My memory is terrible. Really, it’s awful. Sometimes I think it’s pointless for people to introduce themselves to me. Because whether their name is Dave, John, Ryan, Diane, Jennifer or whatever, I’m going to immediately forget.
It’s not that I don’t want to soak in Ryan’s name, so the next time I run into him at Albertsons I can yell, “Ryan, man, how you doin?” No, it’s just that my memory is as useful as wind in outdoor basketball games.
Just ask my brother how awful my memory is. His mind is like a vice. He can remember exact details from our childhood, like what happened Aug. 16, 1994. (I, however, have no idea what happened Aug. 16, 1994, you’ll have to ask him.)
But I’ll tell you what my severely-limited brain can remember — every coach I’ve ever had.
I remember my first basketball coach. He was a cowboy with teeth stained from years of chewing tobacco. He wore a black, dirty cowboy hat and boots, even while coaching.
My first basketball coach, the cowboy, was great for a third-grader, despite what we all might assume cowboys know about basketball. He pushed me. He believed in me. He wasn’t afraid of piling on responsibility before I was ready. Looking back at that roster, the cowboy’s choices were limited, but he hooked me on the game.
The first high school coach I had was sort of a jerk. He was ornery. We stunk, and he liked losing about as much as Bill Belichick enjoys the media or shirts with sleeves. But notice that I’m not saying my first high school coach was bad. I’m glad we ran sprints until my legs died, and I hope his dissatisfaction with poor effort and even worst results rubbed off on me.
My first high school coach endured a losing season, and this was a high school basketball program that didn’t accept losing. At halftime, he’d body check lockers in an effort to show us what real boxing out resembled. He’d yell about careless turnovers or lackadaisical effort until his face resembled the color of a Braeburn apple.
We were freshman slogging through a losing season. One that no one remembers but the guys on that team. He never gave up on us, though, and I have to commend him for that.
You know, it’s amazing how little I remember the games from that freshman season. I mean, I’ve probably suppressed them — if only for my own sanity. But I remember my first high school coach — vividly.
I can still hear his voice boom instructions that echoed to the four corners of the gym. I remember his favorite drill and how we’d consistently blunder a defensive rotation. He’d yell, cajole and encourage from the sideline. And we improved.
The freshmen team that lost most of its games was better when the season ended than when it began. I moved away from that town, but the guys on that squad weren’t half bad by the time they were seniors. My first high school coach had a hand in that. I know I’m a better person for having played under him. My inconsistent mind remembers that.
I wish my forgetful mind didn’t remember all my coaches. I recall the good ones, but I’ve retained everything from the bad ones just as well. I’m convinced the good ones had something that rubbed off on me. I’m afraid the bad ones did too.
You see, my varsity high school coach was a crock. He didn’t know basketball, and he certainly didn’t know how to coach. He couldn’t communicate or organize practices. He didn’t demand high effort and never forced us to execute.
Practice makes perfect and we were a perfect joke in games.
I’ve shunned my high school basketball days, post freshman year, because my varsity high school coach was a walking mess. I don’t want to remember, but I can’t forget.
Those memories flooded to the forefront of my brain after reading a letter-to-the-editor in last Saturday’s paper. Tamara Forrest wrote in encouraging parents to be wary for the signs of a bad coach. Tamara wrote, “There are still way too many coaches in this country who are failing to teach and model ethical behavior.”
She goes on to list some behaviors of both poor and good coaches. They’re spot on. It occurred to me that with fall sports kicking off in a couple weeks — 16 days and counting until high school football — it’s time to step back and really think about what we all expect of a coach.
They’re charged with an athlete’s well-being and development, yet asked to push those players beyond their limits. Coaches are role models, but they have to yell occasionally and correct and enforce discipline. They must encourage fair play and honesty, but coaches tell a middle linebacker that when the opposing running back is powering through the B gap, he’d better lay him out — an act that’s pure brutality anywhere else but on the field of play.
Coaches have difficult jobs, and their pay never offsets the time and effort required to do a good job (I’m not referring to either college or professional levels).
But a coach’s influence can span years, decades even. Athletes never forget their influence, either good or bad. I guarantee it.
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