My Defense is Terrible

In past years, when the TOPSoccer athletes walked onto the field, some pushing on aggressively, others clumsily, I was usually leaving for another practice. They came in all shapes, sizes, ages, genders and ethnicities, an annual event I tried to avoid and was happy to miss. That’s because I was a moron.

Then one year when thunderstorms cancelled my impending club practice and I had no excuse, I was tagged to coach our high school’s TOPSoccer Day or Special Olympics soccer practice. Despite coaching soccer my entire adult life, this event threw me for a loop. What do I do? How do I approach it? I felt nervous.

My cousin Patrick (four years younger than I) has cognitive disabilities.[1] Over the years, we’ve spent a lot of time together. I pictured Patrick on the field awkwardly kicking at the ball. Maybe he’d get angry because he’d miss or frustrated if his team was losing. The coaches might patronize him, tell him he’s doing fine – but he’d still be frustrated. Though well meaning, the entire event, I thought, seemed demeaning and patronizing for people like Pat. Did I mention – I’m a moron.

Years ago, when I was in my early 20s, I played in a Thanksgiving Turkey Bowl football game. Pat’s older brother, Jeff, organized the game with his high school friends. One year, Pat played. Each time the ball was snapped, Pat stood up straight and stuck out his arms like he was blind or looking for something in a dark room. Then he’d fall or get knocked over. After around three snaps, Pat announced, “I’m done,” and walked off the field. It was Pat’s choice. We respected his decision. Happily, he stayed for the entire scrimmage and had a great time.

I projected this experience with Pat onto the TOPSoccer event, envisioning frustrated athletes walking off the field and uncomfortable high school kids not knowing how to respond. Unlike our event of individuals who knew Pat, perhaps they’d try to coax them back onto the field, fail to respect their decision. One more time – am I an idiot?

The event was held in our high school gym. The athletes lined up for a ball control and passing warm-up. The high school kids, who looked a bit uncomfortable, demonstrated techniques and helped the athletes. It wasn’t easy. One guy, Tommy, was quick and athletic and passed the ball accurately. Another guy, Bill, barely moved and couldn’t make contact with the ball. I think he was partially blind. Neither seemed to care much. Even Bill, standing there motionless, seemed to be enjoying himself.

We split into teams, mixing the TOPSoccer athletes in with our high school girl’s players. The TOPSoccer athletes looked excited and ready to play; the high school girls, on the other hand, didn’t know how to proceed. They looked nervous, maybe apologetic. Should I dribble, shoot and play defense? I imagined them thinking. How hard do I play? They didn’t know how to communicate with the athletes, how to encourage them; they were out of their comfort zone.

Out of habit, I started coaching. Little Tommy was dribbling through the entire team and scoring goal after goal.

“Defend Tommy,” I yelled to the opposing team.

Tommy smiled, “I score a lot of goals.”

“Well, we’re going to stop you Tommy. Let’s get ‘em,” players on the opposing team laughed.

“Okay,” he smiled. He was stopped a few times, mostly by the high school girls who were starting to get the hang of things. They encouraged the players and kept the game close and somewhat competitive.

I approached one of the goalkeepers. He looked like he was in his 50’s. Overweight, he had on big coke bottle glasses, knee pads and shiny red goalie gloves. He hardly moved the entire game, except to retrieve the ball out of the net.

I introduced myself. “My name is Rob. I’m the goalkeeper coach here. What’s your name?”

“I’m John,” he responded. “My defense is terrible.”

“I suppose your teammates could stop them from shooting.”

“Yeah, I’m a really good goalie.”

“I can tell.”

“If they don’t play better defense, I’m going to have to go beast mode.”

“Beast mode!” I was in heaven. Language I can identify with. “Oh boy. That sounds serious.”

“It is,” he nodded.

I didn’t want this conversation, game or evening to end.

After a break, the teams reorganized and I found myself on the field with Tommy, John and Bill again. When Tommy saw the other team, with mostly high school girls, he declared, “I’m on their team."

“What do you mean? You can’t just switch teams,” I said, not knowing whether he wanted to switch so he could be on a better team or so he could play with the girls. I suspected the latter.

“Yeah, I’m switching teams,” he concluded, and the deal was done – Tommy switched teams.

Sam, formerly on Tommy’s team, snuck up on me from behind on my left side and tapped my right shoulder. I glanced to my right and Sam laughed uproariously. “I got you.” He did this three more times and got me every time. He scored two goals against Tommy’s new team. He smiled when he scored and he smiled when the opposing team scored, but he laughed uproariously when he tapped someone on the shoulder and they looked the wrong way.

Bill stood like a statue in the middle of the field. Every so often someone would coax him to move in a direction or let him touch the ball. Sometimes he would make a noise.

John, in the meantime, was still giving up goals. I ambled over to console or coach him, though he looked undaunted. He was a pro. He wasn’t going to let a few goals affect his confidence. After all he knew whose fault it was.

“My defense is terrible,” he noted again. “I probably have to go beast mode.”

“I agree, John.”

“Once, when I went beast mode, I ran forward and this guy came at me and I went around him and another guy came at me and I jumped over him.”

“No kidding.”

“Yeah, and if things go really bad you know what I do?”

“No, what?”

“I go double beast mode.”

During the post-match meal, I sat with John and Greg, another athlete. “Do you guys work,” I asked.

“Yes, I work at St. Ann’s Nursing home,” John responded.

“Really, did you ever work with Katie Harrington?”

“Yes, she worked in the kitchen. She retired. She was in love with Paul.” His words brought back warm memories.

Katie, my deceased aunt, had Down Syndrome and used to work at St. Ann’s. She loved her boss Paul. “He’s my boyfriend,” she’d say and then giggle.

Katie was the Harrington family event’s organizer. She insisted we get together for the holidays, knew everybody’s birthday and made sure everyone got a card. She worked for 30-plus years at St. Ann’s. When she was in her late 40s, she abruptly retired. “Why are you retiring so young,” we asked her.

“Because it’s time,” she said. In so many ways, she was the smartest Harrington.

Katie was raised and educated at St. Coletta’s (a home for elderly and individuals with cognitive disabilities) from age 5 to 18. In the 60s, it was not unusual for children with Down Syndrome to be raised and schooled in homes away from their family. During most of her adult years she lived with her sister Mary’s family. Late in life. when she was suffering with dementia, she moved back into St. Coletta’s until her death at age 56.

St. Coletta’s hosted her funeral and, in their tradition, allowed any resident to eulogize the deceased. Several of her friends spoke.

“I liked Katie, Katie was my friend. Katie had a shoelace. I liked Katie.”

“Katie and I ate lunch. Katie liked to watch TV. I miss Katie.”

“Mmmmmm,” one man hummed. “Mmmmmm.” Then he sat down.

“I loved Katie, she was nice to everyone. Katie liked beer.”

I’m misty now; I was mush as Katie’s friends described her simply and beautifully.

I turned to Greg. “I didn’t see you playing today. Do you play?”

“No, I have a pacemaker.”

“Wow.”

“Yeah. I had surgery last year. I don’t play now. John and I were on the same team for 30 years. He’s a really good goalkeeper.”

“I know, I saw him play today.”

“Yeah, his defense was terrible. I thought he’d go beast mode.”

“You’ve seen him go beast mode?”

“Yes. Once, I saw him go triple beast mode.”

“Triple beast mode!?”

“Yeah, his defense was really bad so he had to go triple beast mode.”

I looked over at John. “John,” I began, “let me ask you an important question. Are you ready?” He nodded. “Have you ever had to go quadruple beast mode?”

Without hesitation John responded, “The opportunity has never presented itself.”

If I have my way, I’ll never miss the TOPSoccer Day event again.

[1] Here’s an important distinction. I used to say my cognitively disabled cousin. One day my aunt said, “You need to say, my cousin with cognitive disabilities. He’s a lot more than just a cognitively disabled person.” I listened. Given the events described here, perhaps I should’ve listened closer.