Natalie and Paul
I’ll start at the end. Here’s the climax: Natalie walks slowly up to the ball. She has practiced the ritual hundreds of times. Readjust the ball, walk back, look the opposite direction of where you’re shooting, take a deep breath, then bury the ball in the back of the net – just like her dad taught her.
Now here’s the beginning. Four years earlier, Natalie was the only freshman to attend varsity soccer practices. Several others had been invited, but they never show up because of nerves, discomfort or just didn’t want to come. Did Natalie feel some trepidation about attending? Of course. How did I know that? Her dad, Paul, told me. He and I had known each other since high school. I was a year older and we lived together when I took my first coaching job as an assistant at Marian University. Paul was the team captain.
Natalie’s game reminded me of her dad’s game when he was in high school. Both father and daughter were quiet and very determined. Natalie was a little more energetic, Paul had a little more skill, but they both were determined competitors and excellent teammates.
Natalie made the team as a sophomore. During tryouts she kept getting into scraps with a senior, who didn’t take kindly to players, particularly younger players, who challenged her. Some elbows, shirts grabbed and colorful names were tossed in Natalie’s direction. I enjoyed the drama, watching my friend’s kid stand up for herself. Eventually, we shut down their soccer-um-wrestling match for a wonderfully inauthentic handshake and uneasy truce.
Paul, a coach himself, loved watching his daughter play. He was her first coach. Unfortunately, because of his own coaching responsibilities, he didn’t get to see her on the field too much during her sophomore year. She was young, and our team was good. Paul tried to hold himself back, but every so often he would not so subtly highlight his daughter’s soccer attributes. “Natalie can really cover ground in the midfield. She’s good in possession too,” he’d say, then immediately apologize, “But I know Harry, you guys have a good team, and I’m not trying to influence you.” I’d give him a knowing smile, we’d share a quick laugh and then talk about when we might get together again with our wives.
Natalie played more during her junior year. But what I remember most about that season wasn’t her game performances, it was her acting and video production skills. As she got older and grew more confident, the quiet, shy, determined little Natalie had grown some Hollywood chops. Each year, as part of the team’s soccer tradition, the juniors would pay tribute to and roast the seniors. That season, the juniors made a video. Natalie served as the emcee, lead actor, impressionist and director, dancing across the screen flashing a devilish smile. Her natural charisma stole the show.
Paul, too, was a natural performer. He played guitar, drums, trumpet and did magic tricks – a renaissance man disguised as super dad. He once helped me create a video for a friend’s 70th birthday. Let me rephrase, Paul created the entire video while I sat next to him asking, “Can you do this? How ‘bout this? What if we did this?” At the birthday party the following day the video was a big hit. I spent the entire afternoon trying to give Paul all the credit for the video, but people didn’t listen; I was the one standing there, it was my voice on the video so I got the credit.
Natalie was looking forward to her senior season, as was Paul, who was excited to watch his little girl, his only girl, play what would probably be her last season of organized soccer. “They grow up so quick,” he told me. “She’s a good kid. She’s pretty easy, a really good older sister. I hope she has a good season. She deserves it.”
“I’m sure she will,” I responded. “And when the season’s over, let’s celebrate by going out for that dinner we’ve been meaning to get together for.”
“Absolutely, let’s do it.”
A week before the start of the season, Paul died. He was 46 years old. It was sudden, unexpected – terrible.
What’s the Hallmark movie cliché? He would’ve wanted me to play? But just because it’s a cliché doesn’t make it any less true. And it also doesn’t make it any less difficult.
The ensuing season was a season like none I’ve ever coached. I’ve coached seasons with tragedies swirling in the background. If you’ve coached long enough, it happens. You treat the season as your escape – your respite from grieving. When a player I coached was lying in the hospital in critical condition, I’d arrive at the field with a singular focus that would carry me through the next couple of hours. When the game was over, the sadness and fear of bad news returned.
When Kevin, the head coach of the team, and I set up the field for the first day of pre-season practice, he looked at me and said, “How do we coach this? I mean it’s so damn sad.”
“Look,” I pointed toward Natalie, who stood in the center of a group hug. Everyone was crying, including us. Finally, we giggled. “I don’t know, Kevin. I guess we just coach and try not to cry ourselves?”
Every tragedy follows its own narrative. Ideally, playing soccer would be Natalie’s way to find a measure of relief from her grief. The problem, however, was that for Natalie playing soccer made her think of her dad.
Early season practices followed a new rhythm and issued forth a lot of tears. There were the pre-practice tears, the during-practice tears and the post-practice tears. In between the tears, Natalie ran and tackled with the same intensity and ferocity as she had shown two years earlier as a sophomore doing battle with a senior. When she stepped off the field her teammates often followed to give her a hug and offer encouragement. The background message was always the same: “Your dad would want you to play.” Natalie knew it, embraced it, and toughed it out through an endless stream of tears.
Toughness ran in Natalie’s family. Years earlier, when I lived with Paul, he returned to play after losing his previous season to an ACL and MCL tear. He was also dealing with some difficult family issues, playing the role of dad and mentor to his three younger brothers and little sister at home while spending hours offering emotional support to his mom. He was only 21 years old, but assuming the responsibilities of someone much older.
Like her dad, Natalie was forced to confront life circumstances a kid should not have to deal with. The oldest of five, she was playing the role of substitute parent for her younger brothers while playing soccer, preparing for graduation, all while dealing with this soul-crushing sadness in her life.
For the first half of the season, Natalie followed a peculiar ritual. She was a starter on the team and during the National Anthem a few tears would flow. Then the game would start and she’d get to work. About 20 minutes in she would be subbed out and a few more tears would flow. With about ten minutes left in the half, Kevin would ask, “Do you think Natalie is ready?” And we’d both giggle. Please understand the giggles I’ve been mentioning were not fun giggles. They were defense mechanism giggles. They were what else can you do but giggle giggles. Can you believe how awful this situation is giggles. Often times I would be fighting back tears of my own when I’d turn to Natalie, who would be pacing on the sideline, and say enthusiastically, “You ready to go kid?” She’d nod her tear streaked head and run on to the field.
The season pushed on. The team was good, not great, but, nevertheless, we had a legitimate shot to win the state title. Natalie still cried at times but not as consistently as she had earlier in the season. Then we got on a roll. We were tough to score against and we found ways to score. Paul’s death and Natalie’s grief still hovered in the background. Players didn’t get involved in the silly adolescent dramas often occurring on high school teams. It was as if they all understood the same thing: What right do I have to complain? Natalie lost her dad. They played as a team; they fought for Natalie.
Our state tournament game was knotted 1 -1. We felt a measure of confidence as it was the kind of game we’d been winning all season long. The score is close. We make a play. We win 2-1. But as the game wore on that didn’t happen and we ended up going to penalty kicks.
Natalie, though she was a good with penalty kicks, wasn’t slated to kick – too much pressure Kevin and I agreed. Players for each team, however, kept making their kicks: 5-5, 6-6, 7-7, 8-8. That left Natalie at number 9.
We were playing on our home field. Natalie’s entire family was present: her dad’s side of the family, her mom’s side of the family and all her siblings. Natalie performed her ritual, the one her dad taught her: walk slowly up to the ball, readjust it, walk back, look the opposite direction of where you’re shooting, take a deep breath, then strike the ball clean and hard and bury it into the back of the net.
We’re here, finally, we’ve arrived at the Hollywood moment. The motion slows, Natalie’s leg pulls back, she strikes it cleanly, the goalie dives, but the ball slams into the back of the net. Jumping and hugging, Natalies teammates surround her, tears streaming down their bright, youthful faces. The song “You Raise me Up” plays as the closing montage begins with Paul teaching the young Natalie, his firstborn child, how to kick the ball. The scene pans to her family hugging one another, her teammates running and jumping and laughing. Again, that shot of Paul. Then one of Natalie standing in the center of midfield.
If only I could have written the script. Here’s what happened. The keeper made the save. The next player up made her kick and we lost. Season over. Everyone at the field that day who knew Natalie’s story shared the same “Oh, no” gasp.
Natalie started crying right after she missed and didn’t stop for another 45 minutes.
If you talk to Natalie today, she doesn’t regret taking the kick. She always says the same thing, “My dad would’ve wanted me to,” then adds, “I would have been disappointed with myself if I didn’t take the kick.”
And the thing is, and I know this for a fact, Paul would have been so proud of her. “I feel so bad for her, Harry,” he would’ve said. “She works so hard. Missing that kick is a tough thing to swallow, but it’ll make her tougher serve her well in the long run.”
As for me, I’ll never forget that season. I won’t forget the underlying sadness that pervaded throughout the season, Natalie’s tear-stained face as she would get ready to go in the game. I won’t forget how Kevin and I would laugh through the sadness of the whole miserable season because that was the only thing we could do .I won’t forget all those times I looked into the stands and realized someone was missing. I won’t forget the worst Hollywood sports ending I could ever imagine. But I also won’t forget that I had the pleasure and good fortune to watch my late friend’s daughter become a star.
Natalie Sanchez is a published author. Her book chronicling hers and others journey after the loss of a loved one is titled, The Language of Loss. https://www.amazon.com/Language-Loss-Natalie-Kathryn-Sanchez/dp/1641375477
I recommend it to all coping with the loss of a family member or friend.
