Sarah
In January 1997, I was preparing to go to the NSCAA Coaches Convention in Nashville. A few days before leaving, I learned Sarah (one of my club players) was having surgery at the Mayo Clinic in Rochester, Minnesota. It was intended to be her final surgery, the one that would save her life. I canceled my plans for Nashville and drove to Rochester.
Some background: In the afternoon of March 21, 1996, I took a call at work from Karen, my U16 girls’ team manager. “Rob, I have terrible news. Sarah is in the hospital. She had emergency surgery. She might not make it.”
“As in live? She might not live?”
“Yes. She collapsed at high school practice yesterday. They rushed her to the hospital. That’s all I know.”
Sarah was the star player on my club team. A wrecking ball of a player with inordinate skill, intensity and attitude. Coaching her was an exercise in patience.
I first met Sarah, and the team, in 1993 when they were U14 (eighth graders). My boss, Pete, introduced me. I was just beginning to address the team when Sarah snuck up behind one of her teammates and yanked her shorts down. I walked away as the team exploded in laughter. Pete yelled at Sarah, meted out some sort of punishment and then walked back to me. “I’m tellin’ ya. They’re a wild bunch. You’re gonna have your hands full.”
This team was my first club head coaching job and I was all in, determined to mold and mentor each and every player, including Sarah. She would be easy to mentor, I thought initially, because she hated losing. Little did I know.
For example, after an inconsequential indoor game loss, Sarah screamed, “Our goalie stinks.” Her outburst was embarrassing and borderline cruel. It also had some history. During the outdoor season, we advanced to the finals of a tournament and went to penalty kicks. Without ever seeing Sarah play goalkeeper, but confident in Sarah being Sarah, I instinctively put her in goal for the shootout. She saved three of five kicks and we won the game. Regrettably, however, I failed to consider the ramifications of my decision. The team never trusted our regular keeper again and more important, our keeper didn’t trust herself. It wasn’t a bad soccer decision, but it was poorly managed.
That evening, a few hours after Sarah’s outburst, I called her house. When I asked to speak with Sarah, her father said she was grounded and asked what I wished to speak with her about. “I’d like to speak with her about her behavior today,” I said. “She yelled ‘Our goalie stinks!’ after the game.”
“In that case, let me get her. And feel free to bench her.”
Our subsequent conversation followed a broken record of “I know, I’m sorry. I’ll apologize. It won’t happen again.” And Sarah always was truly sorry. But in the heat of the moment…
. . .
I arrived at the hospital a few hours after I received the news from Karen, about 24 hours after Sarah’s initial collapse. Sarah’s father led me to the Intensive Care Unit. She was in dire shape. A labyrinth of tubes, hoses, and wires seemed to be holding her together. She was jaundice, bloated and her eyes rolled. I held her hand and she squeezed back. I was 25 years old, had no experience with serious illness, let alone the possibility of someone as young and vital as Sarah dying.
I sat with the family. They explained Sarah’s condition. Her small intestine inexplicably had twisted and cut off blood circulation. She had nearly died and, what’s more, the prognosis wasn’t good. “But Sarah’s a fighter,” everyone agreed.
I stayed at the hospital a few hours before leaving to coach a high school game. I remember the game vividly. We won 4-0. The attacking midfield runs we orchestrated in practice worked to perfection. I remember an unseasonably warm breeze, the goals, and the excitement of the players. I remember coaching while thinking about Sarah lying on a hospital bed in an intensive care unit fighting for her life.
. . .
Sarah recovered from her initial surgery but she was not in good shape. She couldn’t eat and was fed through a tube attached directly to her intestine. Between her initial surgery in ’96 and major surgery at the Mayo Clinic in ’97, Sarah underwent a number of other surgeries. Each procedure offered a glimmer of hope. She even went back to school with a backpack full of nutrition connected directly to her intestine. But her schooling was regularly interrupted by complications, more surgeries and more days and weeks in the hospital.
During one hospital visit, I watched a physical therapy session. It was painful to see the therapists work with Sarah like she was an uncoordinated 10 year old, not the future Division I soccer player and star basketball player she was intended to become. They tossed a ball softly and had her catch it. They placed a ball at her feet and told her to pass it. Sarah and I exchanged knowing glances. Sarah was trying to tell me, get these people away from me. I did talk to her therapists and asked if I could do Sarah’s PT. I explained what I would do and they said happily, “If she likes it, go for it.”
. . .
At U15, Sarah was a center back and holding midfielder. She dominated the air, thwarted attacks, connected passes and scared the hell out of her opponents. I had it all wrong though; she could do all the same things and lead the team in goals if I played her at forward. At U16, we made the move and she became a superstar. In spite of her childish outbursts, she and I developed a great relationship. She loved playing and competing and was ruthlessly loyal to her team and teammates. We could work on the outbursts.
One game, in particular, typified Sarah. We were at some tournament in Illinois. The evening prior to our third game, I saw the entire team eating at a TGI Fridays. In those days, I imposed strict dietary rules. No deep-fried food and no soda. I walked up to the table and saw several girls mowing down a deep-fried sampler platter and gulping gargantuan sodas. At the morning game I delivered the following pregame speech: “Many players disobeyed team rules last night; therefore, you won’t play the first half. No exceptions.” The fried food eaters were incensed. I didn’t care, rules were rules. At least we still had Sarah on the field.
We were down 0-1 when one of our players got hurt. I looked down the bench and saw only the guilty. Rules are rules. We played the rest of the half with ten players while the parents yelled at me from the opposite sideline, “You only have ten players on the field!”
Duh!
At halftime most of the players looked at me with disdain while I presented playing instructions. Down 0-1, we needed a win to advance. With about 20 minutes remaining in the half, Sarah controlled a serve with her chest and volleyed in a goal before the ball touched the ground. Minutes later, in the opponent’s box, Sarah blocked a clearance, won the subsequent 50-50 ball and then slid to poke the ball past the keeper. Vintage Sarah, one goal pure skill and the other pure determination. We won 2-1. Sarah was the hero. It seemed, she could accomplish anything on an athletic field.
Years later, I learned that Sarah not only partook in the night of deep-fried delights, she ordered the food. But the players were never mad at Sarah, they were mad at me for not being more perceptive.
. . .
During the summer of ’96 when Sarah wasn’t in the hospital, I rode my bike to her house and did PT with her. With her backpack full of nutrition or sometimes attached to an IV in her bedroom, she would dribble a soccer ball to music. Her band of choice was The Violent Femmes, and her favorite song was “American Music”: “Did you do too many drugs, I did too many drugs, did you do too many drugs, too? Baby.” Obviously not the most appropriate song for an adult soccer coach to listen to with a 16-year-old girl, but there are circumstances, there are priorities.
PT didn’t last long. As one might expect, Sarah tired easily. We would talk for a while. I’d ask her about school and her family. I started getting to know Sarah, not as the brash trickster, the over-competitive athlete or seriously ill girl, but as a teenage kid with hopes, concerns, and insecurities. After we talked for a while, we’d put “American Music” back on and she’d dribble away.
As a player, I had coaches that became an integral part of my life. Now, early in my coaching career, I had a player who had become an integral part of my life. I can’t quite pinpoint my motivation for spending so much time with Sarah. Was I trying to be altruistic? Did I enjoy the plaudits of being considered a good guy? Was it my admiration for Sarah? Was I feeding off her toughness? Did I cherish my connection with the most talented player on the team? Did I relish the extended role of coach? Whether my motives were self-serving or altruistic, it didn’t matter. One thing I did know for sure – I was in this for the long haul and I would do anything for that kid.
. . .
I arrived at the Mayo Clinic early in the morning, hours before her surgery. I listened to her doctor describe the surgery to her parents. “I’m going to go in and try to reattach the something to the something. There may be too much scar tissue and bad stuff going on in there and we might not be able to do it. It’s probably going to be about three to five hours.”
Waiting for a surgery to end and to hear the outcome is excruciating. Everyone reads or sleeps or pretends to read or sleep. I did some writing and tried not to look at the clock. Time puttered on. Eventually, I fell asleep.
The news, when it did come, wasn’t good. “We cleaned a lot up but couldn’t do the reattachment,” the doctor informed. “The organ isn’t healthy enough.”
When her dad told Sarah the news, she shed some tears, bit her lip and started preparing for whatever was going to come next. I’ve never seen anyone that tough – before or since.
. . .
Throughout ’97 I continued to visit Sarah, though our PT visits dwindled. She was too tired. She underwent long stays at the Mayo clinic. I took seven-hour day trips there with her teammates Mary, Jenny and Shannon. When I arrived, I’d say hi, talk with her for a few minutes, then let her hang out with her friends. I think she was happy I was there, but she needed to talk with her friends not me. And personally, I needed a break. After driving three and a half hours with high school girls, the silence was golden. Nice kids, but boy could they yammer on about nothing.
The drives back, usually, consisted of three sleeping kids and one day-dreamy coach. I’d imagine great outcomes for Sarah. She’d finally get a life-saving procedure. Defying all odds, she’d return to the soccer field and receive a college scholarship to Notre Dame. We’d stay in touch. I’d attend her graduation and wedding. At some point I’d do something really cool, like send her a DVD with the song American Music playing over and over. I’d attach a poignant note about perseverance and say something funny about the song now that she was old enough to appreciate my jokes about the song’s lyrics. Eventually, she’d have a family. Sarah wouldn’t merely survive, she’d thrive, represent a living beacon of the human spirit. We’d exchange Christmas cards. In some form or another, we’d always stay in touch. Though, ultimately, I knew she’d never play soccer again, I did imagine, no I believed, the rest was possible.
The organ transplant failed in June’97. Later that summer I was visiting Sarah in a Milwaukee hospital days before taking a team of her friends on a soccer trip to Europe. She began to cry uncontrollably. I’d never seen her do that. Between sobs she said, “My two favorite things are soccer and traveling and I can’t do either.” My heart was dissolving. I leaned over kissed her on the forehead, sat down and held her hand for a long time. I was in new emotional territory. I loved her like a little sister.
. . .
Sarah’ s story grew within the community. She was voted prom queen, the Mayor of Milwaukee talked about her in front of the state assembly, and newspapers and TV told stories about the Resilient Athlete Fighting for Her Life. Our soccer club named its highest award in her honor. The first idea was to call it a Sportsmanship Award, but that didn’t seem quite appropriate; when losing, Sarah was rarely a good sport. Instead, it was titled an Award for Soccer Excellence, to be given to a player who displayed perseverance, loyalty and excellence on the field – Sarah’s greatest traits and gifts. Sarah was the first award recipient. Though still mischievous and sometimes brash, she was beginning to display a softer side as reflected in demonstrations of kindness and love that extended beyond friends and family. Sarah was maturing but she wasn’t getting healthier.
In February 1998 I visited Sarah at the hospital. She wasn’t doing well. She was too sedated and sick to communicate. I left the room in tears, and Sarah’s father consoled me in the hallway. He didn’t deserve that. Regardless of the pain and sadness I felt, he and his family were going through hell. I should be consoling him…
. . .
On March 16, 1998, almost two years to the day she was first admitted to the emergency room, Sarah, the toughest person I’ve ever been around, died. During those two years, she underwent two failed organ transplants and 89 surgical procedures.
Sarah’s funeral was big, beautiful, triumphant, and gut wrenching. Her brother and four sisters (Sarah was the youngest) delivered the eulogy with eloquence and grace. They talked about Sarah the sister and friend – not just the athlete depicted in the paper and on TV. We celebrated Sarah’s extraordinary, inspiring, and tragic life.
Annually, I told Sarah’s story to the club when we announced the Sarah Award winner. I wanted the kids and families to know her story and get a glimpse of her courage. It was also cathartic for me.
As they say, time heals, puts moments and experiences in perspective and allows one to retrieve them and honor them when necessary. Or sometimes those experiences take a hold of and inhibit you. I became an assistant coach at Sarah’s old high school in 2013. It wasn’t intentional. I knew the head coach and he needed an assistant. Interestingly, the coach was the boy Sarah had a crush on in high school. Being at her old high school brought back a flood of memories. A poem I wrote about her in 1996 was still displayed in the school trophy case. Her jersey was retired. A green ribbon with her initials hangs on the team jersey. Eventually, the school named their Fitness Center in her honor. In 2013, fighting back tears, I tried to tell Sarah’s story to the team. It had been 16 years since Sarah died, and I’d told her story many times before without blubbering. Sometimes the pain sneaks up on you, the memories feel too fresh.
In 2014, I started my own personal ritual. Revealing it here feels a bit awkward, but it’s what I do. Before championships or games of similar magnitude, a couple of minutes or so before arriving to the field, I play The Violent Femmes “American Music.”
can I put in something like this is American Music take one
one, two, three, four,
do you like American Music
I like American Music
don’t you like American Music, baby
I want you to hold me
I want your arms around me
I want you to hold me, baby
I play it loud, real loud, and let a montage of Sarah memories run through my head: Sarah lying on a hospital bed, tubes everywhere, smiling as her friends enter the room.
did you do too many drugs
I did too many drugs
did you do too many drugs too, baby
you were born too late
I was born too soon
but every time I look at that ugly moon
it reminds me of you
it reminds me of you
There’s Sarah yelling at an official, there she is celebrating another goal, there she is slapping the basketball away from the opposing team’s superstar, you know the photo, the one in the Milwaukee Journal where she was called for a foul and then got a technical, despite the fact the picture clearly shows she got all ball.
I need a date to the prom
would you like to come along
but nobody would go to the prom with me, baby
they didn't like American Music
they never heard American Music
they didn't know the music was in my soul, baby
Posing for a photo, she looks a bit jaundiced, oh, and there she is doing her homework in the hospital bed, biting her lip, focusing
you were born too soon
I was born too late
but every time I look at that ugly lake
it reminds me of me
it reminds me of me
She’s dribbling the soccer ball around her bedroom wearing her backpack and hoping she’ll be on that field again making fools of her opponents and disciples of her teammates
you were born too late
and I was born too late
but every time I look at that ugly lake
it reminds me of me
it reminds me of me
So many pictures, so many memories. Eventually, I arrive at the field, exit the car and head to another game.
