Calling Coach

By Harvey Silverman

Autumn means football which means I think of Coach.

Here I am sitting on the bench. As usual. A high school senior, my last year of football. A failed athlete. Midway through the season I know that I will not – ever – get into a game when it matters. A few minutes of “garbage time” is the best for which I can hope. I have discouraged my folks from attending any games. What would be the point? At a game a week or two ago a few of my friends in the stands began a chant of adolescent humor, “Send in big 62!” My number. Their attempt to annoy me was futile. Football is for me the best part of high school.

* * *

All these years later it remains 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 lowliest of benchwarmers, making us all feel as if he were grateful for our participation. And there was his demeanor; determined and focused, honest and direct, praise or criticism usually delivered in a single sentence. Though I would not have verbalized it then playing for him was, for me, a privilege, a gift, even an honor. I admired, looked up to, to a degree emulated, 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. Which left Coach to manage offense, defense, scouting opponents, making certain we had equipment. To me Coach was almost godlike; all powerful, always right, and I regarded him with awe. Part of awe can be fear and for me there was that as well.

* * *

Games are Friday night. I watch the better players perform on the field. The daily practice during the week is when I get my chance to “play.” I change into my practice uniform – dirty, smelly, tattered – and with pads in place and helmet in hand I jog out to the practice field. Unlike the game day field with its nice grass, clean chalked lines, and smooth surface, the practice field is uneven, crabgrass here and there, unlined. Somebody – not me today – has carried out the canvas bag filled with footballs, tees, and most importantly to me, a bunch of green jerseys; one to be put on over my practice uniform, the others for my teammates on the scout team. We call ourselves, rather simply, the green shirts. I am not good enough to actually play in the real games but I get to play the role of this week’s opponent, mimicking the expected plays and formations that our team will face.

My position is on the interior line where I compete against larger and more skilled players. I play as hard as I can, thinking the better I perform, the better the guys who will play on Friday will be prepared. Sometimes I make a good play but more often I am bested, pummeled, beaten down. I love 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 a replaceable part. 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 be presumptuous on my part, as if it mattered and as if he would care. And, of course, I was also more than a bit afraid of him.

The next day in school a friend 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.”

The lesson of that day I have carried with me throughout my life. Somebody may be counting on you even if you perceive your role as of little import and if you commit to do something, even if it seems insignificant, either do it or explain why you cannot.

* * *

Forty years after my final stint on the bench I am attending a wedding. The parents of the bride are 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, is also a guest at the wedding. We chat for a bit. He reminisces about coaching my kids and tells me stories about them. I already know he was a positive influence for them. I think about how important a coach can be to a young person. I think about Coach, of course, and decide I have to tell him of his significance to me. I suppose simply to say thanks.

* * *

I had no idea if Coach were still living, if he had his faculties, or where in the world he might be. Finally, 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 and wanted him to know of my gratitude and respect.

There. That was done. I felt satisfied.

Several days later I received in the mail a brief reply 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, had at times been required to perform under great stress, had faced frightening situations, and had witnessed much suffering and tragedy.

But calling Coach? Too scary.

A couple of weeks later, after a long talk with myself in which I accused myself of a timidity too profound to repeat, accentuated with some choice vulgarities, I sat down to call Coach. My heart was pounding, my palms were sweaty, 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.

And then we proceeded to have the most wonderful conversation. Coach’s voice sounded just as I remembered it. Our talk was comfortable and easy. We spoke little of football or 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. And then we said goodbye.

I had told Coach what I had for so long wanted to tell him and had learned another lesson.

First appeared in Loch Raven Review.