in the opposing direction.  “That way.”

            I frowned, confused.  “Got a different route home, tonight?”

            “No, just cruisin’ coach!”  Content, he looked straight ahead into full moonlight.

            I smiled remaining silent.  We took a little longer route home.

Some assistants fit perfect niches.  The four fit mine.  God knows, there are many days I miss my assistant coaches!