“Good Game, Coach!”

“Coaching is a profession of love.

You can’t coach people unless you love them”.

(Eddie Robinson, former Grambling State College coach)

 

“Either love your players

or get out of coaching”.

(Bobby Dodd, former Georgia Tech coach)

 

“Bye Dad”, Prisa said, giving me a quick peck on the cheek.

Clutching a sports bag to her chest, the pony-tailed girl in a grey and black jersey squeezed between the narrow entrance doors and sprinted off in the direction of eight girls at the far end of the court. The similarly dressed girls were stretching on the floor in the corner, or milling around the edge of the bleachers. I barely noticed the hasty goodbye and kiss from my daughter, as I entered the large, luminous, plastic bubble, that served as a gymnasium. Instead of the solid, reassuring echoes of a basketball court with players and spectators, I was distracted by the clattering ricochets of shouts and clapping that rebounded off the synthetic walls and roof. These noises did not synchronize with the game being played on the paneled floor. There was none of the steady drumming of basketballs, or the squeaking of sneakers against polished floors, as players passed, skipped, and dribbled. I heard none of these familiar harmonies as I entered the building. The noises I heard were harsh - and the poor acoustics in the ersatz gym made them deafening. The fact that we were in this cavernous monstrosity in the first place, was testament to the truism that boys and girls will play basketball anywhere in which two opposing hoops are hoisted 10 feet off the ground, and separated by a distance of 30 yards.
 

 

We were at a club basketball tournament at Alemany High School, on the grounds of what was once Our Lady Queen of Angels Junior Seminary, next to the San Fernando Mission. The original high school on Rinaldi Blvd had been damaged beyond repair in the Northridge Earthquake of 1994. The temporary move to the seminary across the street became permanent the following year, when it became obvious that the tiny number of priestly candidates did not warrant the exclusive use of such a large facility. There ensued a five year modernization and building program which would end with the completion of a new gym. In the interim, all high school games which required a court were played in the gyms of surrounding schools. For three years, I had watched the Louisville High School basketball team play Alemany in the gym belonging to L.A. Baptist High School. However, as I discovered on this day, the Alemany teams practiced at home, in this temporary structure made of plastic, vinyl, and acrylics. It appeared to be more substantial than a tent – barely; but it looked and sounded like a deserted airplane hanger filled with sprinting and jostling players, and shouting spectators.

 

I decided to ignore the din and cacophony of this place and concentrate on the reasons I was there – to watch my daughter play basketball, and absorb enough game details to keep up with her post-game analysis on the drive home. As one game was ending, I made my way up the shaky, temporary bleachers. I sat down and searched the court for Prisa. I spied her conferring with Kari, her co-captain, as the other girls were warming up and shooting around the basket. Prisa and Kari were the only seniors on a team filled with short underclasswomen, and a cadre of very talented freshman. The pair had been on varsity for four years, and inherited the roles of leaders for this year’s squad. Despite losing 5 varsity players to graduation, these captains were committed to improving on last year’s record, and rejected the notion of a “rebuilding year”. As evidence of this determination, Prisa waived her final year of volleyball to help direct the Basketball Conditioning sessions in the fall of 1997. This was a pre-season strength and conditioning program that allowed the coaching staff to assess their new and returning players before scheduled games and tournaments could begin. Coaches were not allowed to hold games or scrimmages during this period, but players were permitted to play on club teams - as long as their coaches were not present or guiding them. This lack of formal coaching made for low-key, low-stress games. No one kept score, and stats were rarely maintained; the point of the games was to let the kids play, and not on winning. A designated father, mother, or adult volunteer, stepped into the temporary role of coach for the game, and he or she would shuttle the players in and out.

The quaking of the bleachers signaled the transition to the next game. Sweaty and tussle-haired players climbed up the ascending benches to greet their supporters, merging with the descending spectators heading to the exits.  Searching for a better place to sit, I noticed that Prisa had walked over to the bottom of the bleachers and was waving me down.

“What’s up?” I asked, reaching the floor after a slow descent.

“Dad, I need to ask you for a favor”, she said in an odd manner, sliding up close to me.

“Sure” I replied quickly bringing up my right arm to hug her. I imagined that she probably needed me to recover something she had forgotten in the car, or at home.

“You really won’t have to do much, Dad, Kari and I will keep track of the substitutions, fouls, and plays; all you’ll have to do is sit there - it will be really simple”. All this was said in one quick and breathless sentence.

“Uhhh, what did you say?” I replied slowly, not trusting my hearing. “What do you need me to do?”

“I need you to be the coach, Dad. Kari’s dad couldn’t make it and there is no one else available”.

I felt as if the rotation of the earth had stopped, and everything was frozen in time. I was alone in the universe, facing my worst nightmare scenario: being asked for a personal favor, by my only daughter, to perform a simple, but terrifying task. My daughter was asking me to do the impossible – coaching a team.

 

There are only three actions I cannot conceive of ever performing: touching and distributing the transubstantiated Body of Jesus Christ as a host in Communion; performing medical surgery on any body; and coaching a sports team. I firmly believed that these tasks were the exclusive domain of unique individuals who were blessed with extraordinary talents and abilities. They were people who were born to be priests or ministers, doctors, medics, or nurses, and team coaches or managers. These were true vocations, special callings, which required rigorous training, dedicated practice, and faithful devotion. Admittedly, I had lightly dabbled in coaching when I volunteered as an assistant on my son’s early soccer and baseball teams, and my daughter’s softball teams; but these were amateurish, supporting efforts that ended with high school sports. I came to truly appreciate the complexity and intricacy of high school coaching when Prisa joined the varsity basketball team as a freshman. The newly hired husband and wife team (Mr. Coach and Mrs. Coach, as they were known) established a sophisticated program that raised the level of fitness, skill development, and game performance at Louisville High School. Prisa’s talents and understanding of basketball increased logarithmically under their tutelage, and I happily assumed the role of spectator and fan. I saw that she was playing the game at a level I never imagined, and understood it better than I ever would. Now that player was putting me in an impossible position.
 

 

I never refused Prisa anything she urgently needed or wanted (and she never asked for much); but I never accepted a task I wasn’t confident in performing adequately. I was a school principal of seven years, the Chief Executive Officer (CEO) of a multi-million dollar operation, and the instructional leader of more than 70 teachers and 1800 students, but I was haunted by the primordial fear of being exposed as a fraud. I was trained as a teacher and administrator, but never as a manager of the types of emergencies and crises that can erupt on a school campus. Only 22 years of professional experiences gave me the brashness to face, engage, and deal with them – always realizing I was a hair’s breadth away from disaster. I was only as qualified as I believed myself to be. I was not about to knowingly assume a task, in public view, that I felt myself unqualified to perform.

“Dad, I know I’m asking you to do something you hate” she said, placing her head against my shoulder and looking up at me. “I would never let you be embarrassed. Trust me. Kari and I will do the coaching; I just need you to sit on the bench”.

I looked down at her pleading expression and imagined that it kept alternating as the face of the baby girl I rocked to sleep in my arms, and the mocking face of Chuck Barris, convincing an untalented contestant to make a fool of himself on the Gong Show.

“There has to be someone else we can find” I suggested, weakly.

“No, Dad, you’re our last hope. If you don’t do it, we’ll have to forfeit”. Her decisive tone resounded as loudly as the striking of the humiliating gong.

“Okay, honey” I said, letting go of my fears and placing my ego in the hands of my 17 year old daughter. “I’ll do it”.

Resignedly, I walked to the player’s bench and sat down. From that moment on, the velocity of actions and movements of the people around me, and on the floor, increased to match my speeding heart rate. Prisa, Kari, and eight other girls took the court, and, with the tipoff and start of the clock on the scoreboard, I was engulfed in a blizzard of shifting bodies. Uniformed shapes and squealing sneakers sprinted up and down the floor, transitioning from offense to defense, shooting and passing the ball, committing fouls and being fouled, shouting encouragements, setting plays, and giving directions. It was a confusing and humbling experience. I felt naked in the midst of a tempest, bereft of shelter and with no understanding of the elements that buffeted me. Suddenly the buzzer sounded, and the first half came to a close. During the abbreviated intermission, Prisa finished talking to the team and came up to me.

“You’re doing a great job, Dad,” she said, reassuringly, patting me on the shoulder “I’m really proud of you”.
 

 

Twelve years later, I walked into another gymnasium for the first time to see Prisa in a game of basketball between the Knights of Bishop Montgomery and St. Mary’s Academy of Inglewood. This time she was not playing, she was coaching. Stopping under the backboard at one end of the court to get my bearings, I happily noticed that this building was built in the reassuring, classic multipurpose design of the late 1950’s. There was a raised theatre stage on one side and rising bleachers on the other. The team benches were aligned on the stage side of the floor, with folding chairs set up along the baseline. Prisa was sitting on the stage, with a clipboard in hand, studying the day’s line up and game plan. There were two groups of players at each end of the court shooting and rebounding, but I couldn’t tell which were Prisa’s until the girls nearest me began staring, pointing, and whispering to one another. Girl athletes, as opposed to boys, are never indifferent to the parents of their coach, and their curiosity betrays them. As I walked over to Prisa, she hopped down from the stage when she saw me and gave me a hug.

“Hi dad, I’m glad you made it. Did you have any trouble getting here?”

“No, it was easy. I had a high school friend who lived near here, on Praire. I haven’t driven this route in years”.  Realizing that she didn’t have time to listen to my rambling memories, I changed the subject. “So, how has your team been doing?”

“We’ve been struggling” she explained. “Two of our players were out of town for Christmas, and two more couldn’t make the last game. Our practices have been uneven, and the girls are distracted. We’ve lost our last three games.”

“Ouch!” I exclaimed. “Sorry to hear that. Maybe your luck will change, now that I’m here. In fact, I think you should tell the players that I’ll be taking their pictures and bringing them luck today”.

“I’ll do that, Dad”, she said with a laugh.

“So, what kind or talent do you have this year?” I resumed, questioningly.

“Well”, she replied, “the Varsity coach drafted all the promising freshmen players. Her team is already loaded with talent, so the freshmen won’t see much game time. It’s too bad really, but I understand the advantages of practicing with the varsity team. We still have a good team, with some strong juniors. We have height, speed, and depth. In each of our last 3 games we came back from early deficits to tie the score, but then we lost momentum. The other teams just wanted it more. We have the talent – we just need to put our game together”.

A tall, strong-looking, ponytailed blonde player came bounding up to us. She was one of the girls who had noted my entrance into the gym. Prisa introduced her to me as the team captain and then gave her instructions.

“Be sure everyone has stretched and warmed up” she said carefully, “then bring the team together for a meeting”.

As the captain jogged back to her teammates, I said, “Well, coach, we’ll talk after the game. I’ll let you get back to your team. I’ll just watch and take pictures”.

“Great”, she replied, “Joe should be coming by later, so he can keep you company during the game”.

 

It is a treat and a blessing for a parent to watch their adult children performing their chosen professions or vocations. I’ve been fortunate to see Prisa teach one of her English classes, and now I was finally watching her coach. Last year she worked as an assistant, implementing the philosophy and game plans of the head coach. This year she was in charge, and it was her team. Fifteen girls of various sizes, shapes, and mannerisms huddled around her, at the far end of the bench. Watching her speak and interact with her players, reminded me of how she acted in class. She spoke softly and intently, used her hands for emphasis, and interjected lighthearted humor and joking banter. However, there was more intensity in the huddle that in a classroom. These girls wanted to be here, and on this team. The varsity coach had already picked over the players; so there would be no more promotions to varsity. This was the last season for all the juniors on the team. The players who remained were playing for love of the game. This was the essence of sport; to learn and play a game because you love to learn and play it. In high school, Prisa had willingly stayed at the JV level in volleyball and softball just to experience the joy of practice and performance; rather than practicing and watching on the varsity, she preferred playing on JV.

 

When the game started I joined Joe, Prisa’s fiancé, in the stands to watch and photograph. I enjoy watching basketball, even though I don’t recognize all the technical aspects of the game without the assistance of a commentator or coach. I can usually identify a zone defense, man-to-man coverage, and a full-court press, but after that I don’t know what is really going on beyond the scoring. That is why I love watching the Pac-10 Tournament with Prisa; she constantly updates me on the defensive sets, the plays, and the adjustments that go on during a game. She is so good at it, that spectators in front, and to our sides, would constantly engage her in conversation and discussion. When I’m alone, I just watch the guards, the ball, and the scoring. Through the lens of my camera, the teams traded baskets for the first quarter, with neither one establishing any consistent momentum or control. Despite Bishop Montgomery’s advantage in height and speed, St. Mary’s kept up with their outside shooting. The Knights would fall behind when they tried matching outside field goals, and then catch up with fast breaks off defensive turnovers, and passes to their forwards for layups. I grew increasingly anxious in the second quarter because Montgomery’s advantages were becoming more obvious, but they were not capitalizing on them. I expressed my apprehensions and nervousness with intermittent shouts of encouragement and emotional reactions: “yes, yes, yes”; “no, no, no”; “rebound, get the rebound”; “look up, look up”; “no, no, no”; “shoot, shoot  – yes!”; “ oohh, nooo”; “get it, get it”; and “put it up”. Joe was kind enough to ignore me. Glancing away from the action on the floor, I’d occasionally look over at Prisa, striding calmly and confidently in front of the team bench. Pausing at different spots along the baseline, she would call out, point, clap encouragement, and give directions to the hustling players who pushed the ball forward on the attack, and retreated on defense. The closest gesture of disapproval was when she stretched out her arms, palms up in supplication, and mouthed the word “What?” at the referees. The game see-sawed back and forth, with neither team gaining the upper hand. At halftime the score was St. Mary’s Academy 18 – Bishop Montgomery 20.
 

 

From my perspective behind the camera, Prisa’s halftime speech was a continuation of the pre-game huddle, and her on-court encouragements. She praised the players for what they were doing correctly, identifying the specific plays, and then reviewed the adjustments that needed to be made. She interspersed jokes, insights, and irony, but there was no hint of disappointment or frustration. I did hear strong echoes of past coaches that Prisa admired and loved. The second half was an entirely different game. Montgomery came out with increased determination and a pressing defense that did not let up, and they slowly increased their lead. When I looked up at the scoreboard in the 3^rd quarter, they were ahead by 10 points; when I looked again at the next timeout, the spread had grown to 20. It was at that point that I finally sat back in my seat and relaxed, asking Joe how he was doing in his new position as Athletic Director of Serra High School. As he talked about how much he missed coaching, memories of the club game at Alemany, and my one-and-only high school coaching experience came to mind. I hated every moment of that game, because I felt powerless; I didn’t know what I was doing, or what was going on. Yet, I had to say “Yes” to my daughter or the girls would not play. That game was about trusting Prisa and her teammates, and being willing to appear foolish so they could play and learn in front of family, friends, and strangers. I suppose that is what every coach does when they go out on a court, or on a field of play, with their kids – saying “Yes”, and being willing to appear foolish, or wise, depending on how the team performs.  Observing some of her teaching mannerisms in her coaching style had misled me to suspect that coaching was an extension of teaching for Prisa – but it isn’t. Teachers and administrators do not expose themselves in quite that way in classrooms and schools; they work within segregated spaces and behind closed doors. Coaches have no privacy; they constantly expose themselves to public judgments every game, through their players.
 

 

The Knights coasted to an easy victory, with Prisa substituting her players generously to give everyone lots of time on the court. The final score was St. Mary’s 29 – Bishop Montgomery 62. At the end of the game, after Prisa had congratulated her team and reminded them of practice, I walked over to her and said, “Good game, coach”.  There is something generationally satisfying in watching ones children do something you never could. There is a little envy, and a lot of awe.