Years ago, I called a timeout on my flamed-out, crash-and-burn, frustrating sales career. Subsequently, I changed my nine-to-five daily grind on to the field of education and became a teacher.
What transpired in that first year led me to a subset if you will of teaching at a school: coaching sports. I found myself in my own summer of discontent when June rolled around and I had nothing to do. What’s a three-month vacation? I realized I had not had one of those since I myself was a student.
It is really hard to believe, but twenty-five years later, I have chalked up a pretty good amount of basketball games roaming the sidelines of the hardwood.
But I digress.
Stuck in a mid-June state of malaise and overall confusion of what to do until the next school year rolled around, I looked into some local basketball camps (thinking I would like to coach basketball as part of my newfound profession).
I will never be able to recall all of the games I have been involved in the way that Pat Conroy did in My Losing Season, but here is a rundown of seasons both long ago and recent:
In three summers at a prestigious basketball day-camp, I had my own ten-person teams and coached in at least fifty games in mostly blazing-hot days on outside, asphalt courts and sometimes, if lucky, in an air-conditioned gym. I learned about skills and strategies from some of the best.
At my first teaching job at a very small private school, I cut my teeth on coaching school teams against competition other than fellow coaches/counselors and campers.
When I landed at my next school a year later, I had the opportunity to coach both at the middle and upper school levels. Mostly as an assistant and slowly but surely as a head coach, the competition, players’ skill, gym environment, and stakes was a full step or three higher than what I previously experienced. Over my time at that school, I coached for fourteen seasons at an average of at least ten games a season. A few anecdotes are worthy of mentioning here:
- Abandoned by my head coach at halftime because of his stated pending coaching obligation on the same afternoon, I was left to get our team out of our early season, no-win slump and win a conference game at all costs. The problem was (and I may never live it down), the home game was against a rival school and my own son’s team. Blinded by my fellow coach’s blood-thirsty, departing aim of winning and not stopping to put into context (even for a second) what this game really meant (or didn’t) to me, my team, and most importantly my son, we won all right. By about fifty points!
- My middle school building just so happened to be literally right down the street from my old high-school rival (at my high school alma mater may moons before). When I got a chance to play that school for a few seasons as a freshman team coach, I momentarily reveled in the fact that at this point in time, I now had two reasons to “hate” my old rival.
- We had a cross-town middle school rival that we just could not seem to ever beat. Our talent level, strategy, and competitive fire aside, we never got over that hump. They had our proverbial “number.”
- I got a lecture from my assistant coach one time to not chew tobacco (however secretive the manner) in practice in front of the players. With my small cup in hand, an enjoyable dip in my lip, and my ego effectively checked, I could not protest. The only thing that kept me from telling my colleague (pridefully) “where to go” was that he was right. He was right.
My next coaching stop was by happenstance. Having relocated in another town for various reasons, I sought out and obtained a part-time job substitute teaching and coaching at another private school. The years here would prove to be the best of all. Middle school basketball is quite an interesting scenario. There is every skill level imaginable, and that, combined with the interminable state of adolescent angst, tends to, let’s just say, never leave a dull moment.
Highlights of this coaching tenure:
- Same gym, same time, same night league against local middle school teams. Runs for two months and takes place in a fieldhouse whose inside track encircles four courts.
- Seen and coached in some crazy games: last minute, three-point buzzer beaters and the unlikeliest of in-game circumstances leading to either victory or defeat.
- Witnessed some remarkable athletic talent from seventh grade ballers: straight, slash-and-dash, take-it-to-the-hoop guys; sharpshooters swishing shots from the arc; gutsy, dive-on-the-floor, Dave Cowens-like hustle.
The last two games of this current season were won by my team in a high-anxiety, barnburner manner. Both games were won by two points each (one under slightly unusual circumstances). Out of twelve teams in the tournament, our final game was for the title of Second Tier/Fifth Place. Geez, if you did not know any better, you might think it was the ACC tournament championship game.
And this final timeout? Let’s just say, I called it in an altogether different and more enjoyable manner than the one I called years ago when I changed careers.
The first was a “full” timeout: a current professional pivot with a blind eye toward the future.
The final was a “30 second” one: a “red-eyed, dog-tired” satisfaction taken with a sense of certainty.
