My Father the Coach
The year was 1970-something. The Milwaukee Tech high school football team walked off the bus like helmetless Storm Troopers. And they kept filing off the bus, player after player, beards and unfiltered cigarettes hanging from their lips. Their opponent, the hapless Solomon Juneau Pioneers, all 23 of them, were already warming up – preparing for their demise. I looked up at my dad, the Juneau high school football coach, and said, “You’re going to get creamed.” My dad smiled. “Do you notice how our kids never take their helmets off?” he said. “It’s because I don’t want the other team to know what a bunch of wimps we look like.
Juneau won 12-7 that day. My dad drew up a pass play in the dirt, resulting in two touchdowns. Dad, in my opinion, was a coaching genius
Coaching is in my DNA. If it isn’t nature, it certainly is nurture. My dad loved coaching and teaching. He coached everything at Juneau high school: wrestling, track, football, baseball, tennis, golf and soccer. He coached my grade school basketball team in 5th and 6th grade. His practices were repetitive, detailed but still not boring. He loved to say the following to my teammates, “We had one player who did too much dribbling and not enough passing. I won’t say his name, but his initials are Rob Harrington.” It was his go-to line and I hated it. We got better when he coached, even won the fifth grade Catholic South-Side of Milwaukee for Kids of Average Athletic Ability League Championship, and he really didn’t know anything about basketball.
One would think, when I chose the coaching profession my dad would sit me down, share a beer with me and provide me with “Tim’s Ten Simple Coaching Rules or perhaps inspire me with “Son you are about to enter a noble profession, one I was honored to participate in for over 30 years. There will be bad times, but the good times will outweigh them.”
One might think, I looked to dad for coaching advice, “Dad, based on your 30-plus years of expertise I’d love your thoughts on the rhythm of a good practice and this player who thinks the world revolves around their daily mood,” or “Dad, I have a parent who is really affecting team dynamics. Any advice?”
But Dad and I never discussed coaching. He taught by example. He showed us (my brother and me) how to hit a serve in tennis like you’re throwing a ball, sprint properly by pushing off the balls of your feet, form your fingers when catching a football, snap your wrist when throwing a baseball, hold ski poles like you’re carrying a tray and bend your knees when shooting a jump shot. He helped us study for tests. He woke up every day and went to work. There were no heart-to-heart talks, no Hallmark father-son moments. And I didn’t yearn for any either; our relationship was great.
The passage of time didn’t seem to change our relationship. When I finished college, we still spent time together for dinner, occasional golf, sheepshead, cribbage and family events. We told stories and enjoyed each other’s company; our bond was strong and unspoken. He was present and I was present, that’s what mattered.
A couple of years into my coaching career I thought it would be cool to have Dad on my bench for some of my games. He’d love it. After all, coaching/teaching was his career. Wouldn’t it be great for him to watch his kid – his student, his protégé - display the coaching skills he learned from his wise mentor? We would forge a new relationship as coaching peers. We’d trade stories and anecdotes filled with wisdom and truth. Seriously, what a fantastic idea.
So I invited Dad to sit on the bench for of one my games. Though somewhat hesitant, he agreed. I was excited. Dad, however, seemed a bit uncomfortable. My boss Pete sat on my left. On my right, the substitutes were sandwiched between Dad and me.
My dad was a quiet unassuming man, humble and kind – a man who rarely spoke ill of anyone. So I assumed he would sit on the bench and quietly observe while I watched the game, took notes and offered pertinent advice and information to the players on the bench. And for a while that’s exactly what occurred: Dad sat silently watching the game. That is, until he suddenly offered, “Number 12 sure turns the ball over a lot.” The comment was honest, astute and obnoxious. The bench players looked in my direction awaiting my response. Pete chuckled quietly.
“Yeah, she’s tough though and covers a lot of ground,” I responded. I tried to give Dad a what’s up with that comment look but I couldn’t catch his eye. The game continued and I forgot Dad’s comment, focusing on the game.
“Your forward is good but doesn’t like to pass, huh?” The backup forward glanced at me out of the corner of her eyes.
“No, she passes,” I answered tersely.
Honestly, what is he thinking? Does he not see the players sitting between us. Who is this guy sitting next to me?
“Is your sweeper afraid to head the ball?” Now I see the bench players nodding in agreement.
I leaned my body and head back behind the players and shot him the universal quiet-down sign. Dad nodded his head. Finally, he understands this isn’t the time for his player observations.
“7 isn’t the hardest worker is she?” he asked. The bench perked up, perhaps beginning to think they’ve got the wrong coach coaching.
“Everybody warm up!” I responded to get the team out of earshot of this self-assigned head of player evaluation.
“Hey Pop, no need to critique the players.”
“Ha, seems like the old timer knows what he’s talking about,” Pete chimed in laughing. My dad smiled at Pete and said, “I’m right, aren’t I?”
I never asked Dad to sit on my bench again, and he never asked to sit on my bench again. We seldom talked about the incident. And when we did, it was presented as a funny story, “Dad remember when you were critiquing all the players on my team in front of the bench?”
“I was right though, wasn’t I?” To which I’d just laugh while thinking, that’s not the point, then laugh some more.
Dad, eventually passed away from Alzheimer’s-related complications – maybe those comments were the inception of his unfiltered dementia. The truth is, I’ll never know. I do know, whether nature or nurture, part of the reason I’m a low-wage soccer coach today is because of my dad. I’ll tell you how thankful I am for that in about 15 years. As for now, I’d relish another chance to see him on the end of my bench.
