Sports

THE WRESTLER

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This is a story that should have been included in WINNING WAS NEVER THE ONLY THING…but wasn’t. WINNING… can be purchased at goo.gl/dO1hcX
“Oh, sweet blindness, a little magic, a little kindness
Oh, sweet blindness, all over me”
“Sweet Blindness”-The Fifth Dimension

He stood with arms raised in triumph, the sweat of his exertion dripping onto the wrestling mat that he stood upon while his mouth curled into a slight smile. He had just won the Upper State Wrestling Championship in his weight class and was in the process of receiving a standing ovation from everyone in the gym, regardless of school affiliation. Well maybe not everyone, I doubt the friends and family of his vanquished foe were standing but you never know. As I stood and applauded, his coach sprinted to the mat and hoisted him into the air and I suddenly had a clarifying thought and felt more than just a little bit sad. Never having considered myself to be an emotional old softy, I still could not stanch the flow of tears that rolled down my cheeks.
In the middle 1980’s Greenville High School in upper state South Carolina had a large and modern gymnasium. The gym, named for the legendary Red Raider football coach James “Slick” Moore, had a problem. There were too many entrances and “hidey holes” that provided opportunities for many forms of teenage activities – the kind which were frowned upon by educators. I’ll let the reader fill in those blanks. Because of its seating capacity and configuration, the “double-decker” gym was host to many events including the Upper State Wrestling Championship. With upper deck seating and enough room for three wrestling mats on the main floor, James “Slick” Moore Gymnasium was perfect to host such an event. As the athletic director in charge of this facility, I found it to be imperfect because I had to administrate the whole shebang from the weigh-ins at dawn’s early light to the final heavy weight tussle at dark thirty. Thankfully, the area wrestling coaches were responsible for setting up and taking down the mats along with the other equipment needed to accomplish this event. I did make myself available for the pre-match set-up and post-match take-down drinks and “lie telling” at a local watering hole.
I first noticed the young wrestler at weigh-ins. I don’t know his name so I am going to invent one because he deserves to be referred to as something else other than “the young wrestler.” I’ll call him Marcus. Marcus wrestled in one of the one-seventy-something pound middle weight classes, traditionally one of the tougher weights to compete in. He looked just like the rest of the “ripped,” zero percent body weight wrestlers…except for the sunglasses that he wore in the pre-dawn light. He acted like the rest of the teenagers around him…except that his arm rested on top of his coach’s arm as he made his way to the scales. He wore the sunglasses and steadied himself on his coach’s arm because he was blind. Not totally blind, as I found out from his coach later. He could see changes in light but that was all. Wow, he could see if it was daylight or dark. I wondered if he could become confused if it was cloudy. I noticed that when he took his sunglasses off, his irises were not the dark brown that I would have expected but were light brown with bright yellow flakes that gave Marcus the look of a wild canine predator. I also noticed that Marcus’s eyes seemed to wander around without settling on anything. I suppose that when you are blind there is nothing to settle on. As he held out his glasses to be taken by his coach, I saw that the side pieces of his glasses had built-in hearing aids. Blind and, at best, he was hearing impaired. Even with these impairments he had a ready smile that made his yellow-flaked eyes become as bright as sunbursts. I use the word impairment instead of disability because he was, at least on a wrestling mat, anything but disabled.
Marcus represented the South Carolina School for the Deaf and Blind. He was the only wrestler representing the small Spartanburg-based school. In fact, he was the first of its students with whom I had had any interaction and he was the first student from SCSDB whom I considered NOT to be disabled. I had a great uncle who was both deaf and mute. A “dummy” was the term used to describe Claude’s impairment but, as we have become more aware of what is socially acceptable, thankfully, that description is no longer used. Later when I coached track at Landrum we competed against SCSDB and “Land O’ Goshen,” I found them to be as normal as any other teenager is capable of being. While standing next to a group of SCSDB track members cheering on a hearing impaired team mate, one black youth exclaimed in his best ghettoese, “Man, look at that N$%%@r run!” The youngster next to him said, “Now you know I’m blind and can’t see s@#t and neither can you!” Both of them just cackled over their joke along with everyone standing around them.
I don’t remember how many qualifiers were competing that day but, because of Marcus’s weight class, I know that he had to wrestle the full complement of “winner advances-loser goes home” matches before reaching the Upper State Finals. I know this because he was in the middle weights where all of the wrestling studs reside. As he advanced, the number of fans pulling for him increased as the word got around that he was almost totally blind and nearly totally deaf. Well, there is that saying that “everyone loves a winner.” I should point out that being blind is not necessarily a hindrance in wrestling. No really, by rule, when wrestling a blind person, physical contact must be maintained throughout the match. For Marcus it was almost an unfair advantage. In the first of three possible rounds, wrestlers face each other on their feet and work for what is called a “take down.” Because Marcus was blind, the wrestlers faced each other but with the palms of their hands touching, one palm up and one palm down. Marcus had perfected the art of grabbing his competitor’s wrist and when he came up with your wrist, the match was, for all practical purposes, over. None of Marcus’s matches had gone past the first period; most had not made it even into the second minute of the three-minute first round.
His final match would be taxing with both wrestlers evenly matched in desire, ability, strength and conditioning. Much to the delight of his cheering fans, early in the third period, Marcus reversed and held on to a victory by just a point or two. Who were his cheering fans? That would be everyone in the gym except for the opposing wrestler’s parents and girlfriend and I am quite sure they wanted to applaud for Marcus themselves. Both wrestlers hugged each other out of respect and admiration. As Marcus had his hand raised over his head in victory, the gym again exploded into even more applause and cheering. I suddenly had a thought that would cause chills to run up my back and explode onto the back of my head. Causing tears to form in my eyes, my thought was that because of his impairment Marcus would never experience the rush of emotions created by the applause and cheering – the same emotions that I was feeling for him. I know his coach’s embrace clarified his victory, however, I hoped that he could feel the vibrations and could somehow translate them into what a seeing and hearing person might experience. I questioned what he really felt until he walked off the mat and walked into the stands where people just reached out to touch him. At that moment, I knew he knew.

Again, though, his eyes found nothing to focus on and I found it impossible not to draw comparisons to Stevie Wonder. Marcus’s head had the Stevie Wonder “bobble” but he also had that huge Stevie Wonder grin. I decided that while we processed stimuli differently, Marcus had processed it his way and was both proud and happy. He would go on to win the state in his weight class. I am sure that there was plenty of applause and cheering that day, also. I hope and pray that there was “a little magic, a little kindness, Oh, sweet blindness, all over” Marcus at that moment and throughout the rest of his days.

A LOVE STORY

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An excerpt from WINNING WAS NEVER THE ONLY THING, a book about forty years of teaching and coaching. It maybe purchased using the following link goo.gl/dO1hcX

“You can’t always get what you want
but if you try sometime
well you might find
you get what you need”
“You can’t always get what you want”-The Rolling Stones

As you travel west on Highway 11 between Highway 14 and the Georgia State line, you will certainly understand why this particular highway is called the Cherokee Scenic Highway. Small mountains, water features galore, forested areas, parks and unfortunately, many golf courses cover the landscape around what was once a Cherokee trading path. Traveling is usually slow due to pulp wood trucks, bass boats being towed to and from Lake Keowee, or “Sunday Drivers” sight seeing on a Wednesday. I am fortunate to have lived on Highway 11 for nearly thirty years. Even after all of this time, Linda Gail and I still like to explore around Highway 11, looking for pig trails that might lead us on an adventure. Sometimes you get what you ask for.

Late one Friday, in the spring of 2001, Linda Gail and I were enjoying the evening while driving west in her Mustang toward the setting sun. We had eaten at a local golf course called The Rock and had turned west toward the sun instead of east toward home. I felt this was somewhat symbolic as I had made the decision before the 2001 baseball season to retire from athletics and ride off into the sunset. As soon as the baseball season ended, I began to regret my decision. While Linda Gail and I rode west, top down with the wind in our face, we talked about our careers, shared stories about former players and friends and discussed what I was going to do with those free hours I had not had for twenty-eight years. I did not have a clue but knew I did not like the size of Linda Gail’s honey do list.

I have often joked that if you drive far enough on Highway 11 you will reach the end of the world. If you turn left at the end of the world, you will find yourself in Salem. It is less than one square mile of mostly … nothing. The city of Salem boasts a population of one hundred and thirty five people according to the 2010 Census. The area adjoining it, Tamassee, is an unincorporated area whose name in the Cherokee language means “Place of the Sunlight of God”. It was named for an old Cherokee village destroyed by Andrew Pickens in the late 1700’s. There are a few businesses, churches and homes clustered around Highway 130 and what is called Park Avenue. There is also a fire department to the east and area’s namesake Tamassee-Salem Middle and High School to the west. This is where we found ourselves on that Friday evening with the sun setting behind the hill that the school sat on. The symbolism had not gone un-noticed as I joked, “I know what I can do when I grow up. I’ll come be the athletic director at Tamassee-Salem. They don’t have football or soccer. How hard can it be?” I have since re-thought the silliness of that statement.

As I looked at a South Carolina sports website the next day, I found a classified advertisement for a baseball coach and social studies teacher at, you guessed it, Tamassee-Salem. Once I got over the tingle up and down my spine I began to feel a strong pull toward the setting sun. I am religious but not in a recognized way. Even though I was publically dunked into the Baptist Church where I still attend, I lean more toward the New Testament Evolutionary Church of Christ according to Don. I even throw in a little Buddhism to add seasoning and for heat would like to combine it with some of the pagan activities that I have read about. For some reason Linda Gail won’t let me.

I still could not deny the feeling that I was being called to Tamassee-Salem. Like a moth’s attraction to an open flame or a siren’s call, the tug was unmistakable and strong. I discussed my feelings with Linda Gail but did not come to any clear decision. Linda gave me her normal “Do what you want” advice. The following Monday I continued to battle the feeling that I was being pulled toward Tamassee-Salem and decided that during my planning period I would call and inquire about the position. The telephone call was … well, interesting. Mr. Bill Hines, Tamassee-Salem’s principal, could not figure out why I wanted to come to Tamassee-Salem after my successes at Riverside. After the third time of being asked “But why do you want to come HERE,” I responded, somewhat testily, “I don’t know that I do, that is what I am trying to find out.” In Bill’s defense, he thought that I had committed one of the two cardinal sins of teaching or coaching that will get you fired faster than your won-loss record; diddling where one should not diddle or spending money that was not yours to spend. When I took the job at Tamassee-Salem a lot of my coaching peers actually thought the same thing. They could not understand why I was walking away from a successful program for one that had not even attained mediocrity. I wasn’t sure either but I told Mr. Hines that I was still a teacher in good standing at Riverside and gave him permission to call to confirm it. The next day he called back and invited me to come for an interview.

As I walked away from my interview, none of the allure for Tamassee-Salem had been displaced. I liked everyone that I had met and felt that the administration had gone out of their way to impress me which was quite flattering. (I am not easy but I can be had.) I also knew that athletically it would be a challenge, but I felt that I probably needed a new challenge. As much as I felt that I had “come home,” I was still in a conflicted state. I had many close friends at Riverside and had served in Greenville County for twenty-five years, but my biggest issue was with my wife. Linda Gail and I had spent over fifteen years involved with the Warriors. She was the junior varsity girl’s basketball coach and the varsity girl’s tennis coach at Riverside. Our support of each other athletically was part of our relationship. I was actually present when Coach Golden asked her if she was interested in the coaching position. Louie was trying to hire a body just to field a position and had not realized what he was getting into. This is something he and I share … the not knowing what we were getting into, not the body. Linda Gail and I had been intertwined with athletics and each other our entire dating and married life. I debated with myself the decision to change schools. Our intertwinement included friends, parents, students and former players in addition to each other.

When I returned to Tamassee-Salem for my second interview, it turned out not to be an interview but an offer of employment. I had decided to take Linda Gail with me and while driving around the community, I found her to be somewhat reserved. Anyone who knows my wife would never use that description, but she was on this particular day, which made me very uncomfortable. She realized that our lives were getting ready to change, something that had not dawned on me but quickly would. When I returned to my truck with the news that I had been offered the position she broke into tears which I found were not tears of joy. Linda realized that a large part of our lives together had “been torn asunder” and the man responsible was me. We recovered, as many couples do, when their unions were torn apart by seductive outside forces. Luckily my seductive forces were another school and not … well, take your pick.

My relationship with Linda Gail is and has never been an ordinary relationship even from its inception. Linda Gail and I disagree on when we actually first met but since this is my story I will tell it my way. I first remember seeing my future bride on Halloween of 1984. She had been in an off and on again relationship with my roommate and for some reason we had not met until that night. (She disagrees but I know that had I met her I would have remembered.) When I dragged myself in after practice that evening I saw both of my roomies sitting with sly grins on their faces. As I sat down and asked what was going on, two attractive young ladies slowly stood up from behind the wet bar, one had an inflatable pumpkin on her head, the other with a witch hat on. Linda Gail was the sultry, dark-haired beauty with the pumpkin on her head; Jeanie Reed was the pretty blond witch. They both made a positive impression.
I realize many of you might be thinking that since she was my roommate’s girlfriend that I might have gone behind his back and shot him out of his saddle. No, when he was shot out of his saddle it was a self inflicted wound. Linda Gail and I did not begin dating until after she and Jim had broken up and he had moved to another part of the state. Linda Gail had tried to “fix me up” with all of her friends, even the pretty witch Jeanie, and I think she simply had sympathy on me after she had run out of options. I am not saying that there had not been sparks early in our relationship, I had had plenty. Who would not have sparks for a short, pretty and well put together brunette with big ole … hazel eyes that tend to turn green with anger or mischief and a personality that reminded me of a humming bird on amphetamines? Over the next eight months or so, we became great friends, but that was all. Even after we could have begun dating, she had to make the first overtures and ended up asking me out … twice. Sometimes I am really slow to catch on. Once I caught on ….

The following Halloween found us not quite dating exclusively but close. This particular All Hallows Eve was on a Thursday and Greenville was playing Southside in a JV game at Greenville. I had to be at the game, while Linda Gail and Jeanie were going out to a costume party without me. Those two events should have been exclusive of each other but this particular night they became inclusive. It was raining and I had invited several of the booster club members to join us in the press box to stay dry. Booster club members being entertained in the press box was not an ordinary occurrence and had never happened before until this night. As the game went on, someone knocked on the door. My booster club president opened the door and found two pretty ladies opening their trench coats and exposing their somewhat revealing Halloween costumes. One was a vampire mistress of the night in a short black mini dress with lots of zippers and chains, the other a French maid complete with fishnet stockings, crinolines and a whole lot of cleavage showing … a lot of cleavage showing. I tried not to fall out of the press box window while everyone else was speechless. Utter and complete silence ruled until our booster club president paid them a left handed compliment and confessed that “If I had known it was like this up here I would have come up a lot sooner.”

Once Linda Gail and I decided to jump the broom I felt that I needed to cloister her away in order to keep her subtle way of expressing herself from getting me into trouble. She knows how to turn a word but sometimes lets emotion rule the day, which sometimes makes me rue the day. I did not want to turn her loose on some of my unsuspecting critics and decided to put her on the press box with my video guy. Ever the critic, even then she found a way to get her points across to me. Normally we graded our own video on Sundays before watching our opponent’s film and putting together a game plan. We rarely watched video with the audio on but for some reason this particular morning we did. I really was not paying attention to what was being said until Ray Riley, one of my assistants, asked if I had heard what had just been said on the audio. We reran the video and I heard the shrill and acidic voice of my beloved screeching like one of Macbeth’s witches: “Come on coach, why don’t you try running your other play.” Linda Gail was my greatest advocate but was also my greatest critic. For the past thirty years Linda has critiqued my every athletic decision which is the only type of decision she has ever let me make.

While she still coaches me, Linda Gail no longer coaches on her own court. I truly miss watching her coach basketball. I have never been a big fan of basketball because I was never very good at it and never coached it. Well there was that junior varsity girl’s team but that was Linda teaching me the day before I taught them. I once had a friend and fellow coach that described girl’s basketball in this manner: “There are three activities that should take place in private: “Prayer, couples involved in amorous activities and girl’s basketball.” While at one time I probably agreed with him, I had to take Linda Gail’s teams off of the list. Not because her teams were good, and they were always better than they should have been, but rather because of the way that she coached. Perpetually in motion, she coached everyone on her team for the entire game from start to finish, along with anyone else who could be reached by her voice; in other words, everyone in the gym. She also really looked good doing it. When Linda dressed for a game she wanted everyone to know that girl’s basketball coaches and players could be feminine. She was quite successful imparting this information. The worst rule ever enacted was restricting a coach to a coaching box. Why? It stopped me from getting to watch my wife, “dressed to the nines,” run up and down the out of bounds line yelling at someone other than me. The new rule also got her a technical foul or two because she just doesn’t like to be told what she can or cannot do.

My all time favorite memory of her and her teams involved one of her tennis teams. They were playing Clinton for the right to go to Columbia and face Myrtle Beach for the state championship. Because of previous weather conditions, the match had been postponed and both teams had to be packed and ready to go to Columbia immediately after the match. Riverside was supposed to win but sometimes tennis gods, like baseball gods, enjoy upsetting the ball cart. We lost. What do you do with a van full of girls, loaded with bags for a road trip? You invite them for a sleep over at your home. That is just what Linda Gail did. One guy in a farm house with seven teen age girls and a teen age girl want to be. Oh joy! It was a blast. We dined on pizza that evening, my breakfast that next morning and hiked all over the property that morning and afternoon. They even named our one legged and one eyed rooster, Boomer. It was a great way to get over a season ending loss.

Linda Gail and I have now been involved for nearly thirty years and I can still pick out her voice anywhere on an athletic field. The parents that help me at Northwest are in awe. “She coaches our kids, their kids, their coach and us,” one of my assistants exclaimed with a smile on his face. I find it comforting that she is still around to criticize my every decision as it relates to baseball. She even lets me make a few important non-baseball related decisions like, say, should I take out the garbage or should I walk down to get the mail. You know the really important stuff. The simple stuff, she takes care of, and that is just the way I like it.

And what about my second love? If I had a choice and could go back to any point in my career I would choose to go back to Tamassee-Salem. I felt at home and appreciated, maybe even loved there. The area hasn’t really changed and is still surrounded by great expanses of mostly nothing. Rumors are that she will close as a high school just as soon as new Walhalla High School is completed. My logical self probably agrees that it should. Greater choices of courses and services can be offered to the students now served by Tamassee-Salem. My illogical and emotional self disagrees with my logical self. Athletically most of the kids that play for Tamassee-Salem could not play anywhere else and the students would not get the one-on-one assistance available to them now. I guess that is no reason to keep a school open, but I did say it was my illogical self thinking. Unlike Odysseus, I am just glad I did not resist either of these siren calls.

Gods With a Little “g” (Sept. 9, 2014)

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They won’t leave me aloneeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee! Who has a bike race on a rainy day like today? Okay, I did go out running but it wasn’t raining when I left and I have a lot better traction than bikes do. I was determined to erase a bad memory from yesterday! Instead of running the Swamp Rabbit it would be up and over the hill on Chinquapin down to Cherokee Valley and then up and over the hill back home. Easy! A mere seven hundred feet in elevation gain and that one and a half mile “Hill from Hell!” Easy! It is in the bag. I just hope it’s not in a body bag.

Up at five and lets take time to make sure our legs are in fact attached to our feet. They were but I thought the same thing yesterday before losing a duel with a very pregnant lady pushing a double stroller. Out at six thirty, wait what is this falling out of the air. According to the weather map there is no rain in the area. Maybe it is just a glitch in technology? The little voice in my head said “I think the running gods are going to frown on you if you go out that door.” I should have listened to my little voice but instead I decided to just wait it out. An hour and a half later no rain is falling and no rain is showing in the area. Out I go and forty seven minutes later I am a very large, drowned rat. Thank goodness I put my IPhone in a plastic bag but I sure wish I had packed that poncho.

The “gods” of running were frowning on me. I believe that if you believe in the Holy Spirit, which I do, that an argument can be made for the existence of “unholy” spirits. Not the devil or evil incarnate, just little ah…I don’t know…gremlins or what I call gods with a little “g.” Football fans understand what I am talking about. A little imp called a “football god” that made the field goal kicker miss two easy field goals after breaking the record for consecutive field goals. What about the “scrum” on fourth and less than a foot with just a little more than a minute to go? I am sure the little gremlin moved the ball one centimeter in the wrong direction as in “the football gods were frowning on us tonight.” Please understand I am not worshiping these gods. I have already broken too many commandments to break that one. I just believe that they might exist. Just in case they do exist sometimes I pray to God and ask him not to let the “little g” gods interfere. My little voice whispers to me that I should realize that God is really too busy to intercede on my behalf in such trivial matters.

As I made my turn around in the rain and began my seven hundred foot ascent to the top of the small mountain that Chinquapin Road runs over I saw a sign that read “Bike Race Today.” Okay it must be left over from the last one, because only an idiot would race today. When I got to the Baily Mill Road crossroads I found out that I was incorrect. There were about five hundred idiots on the road besides me and they were moving a lot faster than I was. Not just the cyclists were out in mass but their fans, pace cars and police were also present. As I ran weaving through Baily Mill on the wrong side of the road, I knew the cheering fans were not cheering me. I was amazed how fast the cyclist came screaming down the “Hill From Hell” while making the turn on to Baily Mill. All of those cyclist with their hideous colors and spandex were going so fast and leaning so deeply in to their turns I worried that they might drag a pedal and cause a dozen bike pile up. I was terrified for them and worried about the little “g” gods causing a blowout. As I continued my snails pace up Chinquapin they kept coming and kept coming. Flight after flight flew by me, each group a little slower than the last. I think I feared for them more that those who were obviously the elite riders. I hope the cycling gods were kind to them. At least it quit raining.

I made it home safe and sound albet quite wet. Considering the conditions and the hills, 11:30 miles were pretty good. Suddenly I feel that what I accomplished was not very important. As I type this I hear sirens heading up Highway 11 toward the race area and I say a little prayer for whatever has happened. I hope that the cycling gods were smiling today and not frowning. Please be smiling.

Enjoy a great read for Labor Day. FLOPPY PARTS by Don Miller http://goo.gl/GIssEq

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THERE HAS TO BE SOMETHING BETTER
There were no baseball cups at my high school in 1967 or 1968, or if there were, no one took any time to explain the need for one to me. Instead, we had a chest protector with an extension that hung down between our knees when we went into a squat. This particular chest protector probably had been acquired when catchers still set up ten or twelve feet behind the batter and caught the ball on a hop in the early 1900’s.
IT WAS AN ILLUSION OF PROTECTION! IT WAS A BELIEF IN A FALSE GOD! Take a common household sponge and rest it against your face. Now let me uncork a baseball into it. Really, no one wants to do that? You know you are going to get a broken nose, black eye or lose some teeth. I should have known that a little extension, the thickness of a common household sponge, would not protect my little friends but bought into the belief that if struck by a bounced pitch or foul tipped ball, the little boys would be ok. In other words, the seventeen year old me was A DUMBASS! Just so you know a foul tip on to a cup will still take your breath away. A foul tip to an unprotected man part will make you contemplate suicide to make the sickening pain stop. To quote a friend who had tried to cauterize a wound with a red hot poker, “the pain was exquisite.” I knew exactly what she meant as I remembered a foul tip that bounced off of the plate and up into my chest protector extension making solid contact with my man parts. One definition of exquisite is keen or intense. Yeah, the pain was exquisite in its intensity and sharpness. It was also sickening to the point of regurgitation, and it wasn’t even a direct shot. Sick, Sick, Sick!
Strangely, somewhere in the small portion of my brain that was not dealing with pain receptors, I remember thinking, “Don’t grab them. Don’t grab them.” This I thought, despite the almost uncontrollable urge to do exactly that. “DON’T RUB IT! IT MIGHT SPIT AT YOU!” That was not very likely to happen for a long, long while. Even today there still seems to be an unwritten rule that keeps a catcher, or any other player for that matter, who has just taken a hundred mile per hour shot directly off of his cup, from grabbing his little friends. Even sportscasters will skirt the issue by saying, anything other than “OOOOh, he just took one off the nads!” Well, Bob Uecker might, but Curt Gowdy would say something about “…a glancing blow to the groin” or “he has just got the air knocked out of him” as the poor catcher was being led stiff legged into the dug out for an “equipment adjustment.” As the replay unwinds, over and over, you can almost hear the collective intake of breath as millions of male baseball fans react to an event that we are all too familiar with. Just in case you are ever in a sports trivia contest, Hall of Fame catcher Johnny Bench holds the dubious career record for broken cups, seven. From someone who knows the truth, this should be one of his least coveted records.

SUGAR AND SPICE

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Excerpt from Don’s book “Winning Was Never the Only Thing…” which may purchased using the following link. Enjoy! goo.gl/dO1hcX

“Sugar and Spice
And everything nice
That’s what little girls are made of”
Nursery Rhyme-Robert Stanley

Few people know that early in my coaching career, I coached soccer. I have tried very hard to keep this a secret because I was always afraid that I would be forced to coach it again. I don’t have anything against soccer or soccer players; it’s just that they don’t think like football players. If you were to tell a football player to run through a wall, he would do it and then ask to do again. If you were to tell a soccer player to run through a wall he would ask why? The word why is not something a football coach really wants to hear. When I really think about it, I probably think more like a soccer player than a football player. Please don’t tell anyone.
The first soccer match I saw was the first soccer match I coached in. This was in 1975. The internet did not exist. There was no Soccer Channel or even YouTube to search for help. We had these odd, rectangular shaped objects made of paper called books. They actually contained information on a plethora of subjects including soccer. I read books, talked to soccer coaches and went to clinics to learn the game of soccer. A crop of athletic, soccer playing freshmen came through Mauldin in the late 1970’s and I rode them for four years. They won four region championships and an upper-state title to go along with a state runners-up trophy. I actually “retired” with the second highest win total in state history at that time, seventy seven. The game has since changed to the point that you can’t find my name on the list anymore.
In the early 1980’s our court system decided that girls had the same right to play soccer as the boys. Unfortunately the courts decided too late for the girls to have their own teams and for that one year the fairer sex was allowed to try out for the boy’s teams. None of the soccer coaches expected any of the girls to make their team but none of those soccer coaches had Laena Marie Karnstedt. Laena had played a lot of soccer and had a skill level on the par with my best guys. What she lacked was speed and strength. Laena made up for this lack of athleticism with determination, hustle, great ball handling and passing skills. She made the team as a midfielder where speed was an asset but not a necessity.
Laena had a bubbly and vivacious personality to go with blond Germanic good looks. I cannot remember if she had blue eyes but it is my guess that she did. Laena was of medium height and her frame reminded me of a cheerleader more than a soccer player. Guys know what that means. Ladies if you don’t, go ask a guy. I did not know what to make of my newest charge but decided to treat her exactly like “one of the guys.” I did not really convince myself and ended up treating the guys more like her. Those “good job” slaps on the butt had to come to an end.
I had never coached girls before and have coached very few girls since. Only one season as a junior varsity girls’ basketball coach and one as a junior varsity girls’ soccer coach made me an authority on how NOT to coach girls. I went into each season thinking the only difference between girls and guys besides the obvious, was that girls looked and smelled better. I found out by season’s end that there were huge differences in the way male and female athletes view their game. At this time, men were more team sport oriented while women were still learning. I also found out that emotionally men and women were just wired differently. Remember, the Mars and Venus book would not be published for several decades and I only had my experiences with a few girlfriends and two ex-wives to go on. Two guys will get mad, explode and fight, and then shake hands. Later, they will go get a beer and then, together, chase after girls. When women get mad they stay mad and plot how to get even. Women will usually wait several weeks and ask a question like “Do you remember three weeks ago when…?” Seriously, I don’t remember the football score from three hours ago much less some perceived slight. They will also try to get as many of their friends involved as possible. Another difference is that guys cry when they are very, very sad. Girls cry when they are very sad, very happy or when they are very mad. Guys have a hard time determining which of these three situations are in effect until it is too late. For this humble coach, women are at best, a conflicted mine field of emotions. Laena did not really fit this mold except… when she did.
Women have always been confusing to me. The only one I really understood was my mother but that was because she actually had my best interest at heart. Sometimes I even understand my daughter, but even she is not a sure thing. Laena was confusing when she wasn’t actually on the field. She reverted to the “girly” girl. She would bring cookies and brownies to practice. I never had a player do that before or since. They might bring bubble gum or sunflower seeds. Sometimes they would bring pork rinds. Never did they bring cookies and brownies. Whenever she was not playing, she became a cheerleader with all of those cutesy cheers you have heard before: “Chewing tobacco, Chewing tobacco spit, spit, spit….” She always seemed to be in very close proximity and underfoot when she was on the sidelines. I think it was because she knew if she was tucked in under my shoulder that I would not curse too much or if she made me uncomfortable enough I would put her in the game. She made me uncomfortable a lot. She even had a unique way of falling down which involved somehow landing on her butt with her feet still planted on the ground while giggling the whole time. Soccer players shouldn’t giggle.
Hidden behind her blonde good looks and cheerleader personality was a competitive streak the width of the Potomac River. Her competitive streak, along with a high level of technical skill made her formidable. She was especially formidable if you underestimated her because “she was a girl.” Please don’t misunderstand; Laena was a good person until you treated her like a girl. Then you should watch out because you just might get hurt.
It does not matter if you are a girl or not, new team members have to prove themselves to their teammates. It is an unwritten law and Laena was no exception to it. She came to me in private before practice and told me that a couple of the more Neanderthal of our guys were giving her grief about being a girl on a boys’ team. Not exactly bullying her but doing what guys do when guys think there is a weakness. Immature boys will try to pick any perceived weakness like a scab and make it bleed. She did not know what to do. I didn’t know either. I told her that anything that I did would probably make it worse. I told her to ignore it unless it got worse and then come back if it did. As with most women I have given advice to, Laena didn’t listen and decided to take matters into her own hands or in this case her feet. We had a one on one drill we called The Gauntlet. Everyone lined up in two columns facing each other. Two people went to each end of the column and a ball was placed in the middle. On a whistle, they had to attack the ball, gain control and dribble the ball to the opposite end of the column. To be honest it was a type of “anything” goes kind of drill that are frowned upon today. I can see Laena in my mind’s eye, running with a purpose, shoulders over her driving knees with determination written on her face as she went hard into a shoulder tackle. Before the drill was over, Laena had put both Neanderthals out of the practice with bloody and bruised ankles. Unless you count their pride, they sustained no permanent injury and had perhaps learned their lesson. The problem went away. Maybe women are the smarter gender.
As we approached the first match of the season an interesting situation occurred. It appeared Laena was the only female soccer player playing state wide and it was deemed news worthy. Media coverage was not something that high school soccer teams expected in 1982. This was still the era of print media coverage and sixteen millimeter film. We were rarely covered by the newspapers or local TV. Suddenly that changed. Laena was a star. She was interviewed, I was interviewed, along with team members, parents, ball boys, administrators, and my third cousin twice removed. No one ever asked what kind of team we were going to have. It was always the same variation on a theme. “How does it feel to be the only girl on a team of boys?” “How are coaching girls and boys different?” “How do you like having a girl on your team?” Blah, Blah, Blah.
Our first match of the season was against Greer. Greer, during this period, was known for its football and not its soccer. Midfield is the most strenuous position on the soccer field because you are running from penalty box to penalty box. I always tried to rotate midfielders to keep them fresh. Laena was in the rotation. As the match proceeded, I sent Laena to the substitute’s area to await a stoppage so she could enter. When it occurred, she was waved onto the field by the referee and a new era in South Carolina athletics began. Almost immediately she found herself shoulder to shoulder with a Greer player, fighting for control of a ball, and she went down hard on the ground. The young man, being a fine southern gentleman, did the chivalrous thing and offered her his hand to help her up. It was chivalrous but it was not smart. She took his hand, stood up and cut both of his feet out from under him. He went down hard right in front of the referee. He whistled play dead and pulled out a yellow card. She actually giggled as she received a warning from the referee. If she had not been accepted by her team before, she became a team member after her warning.
If this were a novel, the Mauldin Mavericks would have gone on and made it to the State Finals. They would have found themselves down by a big score, crawled back into the match to tie and then after two overtime periods, Laena would score the winning goal on a penalty kick. Sorry, this is not a novel. Laena and the Mavericks did go on to have a great season and went deep into the playoffs but no State Championship winning kick. The next season Laena had her own team to play on and I had moved on to Greenville High. I wonder if Laena would have rather competed with the boys. I have not been in contact with Laena since she graduated from Mauldin but we are Facebook friends and it appears that her successes have continued. She became a doctor and there are pictures of Laena smiling her big smile and of her family and home. I see two blond daughters. I wonder if they play soccer or whether they know what their mother did in the early 1980s. I doubt Laena has told them that she was a pioneer of sorts nor does she know what a tremendous impact she had on my own life. Maybe I’ll get to tell them.