Thanking Coach

Like most athletes, I’ve had a lot of coaches in my time. Coaches hold a special place in American culture; somewhere between parent and teacher, someplace between best friend and arch-nemesis, a person with whom you might share your greatest victory and someone who may very well deliver your greatest defeat. Coaches come in all shapes and sizes; big coaches, little coaches, mean coaches, friendly coaches; coaches who yell, coaches who drill, coaches with catchphrases, coaches with bad hair. Some coaches never played the game they coach, while some play it still (or at least think they can). There are coaches that look good in suits, and coaches who look about as comfortable in suits as they would standing on the sideline naked. Nevertheless, many of us mark time in our lives with the coaches we’ve had. There are some lessons that only a coach can teach; things you would never have learned from your parents, friends, or that “school of hard knocks” you keep referring to (though you’ve been in private school since you were 18). Funny thing is, these most important lessons are most often learned from the coach you’d least expect them from.

I have to admit, I do like the word “Coach”. It’s respectful but still intimate - an unspoken understanding between athletes. Some coaches want you to use their first name, some want you to call them Mr. This or Ms. That., even rarer still are those who insist on sir or ma’am (outside of Texas high school football). But there’s something about saying “Hey Coach...” which lets someone know that you’re ready to take direction, and that you trust what they’re about to send you out to do. And so, every coach I’ve ever had I’ve called “Coach”. The last coach I had is probably the last coach I’ll ever have - there aren’t a lot of professional team sports opportunities for a 35 year old with a double spinal fusion, and whose two greatest sporting abilities are his ability to throw (a) girls and (b) frisbees (I’m sure my dad secretly wishes those were strikes and touchdowns - but sometimes you get what you get). My final coach was the coach of the Clippers Fan Patrol - the professional coed cheerleading squad for the L.A. Clippers - although her official title was “Director” - and like every last anything, ours is a story that deserves to be told; as she was, surprisingly enough, the coach that taught me the most.


Old Cheerleaders Never Die...

...they just keep finding other places to stunt. It’s true. Forget about the clapping, chanting, hand-motions, spirit fingers and any of that ancillary nonsense. Most cheerleaders just put up with that stuff because it’s an excuse to stunt. Don’t get me wrong, we are the energetic sort - but we’re also not stupid, so we know the cheese factor of what we have to do to earn the right to do acrobatics in front of strangers. Of course, as we get older, two things happen: 1. Our tolerance for wearing ill-fitting and awfully colored polyester, shouting chants to the detriment of our vocal cords and trying to generate excitement whilst starting at a sea of apathetic faces wears very thin (notwithstanding the license it provides); and 2. We’re not good for the four quarters, two halves, daily/weekly practices, warm-ups, stretching, etc., that we used to be (no matter what our brains may tell us). As a result, we end up finding places that will let us do the throwing, catching, flying, spinning and stretching that we love, both as little as we’d like and with as little hassle as we can. For some, it’s skulking around open gyms, while others find spots on pro teams, and for the precious few who can manage it, they coach.

Such was the case with Jessie. An All-American cheerleader for literally decades before - she, like many all-stars before her, found herself on camp staffs, then leading camp staffs, and then ultimately coaching. Though I didn’t know her then, I expect at each stop along this road, she stole a little time away for herself, throwing a stunt, basket, or other such skill every now and again - both to make certain that she still had it (though there was little doubt) and because, well, once you’ve got the itch - it’s hard to ignore. And that’s the beauty of a coach who’s played the game at the highest level: you know damned well that if you don’t live up to their standard, they’ll likely just step in and do it themselves (probably better than you did - and just as well as they did it ten years ago). What’s more, they get you - in a way that you sometimes don’t get yourself. They know what you do, how you do it, and most importantly, why. Which is why Jessie was a great cheerleading coach - she was a great cheerleader first.

The Cat Herd

At each level of any sport, the higher you go, the less teaching-of-the-game you have to do, and the more management of challenging personalities you must do. Despite what you may think you know about the group Coach Jessie was tasked to lead, you have no idea. As uniform as we may have appeared, we couldn’t have been a much more diverse group. We were young and old (ages 19 to 37), tall and short (4’11” to 6’6”), quiet and loud (yes, I know, quiet cheerleaders), and cocky and, well, o.k. for the most part all of us were cocky. We came from wildly different backgrounds, both personally, and in our own sport: some from rich families and some from poor, some from storied college programs and some who had only ever cheered in competition. To say we may have been a difficult bunch to lead would be akin to saying that Miley Cyrus may grow up a little socially maladjusted. We were a coaching nightmare.

But Coach was stoic, optimistic and loving. Always. You could see that most of us started out thinking that she didn’t have much chance of coaching us when we first met her - and for some, that petulant stare never went away. But she endured, and for many of us, she earned that spot she had - and we rewarded her with something that most of us did for precious few others, we listened. It’s a powerful thing when you realize for the first time that someone is really listening to you - you know, when a child is hanging on your every word for guidance, and you know fully well that they will take every bit of what you say as absolute gospel. It’s heady, empowering and sometimes scary. Of course, Coach had kids of her own, and it clearly wasn’t her first time both earning and exercising this responsibility. She used it well. She knew just the right amount of shenanigans to put up with, the right moment to drop the hammer, the time to pull someone aside. She knew how each of us ticked, she knew how to push you, she knew how to make you do what she needed from you, she knew how to make you feel like she hadn’t done much at all, and that you did it all on your own. Most importantly, she never lost sight of the fact that it was, in fact, cats, she was herding. They would never be cattle, they would never fall in line, bond like a football or volleyball team, or be lead by simply a strong hand. And that was really the genius in it after all.

The Captain I Wasn’t

I’m not quite sure how Coach saw me at first. I was going through so much personal change when we first met, I scarcely knew myself back then. On the doorstep of a new legal career, my first real job that didn’t involve a uniform, and in a terrifyingly new city where I didn’t know a soul. I was shy but loud, all heart and little technique. I was older than most of the group and felt it. I always suspected that I’d have more in common with Coach than I would with most anyone on the line. But I insisted on calling her “Coach” - and when she finally realized that this wasn’t just a verbal slip on my part, she gave me an odd look (as did many of my teammates). I suspect I may have been the first cheerleader in her charge to ever do so - at least at the pro-level. But she handled it with her customary aplomb.

My personality was a tremendously bad fit with the existing team’s at the time I joined. I was faster, more energetic and louder than most everyone (save my dearest Sanchez) - a cheerleader trained at a military academy - and, after expecting everyone to be exactly like me, visibly disappointed in my teammates. Coach saw it, and could see the storm brewing on the horizon. The strong personalities in the locker room, especially the team captains she had selected, brushed harshly against my own, and as you might expect, ultimately came to a head. One day, I forgot myself, and in a fit of childish rage, stormed off the court during warm-ups. Coach found me immediately, and the care and concern which she had always previously addressed me with was gone from her face. She presented me with my own foolishness, shined a light on my immaturity and would hear nothing of my justifications. She not only demanded better, but also that I apologize to the team, and to my then-hated nemesis - and that was simply for her to consider letting me back out on the court. In all of my years of leading and being led, I had never had to do such a thing. But I did. I swallowed the little pride I had left and gave that apology, through gritted teeth and strained back tears, and walked back out on that court - knowing a little more about Coach and a lot more about me.

My final year, I had every expectation that I’d be selected as a team captain. I had the seniority - the only guy on the line who had been there longer had already been captain and didn’t want the job again. I was the oldest, and most vocal member of the team. I did my best to lead during tryout prep, tryouts and early practices. I communicated with the group, organized social events, and tried to generate a new esprit de corps. I was simply waiting on my coronation, and Coach knew it. She didn’t pick me. And like that day I stomped off the court, I again reached back and found my petulant adolescence, and turned my back on a team, and a coach, that I felt had betrayed me. It wasn’t long before she confronted me again. We talked for hours - and though I don’t remember exactly what she said, I remember realizing exactly what she had known all along. It wasn’t my team to lead. They wouldn’t follow me, and I wasn’t ready. It didn’t make me less of a cheerleader, teammate, or person - team leadership is not simply about qualification, it’s a collective relationship that you must be capable of. She knew I didn’t have it, and taught me one of the most valuable lessons of my adult life.

* * *

There are other stories; other lessons, other moments. It’s difficult to try and take a five year relationship and condense it to just a few thousand words. There were moments we shared our own outdated-ness (singing Bon Jovi and Boston songs way too loudly), our individual successes and our personal defeats. We went down a long road together - and one that neither of us expected. Today, Coach is no longer coaching that team, and I’m no longer cheering. But, it takes little more than a stroll into STAPLES Center, or a picture from those days to remind me of not just who she was, but what she was to me. Though I’ve had many teachers in my life, I’ve learned from precious few of them. As luck would have it, it has almost always been from those I least expected. There were moments I cursed and hated her, and moments I loved her just as intensely. It was a crucible of a relationship, and I’m grateful for every high and low. Time has taken much, but has given me more - especially in the way of perspective. I don’t have many regrets from my last run as a “real” athlete - it was a time I’ll always remember, but there is one that came to me as I sat to pen this little ode. I don’t think I ever gave her a hug and thanked her for just how much she gave me - whether she knew it or not. So here it is Coach, in the best way I know how, in a medium which lasts forever, a hug from one old-retired athlete to his last Coach: thank you.

The Fourth Horseman

History is filled with transcendent trios. Bands of heroes, villains, saviors and songsters have come in threes so often that we've become accustomed and comfortable with the idea and even the superstition that good things come in threes. The Three Musketeers, Charlie's Angels, The Jimi Hendrix Experience, and the Three Amigos, just to name a few. While the first foursome that comes to mind are those famous horsemen who foretell the coming of the Apocalypse: Conquest, War, Famine and Death. As I prepare to depart Los Angeles after a shorter-than-it-seemed five year stay, I'm also leaving my own group of horsemen; a foursome to which I'm not certain I ever truly deserved to be a part of, but one that never made me feel like I did anything but.

I've lived a life of ancillary-at-best connectivity, treating each place I've stopped as simply a way-station on the way to bigger and better things. And as you might imagine, that sort of attitude doesn't lend itself to making great or lifelong friends. I've frequently felt intensely and secretly jealous of people who have best friends that they've known forever; people who would give or do anything for them, and for whom they'd do the same. Though through the years, I've had some close calls, I'm not sure I really ever had a best friend, let alone more than one. What's more, if you were to survey most folks on the places you might be least likely to make an actual connection, I would expect that Los Angeles would end up either at or near the bottom of the list. And not without good reason, the majority of the city is shallower than a spit puddle, and emotes a collective narcissism so intensely extreme that it's a wonder they don't commit all eight million of us. But it was here, in the most improbable of places, that I found three horsemen to ride with, and with whom I hope to frequently ride with again.

The Big 3

Sanchez, Joey and the Hawk. That's them. Sounds like a modern day A-Team. And I suppose we are an A-Team in a way. Though, I imagine that every group of male friends has a Hannibal, a Face-Man, a Murdock and a B.A. Barracus - or maybe more than one of each. David (Sanchez) is definitely our Murdock - crazy, wide-eyed, and an ability to find a smile in just about anything; though not without moments of unexpected lucid insight that are so profound that they often leave you simply shaking your head. Joey is surely our B.A. Barracus - though I expect if asked, that he'd tell you he's the Face-Man. He's certainly a fighter, and no mohawk notwithstanding, has gone through a number of haircuts that I'd never even consider. He's a man of few words, but constant presence; a fiercely loyal band member who often can't be convinced to do anything he doesn't want to do (though with sufficient tranquilization - or intoxication - he usually comes along). The Hawk is sort of half Face-Man and half Hannibal. He's surely the most well-dressed of the pack, and is legendarily suave with the ladies - then again, he's also the natural leader of the band. He's a business man, a family man, and one seriously big son-of-a-bitch. His demeanor is unflappable - and always seems to bring a purpose, a peace and a plan to every operation. They are an unlikely band of brothers, from wildly different backgrounds and with unimaginably different personalities, though I met them all in the same place: on the floor at STAPLES Center.

You see, we were all Clippers cheerleaders together.

Four For Fighting

I consider these three the brothers I never had, and like brothers, we certainly haven't always seen eye-to-eye. In fact, as I sat down to think about it, as ill-advised as it was, I realized that I had nearly come to blows with each of them (on separate occasions, mind you - no one's dumb enough to take all three of them on at the same time). But, brothers fight. It's as predictable as the rising sun. We challenged each other - drove each other to our absolute best, and absolutely crazy - usually at the same time. And when that got intense, well, it got intense. But just like brother fight - brothers understand when you mess up, brothers forgive, and in the end brothers stick together. To be honest, I don't regret the fights. I think it's how I knew; how I knew we were brothers after all.

It's a strange brotherhood, this cheerleader thing. All of us athletes in our own right, all facing the same ever-present emasculating stigmas, jealous jeers, and temperamental partners (which may be the hardest part of all). Trust me, no matter how much fun they look like, those tiny little girls we throw aren't always a barrel of laughs. I personally think it's because they're underfed (because I know how cranky I can get when I'm hungry) but who knows - all I can tell you is that it certainly mitigates any titillation you think we're getting from the process. The reality is, it's not easy on the line. Especially not on a pro line. And the guys are a much tighter knit group than the girls are - we have to be. We're not out there to look good - we're the muscle that makes it happen, and makes it happen with a smile. No one's looking for a picture with us, our autograph, or a calendar filled with us in our bathing suits. No, we have each other. Don't get me wrong - I love the STAPLES crowd, staff and the team we cheered for - but when it wasn't good, I had three guys on the line who were there. Every time. And for all the fighting we ever did amongst each other, we always fought better together.

The Back-Up Plan

There are a lot of things you can't count on your guy friends for: clean sheets at their place, something to eat in the fridge, keeping the noise down in the bed next to you when sharing a room in Vegas, a decent smelling bathroom and sympathy when you hurt yourself. But for all of that and more, there are a precious few things that you can count on your friends for, and of those, the most important is having your back.

The Urban Dictionary (the web's leading source for slang and truthfully horrible euphemisms) defines to have someone's back as:

An expression assuring someone that you are watching out for them. Comes from making sure you are safe by watching what's behind you when you're busy looking ahead.

But to be honest, that doesn't really capture it all. In a way, we knew about it much more intimately than most friends would have. After all, in a sport where "spotting" is a fundamental virtue - keeping an eye on your friends' safety becomes second nature. But, as cheerleading is full of just as much drama as you might imagine - there are other moments where it would be easy to not step in; easy to pile on rather than stand up; to run with the mob rather than step out alone. Each of these guys has had my back on countless occasions - not only in situations where I wasn't looking - but much more often in situations where I wasn't even there. They were there to defend me, who I am, and what's true about me - even in the face of not being popular or well-liked. I have done my best to do the same for them - because I believe that each of them is a better man than I am, and I won't suffer anyone saying otherwise - even if it means my ass.

* * *

Every day I spent on the line with these three fellow girl-wranglers, I wondered what I had done to get there, and if I ever really belonged amongst such a talented group. Joey could stunt with anyone and make it look like they weighed a hundred pounds; the Hawk could shoulder press a girl with either arm like it was a foam-covered aerobics weight, and Sanchez could do a back flip as easily as he could walk down the sideline. They were all better cheerleaders than I ever was. Joey has a National Championship, the Hawk was a team captain for one of the best squads in the Pac-10, and David logged seven years with the Clipps - and may be the most recognizable guy in the arena outside of Clipper Darryl. But they never made me feel like anything but an important part of the team; and just as proud to be standing on the line next to me as I was of them.

I often wondered what it is that I bring to the group. I am no Hannibal, no Face-Man, only a little bit Murdock and certainly no B.A. I'm not the oldest, the biggest, the fastest or the best-looking. What I am, however, is the piece that fits by not fitting. I'm not sure these three musketeers would ever had really fought for one another without a fourth. As we rode for the last time together this past weekend, we realized it was the first time we had done so since I retired from the line three years ago. And that's when I knew. Sometimes what great trios really need isn't any more talent, muscle, or brains. Sometimes they just need a fourth horseman; someone to hold the line together.

See you guys in Vegas.