Fairfax High

…and I miss my coaching days

 For a good part of my young-adult life, I coached high school football and baseball at several inner-city public schools in and around Los Angeles. These included Hamilton, Crenshaw, and Fairfax High...and all of the schools had fairly good athletic programs. Both Crenshaw and Fairfax routinely contended for the city basketball title as well as several state championships which was no small accomplishment in talent rich California.

Their football teams were pretty good too...and there were several years at both Crenshaw and Fairfax where we played for the coveted city title. At both those schools, I was a part of a small but close-knit staff that worked together for many years. I was fortunate to tutor under two Los Angeles coaching legends (Ron Price and Earl Smith), and over the years their teachings made it possible to my way up the ladder from a line position coach to become the Fairfax defensive coordinator.

Among these high school coaching giants, I was literally a boy among men. However one of the interesting dynamics of the group was that the senior coaches were all pretty permissive, so I was by default, the team disciplinarian. Now admittedly, I was petty old-school. Because I was an unofficial adjunct coach, I was also unrestricted (or thought I was) by any faculty rules which barred overly strict player enforcement. Though I theoretically barred the use of profanity by the players, I periodically cussed in a manner that would make a seasoned sailor blush. In a nutshell, I was the resident hard ass that detested what I viewed as an increasing sense of entitlement and the lack of respect too often exhibited by young players (and this was in the late 80s and early 90s).

Ironically, I wasn't particularly thrilled with the Bear Bryant role…but because I wasn't a real X and O guy (I had immense strategy help from Coach Price’s more cerebral two sons), it kind of made sense to have me be the bad guy. While wearing this hat, I routinely rode the players hard, and I was especially rough on kids that didn't appear to have much parental guidance. By today's standards, I was pretty much over the line. If kids violated any one of the golden rules (arriving late, missing practice, insubordination), I was usually unrelenting in my response. Essentially, if you didn’t practice, you didn’t play…and if you were a jerk, you better like offense or the bench because you weren’t playing on defense. There were multiple times that I did things to kids that would get you immediately fired today…not to mention a myriad of embarrasing headlines about physical and mental abuse.

One of the worst kids I ever dealt with was a physically and athletically gifted gangbanging inside linebacker thug named Tyrell Winston. We had some real scholar athletes on that team, but this kid wasn’t one of them. Tyrell had natural linebacker instincts, but to me he appeared to be dumber than lint and about as incorrigible as any one player or individual I’d ever coached. I felt the script to his life-story had long been written, and I often thought we’d be better served to put Tyrell in prison now, and save society the inevitable crime. The troubled senior player had been a constant problem and it seemed like a miracle that his grades were good enough to make him eligible. While he was a pretty good inside linebacker, my patience with all his baggage was increasingly wearing thin.

By 1991 we had strung together a couple of undefeated regular seasons at Fairfax, and were clearly one of Los Angeles’s best smaller inner-city programs. We were playing one of the city’s worst teams (not sure but I believe they had been winless over almost three seasons) one Friday afternoon at Fairfax, and Tyrell had given me some lip early in the first quarter when I informed him he’d blown an assignment on the previous series. Needless to say, I put him on the bench instantly, and put in an understudy with a much, much better attitude. As far as I was concerned, I was done with the Tyrell and I was looking forward to telling him to turn in his gear.

Amazingly, Fairfax, one of the city’s best teams, was losing 3-0 at halftime. Knowing our team needed a wakeup call…I was actually savoring the experience and lingered a bit on the field watching the excitement of the Narbone players as they prepared to go into the locker room with what was probably a very rare chance at victory. As I left the field to walk up the ramp to the Fairfax locker room, a clearly inebriated twenty-something looking thug exited the Fairfax bleachers next to the ramp, and began to verbally assail me about Tyrell being benched. Though I’d coached at the school for three seasons, and recognized most of those closely connected to the players and program, I’d never seen the abusive drunk before and I wasn’t particularly interested in his coaching advice. To be honest, I’m not certain I even heard much of what he said, but he followed me up the path and continued to profanely wear me out about sitting one of the team’s best players, while we were losing to one of the city’s worst teams. Finally, after having about enough, I turned to the drunk and said something like “who in the hell (I didn’t use hell) are you?” The guy looked at me as though he was amused, repeated the question several times, and then proudly fired back “I’m Tyrell’s daddy.”

To be candid, I cannot even describe the epiphany-like wave that literally engulfed my body. I had grown up in an almost “Leave it to Beaver” setting, and to have this drunken stranger give me crap about his son hit me like a freight train. I quickly excused myself, and promised the man I would talk to him later. I walked into the locker room, and in typical fashion, too-cool-for-school Tyrell was standing by himself in the corner of the room. I walked up to him, and I could see he was preparing for one of my verbal admonishments. I asked him to come outside, and once we got to the shade of some nearby Eucalyptis trees, I said simply this. “Son…I owe you an apology.” He looked at me as though he was stunned and asked what for but I told him it didn’t matter why…I just did. I told him he’d be going back in the game in the second half, and encouraged him to play up to his athletic and academic potential. Tyrell played a great second half that afternoon as he did for the most part for the rest of his senior season. From that point on, I looked at him and coached him, through a different set of lenses.

We ended up losing that game (the Narbone player celebration was fun to watch), but it certainly was no fault of the defense and one talented inside linebacker. I’m often haunted by the fact that I treated Tyrell based on my own experience, and wonder how much more I could have helped, if I had a better appreciation for his challenges. Thankfully, perhaps based on that experience, I try to approach things more by putting myself in other people’s shoes. I don’t do it near enough, but when I do, things seem to go so much better.

It’s Friday again, and I hope you have a wonderful weekend. As you deal with people, try not to repeat the same mistake I made with that young player. We never really know what crosses people have to bear, and there may be a very good reason why folks act the way they do. If you can, spend some time this weekend with the people and pets you love. If you can, you might want to spend a minute or two with someone who just needs you to understand.

Have a great weekend. 

Start the weekend with a song...

 *The name of the player was changed.

It's Friday...

…and Sunday is Father’s Day

For past couple of days, as I’ve turned off of 15^th onto I street while heading into the office, I’ve noticed a Cadillac parked in front of the Metro station with DC vanity plates that read “REALMAN.” The personalized tags caught my eye, and I couldn’t help but think that it would be cool to have that moniker…or to better yet be able to live up to the title. I saw the car parked there on both Wednesday and again yesterday, and as I glanced at the plates and smiled, I couldn’t help but think of my dad.

For as long as I can remember growing up, my dad would return home from work each weekday (I don’t recall him EVER calling in sick) and do pretty much the same thing. After a usually strenuous day working as a union electrician in Los Angeles, he would put down his black metal lunch pail, wash up a bit, and then sit down in “his chair” at the kitchen table with a cold can of Budweiser. The breakfast table (more of a bar really), more or less separated the kitchen cooking area from the family room, and sitting there in his dirty Khakis with his feet kicked up onto my middle chair (I was never in it except to eat…way too busy being a real boy), he would relax there and visit with my mom…while glancing approvingly into our backyard and modest pool area.

I don’t really know this for sure, but as I remember it he really didn’t have a whole lot to say. By and large, he listened to my mom talk about her day, and he always seemed to truly enjoy the decompression time to just sit, visit with my mother and sip from that read and white can. Ninety-nine percent of the time it was just the one Bud, but on rare occasion if it had been a particularly grueling or frustrating day, he might have a second. On rarer occasions (no more than once a year or so as I remember), he might ask my mom to fix him a boilermaker. However, in my entire life, I can honestly say I neither saw him drunk, nor even appearing to be under the influence.

He was, at least to my knowledge, the consummate no-nonsense family man. He treated my mother like gold, attended every one of my childhood athletic and recital events, and though I know he was a deep doubter, he accompanied my mother to church (and made me go) every Sunday. The thing that tripped me out about him was that he was so tough, and I remember one incident that still stands out today.

He had just returned home from work and after following his normal routine, he was sitting at the bar talking to my mom. I think I was in high school at the time, and while either coming or going with barely a hello, I noticed a blood soaked rag wrapped around his left hand. When I asked him about it he just kind of shrugged, and then with a disgusted look he went onto describe how he’d cut off the tip of his middle finger while lunging for a falling fluorescent light fixture (they are sharp).

I asked him what had happened at the hospital, and true to form, he hadn’t yet been. As my mother and I conveyed amazement, he calmly explained the accident had occurred late in the day, and that he planned on going to the emergency room “in a bit,” but wanted to stop off and relax a bit before heading over to UCLA. He was clearly annoyed by our concern, going onto explain that the severed finger (it was just the tip…but it was missing) was wrapped safely in ice in his lunch box. Alarmed, I coaxed him to leave for the emergency room and told him I would drive him to the hospital. He would have none of that though, preferring to drive himself. He had also noticed the lawn had not yet been mowed that week, and suggested it would be good for me to use the driving time, to complete my weekly chore. 

I remember him returning from the emergency room, he got out of his company service truck and had a pretty sizeable bandage on this left hand. He came over to where I was working and started helping me pick up the grass clippings and talking about the Dodgers. I had to ask him about this finger, and he mentioned they sowed it on and thought it might take. He was disgusted at the cumbersome size of the bandage though…and planned to make something more practical (out of electrical tape) later that evening in the garage. He wanted to make sure he had enough freedom of movement to work efficiently the next day. I won’t go into detail here, but if I ever cut off a piece of my finger signing check reqs or sitting in a Program meeting, plan on finding me quivering in the fetal position. Don’t plan on me coming in the next day either…as a matter of fact, don’t expect to see me at work for about two weeks. Also…plan on having a team to take me to the hospital…I’m not driving myself if I’m bleeding.

Though he had always been there for me, I was too busy working to be there for my dad when he passed away. I don’t beat myself up about it too much though, I had been there 10 days before and had I gone again he would have just told me to get back to work for “our union.”

You know, I don’t even like beer…but if I could, I’d make time this Father’s Day to have a cold can of Bud…with a genuine real man.

Have a wonderful weekend, and whatever you do, try to make some time for the stuff that matters most…especially if you’re a dad. As always...here is a Friday song just for you.

Happy Father's Day