The Doctor Is In
My entry yesterday got me thinking about the coach from my high school that I mentioned. He won a few football championships during his tenure at the school and had a big-time reputation in the state of Virginia. He was the coach of our team during the season that is portrayed in the film “Remember the Titans,” and though I cannot now recall for certain, our football game against the T.C. Williams team spotlighted in the movie might have been the only loss for our team that year.
As I mentioned, I didn’t play football, and I think he held a little grudge against me for that. I know I developed some hard feelings toward him over time. My complex relationship with him actually began when I was eight years old. Our elementary school had a summer recreation program, and Coach was earning a few extra bucks by helping out with the sports. One day they were getting ready to have a baseball game, and when I tried to get in the game, he told me I was too young. Only kids aged ten and older were allowed to play.
I went home in the middle of the program, I was so upset, and when I told my mother what happened, she actually went up to the school and confronted Coach about it. Much to my amazement, he backed down and allowed me to play. But, when I dropped a ball hit to me during the game, he made a taunting remark.
Fast forward six years, and I showed up for J.V. baseball. The first two days of practice, all we did was run. And then we ran some more. We ran laps around the whole school property. Of course, a number of guys quit right then, which I guess was the purpose of it all.
When we finally began actually working on baseball skills, I did pretty well. Then he started nagging me about playing football, mocking the fact I was in the band. But, when I ruptured a muscle during practice, he actually held open a place on the team for me until I recovered and rejoined the practices just before the games began. We were pretty lousy, winning only one game, but I was the only one who played every inning of all the games.
The next year, I was invited to try out for the varsity, and sometimes the varsity and J.V. practiced together. One day, Coach was hitting grounders to the infielders between pitches in batting practice. He hit one to me that hopped up on me, and I turned my head. He flew into a rage. “Are you AFRAID of the BALL, Howell??” Then he began hitting balls as hard as he could at me, but they all flew over my head.
Another time, he was pitching batting practice, and I ripped a line drive right back at him that almost took his head off. So, he began throwing pitches directly at me. Meanwhile, he made the occasional remark about how he wished I would “come out in the fall.” And he would watch me run in P.E. class.
Some twenty years after the batting practice incident, during which time I saw him maybe once or twice, Coach mentioned to my brother that he had been thinking about throwing the ball at me, and felt bad about doing it.
He never said it me.
So, while Coach seemed to promote my athletic ability on the one hand, he sometimes behaved like a madman on the other. At the time, I was trying to do whatever I could to please him (except play football), but while I still laugh at some of the ridiculous things he said to me and others, I don’t hold him in the fondest of places in my heart.
I saw Coach about three years ago, and while I politely shook his hand and introduced him to my wife, the encounter was brief.
And empty.