Called to Coach
Many of us grew up in a home where our dream was to be “just like Dad,” or “just like Mom.” Think about the number of preachers whose fathers were preachers. Teachers whose parents were teachers. Farmers who chose to continue farming the same red clay which had been in the family for decades.
I was destined to be a coach since my Dad was a coach. He did it as a profession and then volunteered as a youth baseball coach on the baseball diamond which is named after him. Many former players who accepted tough coaching, still speak of him with reverence.
Daddy’s path to coaching was different. He grew up dirt-poor in a sharecropper’s house in Town Creek, Alabama. His early baseball consisted of hitting green cotton bolls with a broken hoe handle. In high school, he idolized the coaches who took time with him. As an outstanding athlete, he starred in football, basketball and baseball.
In the nineties, Bob and I met one of Daddy’s coaches at one of our retirement seminars in Moulton. We asked about Howard Bradford, our Dad and his playing skills. (Since Dad never talked about his playing days, we thought maybe he was lazy, scared and carried the water bucket.) His response: “Howard was tough, He would fight a buzzsaw. More than anything, he was smart and could find a way to win.”
That’s the kind of evaluation that money couldn’t buy.
When World War II broke out, Daddy quit high school after his junior year and joined the Army Air Corps where he flew 31 missions on a B-17 in Europe. When he returned from the war, he was too old to play high school ball so as a veteran at Hazelwood High, he assisted the coaches. Imagine coaching your classmates which were in the same senior English class.
After graduation, Daddy went to Florence State Teacher’s College on the GI Bill and baseball scholarship where a “coach was born.”
Growing up under a coaching roof, you realize that the game isn’t left on the athletic field but is brought home. I ate it up. Like most boys growing up in the fifties and sixties, baseball was our sport. We could name the starting lineup for the Cardinals, Dodgers or Yankees and give you all their jersey numbers.
Bob and I had an advantage since we would talk baseball strategy with one of the masters while watching baseball with Peewee Reece and Dizzy Dean. “Daddy, why did Moose Skowron (first baseman) follow the runner to second when he hit the double in the left field corner?” He would take a draw from his Salem and look at us like we just missed his steal signal.
“He follows the runner since the shortstop and second baseman, stack as cutoff men. The right fielder backs up the throw to second. Moose is there to tag out the runner in case he steps off the bag.” Yep. Any 11-year-old who didn’t understand that should be watching Lassie instead.
Our high school football playbook was simple. The entire playbook could be written on a postcard. I already knew all the plays before I was 12 years old since I lived at the football field and would listen- in on the play calls at practice. The blocking assignments weren’t real difficult to understand. When the plays had in-depth calls like 26, 33H,12 or 38 Pop, it didn’t take a college degree to learn them. I think Coach Manley played me at quarterback so I could tell some of the mental midgets what to do.
When I started college, I convinced myself that I wanted to become a doctor, just like one of my idols, Jim Ashmore. Chemistry classes and Foster Auditorium changed my career path. A weak background (my fault) in chemistry classes isn’t conducive to excelling in the medical profession. At Alabama, the “old gym” was Foster Auditorium where nightly pickup basketball games were held. I spent hours there instead of going to labs and extra study sessions. I refereed intramural sports for a little extra money and umpired baseball. Always, athletics.
More than anything, I couldn’t get athletics and coaching out of my blood. To be more specific, out of my soul.
After 21 years coaching at the junior high, high school and college levels, I have never regretted my career choice. I would do it ALL again.
What did I learn from coaching?
You can change lives, attitudes and work ethics quicker than many parents. Often, you might be the only positive male model in their life. You can’t use the excuse: “I didn’t sign up for this.” You are a counselor. A sounding board. A mentor. A friend and a role model. All before breakfast.
You must almost possess a schizophrenic/split personality. Yelling, driving, demanding, disciplinarian at practice. Then shortly afterwards, calm, fatherly and hugging their neck. You find out the players trust your confidentiality more than anyone else. They openly discuss girlfriends, fighting parents, jailed siblings and going without electricity.
You must develop thick skin to keep things in perspective. Every dad thinks he can coach better than you. (Many probably could.) You must remove your “rabbit ears” where you hear and react to every little comment.
You must have a life partner and family that understands your calling as a coach. Unfortunately, there will be missed dinners, recitals, vacations and tucking them in.
But,
When the REAL Head Coach blows the final whistle, hopefully He will tell Saint Pete to open those pearly gates and say:
“Well done, my good and faithful Coach.”
I mean, servant.