Calling Coach
To me, autumn meant football and Coach.
In high school, my senior year and my last of football, I sat on the bench. A failed athlete. Midway through the season, I knew that I would not – ever – get into a game when it mattered. A few minutes of “garbage time” was the best for which I could hope. I discouraged my folks from attending any games. What would be the point? At games, a few of my friends chanted in the stands, with adolescent humor, “Send in big 62!” My number. Their attempt to annoy me was futile. Football was, for me, the best part of high school.
Years later, it remained the best part of high school. In significant measure, because of Coach.
Coach. He was not a father figure to me; I already had a wonderful dad. Coach was a role model, one of fewer than a handful in my nearly eight decades of life. It was the way he treated me and all the players; respectfully and fairly. From the star players to the lowliest of benchwarmers, he made us all feel as if he was grateful for our participation. And there was his demeanor; determined and focused, honest and direct. His praise or criticism was usually delivered in a single sentence. My playing for him was a privilege, a gift, even an honor, though I would not have verbalized it then. I admired, looked up to, emulated to a degree, and always hoped to please him.
Physically, he was not large, but there was something of a tough guy aura about him. And Coach did it all; there was no large staff back then, just a part-time assistant of little consequence. Coach managed the offense, defense, scouting opponents, and he made certain we had equipment. To me, Coach was almost godlike; all-powerful, always right, and I regarded him with awe. Part of awe could also be fear and there was that, as well, for me.
Games were played on Friday nights. I watched the better players performing on the field. The daily practices during the week were when I got my chance to “play.” I would change into my practice uniform – dirty, smelly, tattered – and with pads in place and helmet in hand, I would jog out to the practice field. Unlike the game day field with its nice grass, clean chalked lines and smooth surface, the practice field was uneven, crabgrass here and there, unlined. Somebody – not me – carried the canvas bag filled with footballs, tees, and most importantly to me, a bunch of green jerseys. They were worn as practice uniforms, and we called ourselves, rather simply, “the green shirts.” I was not good enough to actually play in the real games, but I got to play the role of that week’s opponent, mimicking the expected plays and formations that our team would face.
My position was on the interior line where I competed against larger and more skilled players. I played as hard as I could, thinking the better I performed, the better the guys who would play on Friday would be prepared. Sometimes, I made a good play, but more often, I was bested, pummeled, beaten down. I loved it.
I attended practices faithfully, never absent, save one day when I learned a life lesson. Being a green shirt was fun but I knew I was replaceable. On a certain weekday in midseason, I had scheduled a crucial college interview. I did not tell Coach that I would miss practice. After all, I was unimportant and my part as surrogate opponent player could easily be filled by another scrub. Taking a moment of Coach’s time to advise him of my absence would have been presumptuous on my part. As if it mattered. As if he would care. And, of course, I was also more than a bit afraid of him.
The following day, a friend at school told me that Coach had asked where I was. Informed that I was at the interview, Coach remarked that I had said nothing to him, “I thought I could count on that guy.”
I have carried with me that lesson, throughout my life: somebody may be counting on you even if you perceived your role was of little importance. If you committed to do something, even if it seemed insignificant, do it or explain why you could not.
Forty years after my final stint on the bench, I attended a wedding. The parents of the bride were friends whose sons played football with my two kids. My sons, now adults, were far better at football than I was. Their high school coach, whose teams won state championships, was also a guest at the wedding. We chatted for a bit. He reminisced about coaching my kids and told me stories about them. I already knew he was a positive influence for them. I thought about how important a coach could be to a young person. I thought about Coach, of course, and decided I had to tell him of his significance to me. I supposed, simply, to say thanks.
I had no idea if Coach was still living, if he had his faculties, or where in the world he might be. Through some fortunate circumstance, I was able to get an address. I wrote him a brief note explaining who I was, that I understood he would have no specific recollection of me, but that I had fond memories of playing for him. I wanted him to know of my gratitude and respect.
There. That was done. I felt satisfied.
Several days later, I received a brief reply in the mail with an invitation to call him on the phone.
Call Coach? Actually speak with him?
After all that time it was still a frightening thought. In the years since high school I had become an emergency physician, had made split-second life-or-death decisions. I had, at times, been required to perform under great stress. I had faced frightening situations and had witnessed much suffering and tragedy.
But call Coach? Too scary.
A couple of weeks later, I accused myself of a timidity too profound to repeat. After a long talk with myself in which I accentuated with some choice vulgarities, I sat down to call Coach. My heart was pounding, my palms were sweaty, and my mouth was dry. I thought that participating in a cardiac resuscitation had never produced such effects. But I dialed the number and there, on the line, was Coach.
Coach’s voice sounded just as I remembered it. Our talk was comfortable and easy. We spoke little of football or of the time four decades earlier. We spoke about family and children, and life. I got to tell him how much affection and respect I had for him, that he had been a role model in my life. I learned how his life had been happy and satisfying, how proud he was of his family just as I was of mine. He thanked me for my call and told me how happy it had made him. We had the most wonderful conversation, and then we said goodbye.
I told Coach what I had, for so long, wanted to tell him and had learned another lesson. One should never hesitate or fear expressing gratitude.
© Harvey Silverman
Harvey Silverman’s nonfiction has been published in the fall 2020 and 2021 issues of the Loch Raven Review. His work has also appeared in Queen’s Quarterly, Hypertext, Evening Street Review, and elsewhere. A retired physician, he lives in New Hampshire.
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