Alex and Jimmy

I sat inside the bar looking out the window. Alex was prowling the streets. He was waiting for me to exit, preparing to exact revenge on me. Tonight was his chance. Six years earlier I guest-coached him and his team for a single practice and inspired him to quit soccer forever.

. . .

I was wandering around a soccer park with one of the coaches I was mentoring at the time. We were chatting when this guy approached. He looked like he was in his 30s

“Coach Harrington?”

“Yeah, holy cow Jimmy! How are you doing?” I recognized him from my high school boys soccer team in ‘95.

“Great I have eight kids and I serve in the military. I did two tours in Iraq and one in Afghanistan. I hate civilians.”

“Ha, well thank you for your service Jimmy and congratulations on all the kids. I guess you’re a busy man when you’re home. It’s great to see you. You know, I really loved coaching you guys. You were one of my first teams.”

Then Jimmy said something I’ll never forget.

“Coach, I was head of my platoon and I want you to know that the lessons you taught me saved lives in Iraq and Afghanistan.”

. . .

Lisa (my wife) and I entered the bar to watch my cousin’s band play. The crowd was a mix of Harley riders, college kids and friends and family of the band. It was a fun scene. The singer, a charismatic woman with a booming voice, knocked out rock n’roll covers like Brickhouse and American Girl. She strutted along on top of the bar as the bikers gawked and howled and the college kids danced and drank.

Shortly after entering the bar some former players approached me. “Coach Rob!” they yelled. I was pretty sure they were underage, so I tried to avoid getting into a lengthy conversation. I was about to break away when this huge guy approached me and asked, “Do you remember me?” I looked at him closely and finally said, “Alex?, hey how you doin’?”

I’ve had these reunions/reconciliations before. A former player and coach run into each other and together settle their past differences. I awaited his eventual and embarrassed apology for quitting the team: something like, “I was young. I shouldn’t have quit. You were just trying to help me.” In other words, my notion of how reconciliations should take place.

He looked down at me from his chiseled 6’4” frame and said, “You’re the biggest asshole that ever coached me!”

I stepped back--“Well, sorry you feel that way. Take care. It looks like you’re doing great.” – then slid away.

. . .

Jimmy was out with an ACL injury the first season I coached at the high school in 1994. When he returned for the ’95 season, the players on the team told me he was the team’s best player. He wasn’t. Whether it was the injury, his temperament, or being away from the game for a year, I don’t know what the problem was. I just knew he was struggling.

Jimmy played central midfield. He played mean and hard, even when working at less than 100%. One game, however, he was thoroughly dominated by a couple of players who were better, stronger and nastier. Frustrated he ended up getting a yellow card for whacking an opponent from behind.

He went ballistic when he got to the bench. I didn’t speak. Then, in David Banneresque rage, he tore off his jersey. I still didn’t say anything. A few minutes later he asked to go in the game.

“The last time I checked you can’t play shirtless Jimmy,” I responded snidely. He was enraged, but I figured I would talk to him post-game. We would sort things out.

. . .

Lisa and I were standing in the back of the crowd when Alex reapproached. He started dancing around me, making me move to avoid contact. “Loser soccer coach going nowhere,” he teased in sing-songy fashion. “I’m livin’ on the east side makin’ the ching ching. You’re just a loser soccer coach makin’ nothin’.” Well, he got me there. Again, I moved away from him. The guy was scaring me. My wife, on the other hand, was laughing. I’m not certain she understood the gravity of the situation - this guy genuinely hated me.

A few minutes later, when I left the bathroom, Alex confronted me again with a shoulder bump into the wall. I was sure his fist was coming next. I imagined him chanting “ching ching loser loser” as he punched me repeatedly. I pictured my loving wife laughing uproariously and dancing while the singer on stage belted out Gimme Shelter.

I slithered away without being assaulted. After a few more songs, I looked around cautiously, didn’t see Alex and made a brave move to the bar for drinks. I squeezed between two mountainous bikers. Alas, Alex showed up again, this time speaking to one of the bikers, Grand Teton One I believe. “This guy next to you buying a drink,” he said hooking his thumb toward me, “he’s a f___ing asshole, a first-class loser.” I shook my head and sent off an eyebrow raise to Teton Two. He looked bored.

I broke away and made it back to my wife without incident. Alex stayed at the bar continuing to disparage the very fact of my human existence to the leather-clad twin peaks at the bar. Not long after, a bouncer showed Alex to the exit.

. . .

Jimmy was struggling at practice. He couldn’t connect passes. He couldn’t cover ground. He was no longer the team’s best player and he knew it. His final season of high school soccer was not going as planned. He threw his hands up and walked off the field. “I quit,” he said to his teammates.

I was at the opposite end of the field when I saw him walk off. I immediately ran through the players and hopped over a fence to catch Jimmy before he made it into the building.

“What are you doing Jimmy?”

“I’m done!”

“What? Why?”

“Because I’m done.”

“Jimmy, look at me! You’re not quitting because things are hard. That’s not who you are. You’re finishing this season. Now, get your ass back to the field!”

Jimmy slowly walked back to the field and rejoined the practice. I strutted back feeling like Denzel Washington in Remember the Titans.

. . .

Alex wasn’t getting anything done in the practice I was guest coaching. I prodded him, “You need to step up Alex.” I poked him, “You can’t make plays if you don’t cover ground.” I pushed him, “Do you want to be successful?” He never responded. Just sulked. When practice was over, I said, “Some of you worked today and other guys, like Alex, who have talent and could be quite good if they worked at it, didn’t.”

Later that night, I received a phone call from Alex’s regular coach.

“What did you say to Alex?”

“Huh?”

“Alex, the guy on my team you coached today.”

“Yeah the lazy kid. I told him he could be good if he tried.”

“Well thanks. He just quit and said you were the main reason.”

. . .

Lisa and I were ready to leave the bar and walk home but I felt genuinely afraid Alex was out there stalking the streets. This kid would destroy me. I asked his buddies still in the bar if I was safe to walk home. They laughed. “He’s not going to do anything to you.” Eventually, Lisa and I walked calmly out of the bar, prepared to run for our lives. Alex, who was waiting for his buddies outside, peeked up from his cell phone and shot me a glance. That was it; he never approached.

. . .

Two former players. Two drastically different outcomes. I’m proud of the Jimmy story – who wouldn’t be. He’s why we coach, isn’t it – to make a difference in young people’s lives. Prepare them for future trials and hardships by helping them overcome doubts and problems now. The moment when Jimmy walked back to the field after quitting, I knew I was honing my ability to relate to kids. I felt as though I was on to something – I had found my career.

The Alex incident both amused and bothered me. A former player with a grudge dancing pathetically around his old coach calling him a loser — that’s kind of funny. But why did he quit? Why did his parents let him quit? I can’t be the only reason, can I? All he needed to do was listen to my singular message – get off your butt and work harder.

But I can’t have it both ways. I can’t revel in the Jimmy’s of my past and ignore the Alex’s. I can’t take credit for the kids whom I helped to succeed if I don’t accept a measure of blame for the kids I didn’t help. I spent one practice with Alex and he left feeling like garbage. I didn’t know him. I didn’t recognize the harm my words caused. I didn’t pull him aside. I didn’t take time. In that sense, he was right: It was loser coaching — I lost him, didn’t get the ching-ching response of a kid preparing to meet life’s future challenges.