Saturday Night Fever

Winning a Pee-Wee football game does strange things to an old coach.

It makes the sun look brighter. The sky look bluer. A long walk to work a little shorter.

My cute dog looks cuter. My friendly barista even friendlier. Strangers on Yonge Street not so strange.

Even being in the office on a Sunday feels like a sanctuary not a cemetery.

Oh did I mention we won last night?

My Greater Toronto Jets, 18-0, over the Niagara Storm. It’s been a while, maybe nine games counting our Spring league, since we posted a W. Let alone a shutout. Forgive me for being ebullient.

But this isn’t a story about winning.

First of all it’s a story about how I need to follow my own preachings. One thing I am constantly on my players about is to worry about themselves. Don’t worry about the refs calls. Or opponents cheating. Or even your own teammates mistakes. Worry about you. You are all you can control. Do your job. Lead by example. Motivate by your actions. Inspire by your words.

Wow, what wisdom from MH3. Start engraving my surname on the Nobel Prize for youth coaching right now. Except it’s a crock. I too often get distracted by the refs calls, good and bad. Or the other team’s coaches. Or even my own player’s parents. (Confession, I yelled, yes yelled, at my own team’s parents last night. In unison they had shouted instructions to one of my players which directly contradicted what I wanted. But still…I’m an idiot!).

In fact for this game my distraction, and hypocrisy, started weeks ago when the schedule came out and I saw an 8:30PM road game scheduled in St.Catharines. I wondered how any adult could think that getting 11 & 12 year olds home after midnight from a football game was sound parenting.

I got riled up. Complained to our Program Director. Fired emails to the league convenor. Groused about it to parents. Countless joules of energy were misspent when I could have been focused on preparing my team.

I knew how wrong I was when the players arrived. Bounding out of the night sky across the well lit field, the prospect of “Saturday Night Football” had them energized and motivated to a level my best oration would never have. When my starting tailback announced he was ready to rush for a THOUSAND yards, I knew there was some Saturday Night Fever in the air.

So the first moral from this story is to eat my own cooking.

The second came right after the game. It went down like this. Just as I was about to deliver my stirring post-game speech, one of my players interrupted and me and said “Coach, that was a good play you did at the end.”

Even as I write this I get goosebumps, a lump in my throat, and am honestly typing through teary eyes.

My emotion is so strong because his comment wasn’t about some trickery laced touchdown pass I called or a menacing blitz we implemented. No, he was referring to the fact that with 2:54 in the game, and a safe 18-0 lead in my pocket, we kneed out the rest of the fourth quarter. Four times I had my QB let the play clock wind down and take his time running a dead ball play. With the help of the refs, who realized our plan, the game metered itself to a victorious conclusion.

But that’s not the plot twist. The key to this story is that when we first got the ball we were on our opponent’s 1 yard line. First and goal. Easy touchdown coming up! First time in twenty years of coaching I have taken the ball over at the opponent’s 1 at any time during a game.

I toyed with punching it in. There were several deserving players on my team who would be thrilled with a TD. Even a gimme. I could have let one of our new players run it. Or allowed one smallish lad who aspires to be a QB, but hasn’t called a snap yet, maybe throw for it and thrill his Dad who drove so far to see him play. My son would probably bring me breakfast in bed if I let him crash his way in. Anyone of our linemen would have loved the glory.

But at the risk of sounding like I am still campaigning for that Nobel, I didn’t want to rub salt in the flesh of my wounded opponent. I’ve had it done to my teams and it sucks. This past spring we were down by 40 to a team and they ran a flea flicker on us for a late score. Who benefited from that?

So my only intention was to not to be rude. Instead I got a gift that I will last much longer than one more TD. I got those words from my young player…”Coach, that was a good play you did at the end.”

Even if it was only that one player who learned something about sportsmanship last night, I am now an even happier old coach. The memory of him looking me in the eye, from so deep inside his own developing young mind, will stick with me forever.

The goosebumps are back. My throat is even a little tighter now. I need to end this story. Not because I have now exposed my emotional fragility. It’s because those words helped me catch Saturday Night Fever, and I don’t want to lose it, or them.

Trust me, I won’t. Ever.

“Coach, that was a good play you did at the end.”