A Tribute

On Saturday night, I kneeled in the mud of the high school football field, arranging my camera angle to avoid the glare of the lights. I caught on film an incredible moment: My father wiped tears from his eyes. He was surprised with a special tribute from the football boosters. Supposedly, my dad retired from coaching this year, after 37 years - more than my lifetime.

Coaches don't really retire, though. Being a coach is part of who you are, a part of your identity.

When it comes to coaching, what most parents see is a dad (sometimes a mom) who is there because their kid plays, and sports counts as good quality time; they see a parent/coach who seems to play favorites, and that favorite is never your child. I've been there. I've dealt with those coaches and wondered why they are there.

But, I've also seen coaching from a different angle for 36 years. My dad never coached his own son - my brother is retarded - but he did coach a number of nephews and two stepsons. When my oldest cousin was a star running back in pee wee football, my dad agonized over my cousin's playing time, worried that other parents might look at it as favoritism. However, when my dad discovered that my aunt and uncle were paying this cousin $5 for each touchdown, he moved my cousin to a different position. He wanted my cousin - and my aunt and uncle - to understand that the best reward was the satisfaction of seeing hard work pay off.

Sometimes having a dad who coached was hard. He gave other people's kids a lot of attention that should have gone to his own kids. It forced him into some tough decisions when my activities conflicted with his coaching. Sometimes he picked me; more often he picked coaching. The worst part about having a dad who coached most of the boys in the area was dating. It made dating impossible. One guy told me what all the others wouldn't: "Sue, if I brought you home late, your dad would have me run the hill." Running the hill was the most grueling conditioning activity the players went through. When I was 12, I laughed at the boys running back and forth. When I was 17, I cursed the hill, and my dad for using that stupid drill!

Growing up with a coach, however, gave me an appreciation for the men and women who dedicate a lot of time and energy and endure a lot of stress and nasty phone calls. The best coaches are concerned with their players as people. To those types of coaches, I tip my hat.

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