Awful Moments in Soccer - Selection #3

An Epic Goodbye

Jozef walked into the dusk with a single finger stretched to the heavens for all to see. It was his final salute – his epic goodbye.

My U14 boys’ team was average by our club’s standards, but the kids were nice and got along well. They were fun to coach. The parents were a variety pack. One woman emailed me, wondering, “Why is our team adding ‘non-suburban’ kids.” After little contemplation, I decided not to call her a racist moron and answered, “Because they’re good at soccer.” My team manager was brilliant. It was like having an accountant, travel agent and psychiatrist on the bench. Then there was Jozef, the 6’6” father of our goal scoring forward Alexandr. As an immigrant from Slovakia, Jozef spoke little English. However, that didn’t keep him from speaking with me as often as possible. For some reason I kept thinking he was going to ask me logistical or administrative questions, but he never did. With 14-year-old Alexandr acting as a nervous interpreter, Jozef provided me with the team’s tactical flaws and my coaching errors. Did Alexandr leave anything out? Was he telling his dad my go-to line: “I don’t take coaching advice from parent’s?” Was Jozef calling me names? Only Alexandr knew. After several meetings, I shut them down. I didn’t allow parents to meet with me about tactics; Jozef was no different.

Halfway through the season, Jozef had a bad accident at work and was in the hospital for several weeks. He survived with everything intact and returned to work and to our games. As a reminder of the accident he retained a long lightning bolt-like scar down the center of his face. His size already made him intimidating, but now he was scary.

The accident did little to quell his hatred of me or my tactics. One day, on the way to a tournament Jozef’s car broke down and another family picked him and Alexandr up. Jozef spoke the entire drive.

The parents, my good friends to this day, told me about the pick-up.

“I felt so bad for them stranded there,” the mom said. “Who’s going to pick up a guy that big with a scar like that? He’s so nice though.”

“Nice?” the dad laughed, “Did you understand what he was saying?”

“No. I don’t speak Slovakian,” she giggled.

“Well, neither do I, but it was pretty obvious he was saying the coach is an idiot,” and he let out a full-throated laugh. I laughed along with him, but only a little.

Our game was in the second half; the score was 0-0. As usual, Alexandr was our best scoring threat. I was feeling confident. With 20 minutes remaining, he was tackled by an opposing player, which was no big deal, and I turned my attention down the field. Then I heard yelling from the opposing bench: “Hey, what the hell is that guy doing?” I turned to see Jozef stomping onto the field toward Alexandr and the tackler, who were tangled up on the ground. Play stopped.

“Jozef,” I yelled out as I stepped on to the field. He didn’t acknowledge me. He was busy screaming at and pointing his immense finger in the tackler’s face. The kid looked terrified.

The referee looked at me, “You have to get the guy off the field.”

“Jozef, you have to get off the field!” I yelled out as I approached him. The tackler skittered away. Alexandr stood motionless, his eyes downward.

“I no care!” Jozef yelled back at me as he walked toward the referee.

“He’s got to leave the field now,” the ref said backing away, “Or I’m going to call the game and maybe the police.”

“He’s going to call the game, Jozef,” I said.

“I no care,” was his response.

“He’s going to call the police,” I said.

“I no care.”

He yelled at the ref, then at me, and kept responding, “I no care,” to everyone telling him to exit the field. The referee called the match. Finally, some fathers from my team were able to usher him off the field.

Alexandr stood alone, crying. “Your dad shouldn’t have done that,” I told him, “But he’s your dad – he loves you.” Was that the right thing to say? I have no idea.

Jozef was walking away from the park now, with his back to everyone. He walked slowly. Then he raised his middle finger and left it there. I take solace in his final gesture. The finger, I like to believe, wasn’t exclusively for me. It was for the referee, the opposition, the parents, our soccer club, and the whole damn country he didn’t much like or understand.

Then again – maybe it was just for me.