OLD SCHOOL

My old coach passed away awhile ago but I was talking recently with some old high school friends and we got to thinking about the many lessons he imparted. Now, it has been 33 years since I was captain of his team and yet I can see, hear and feel his presence as if it were yesterday. Few people in my life left such an indelible mark on my youth as a man I played just two seasons for, such is the power of great coaching.

Oddly, my memories of him are not rooted in any gentle disposition he displayed or any particular kindness he exuded or any specific pleasantry that we exchanged in that time. In fact, the memories of Coach Allen that are most vivid and most alive more than thirty years later are the ones that sprang from what is best described as his “intense” nature.

Coach Allen pulled no punches, he spoke without metaphor or vagueness, you knew what was on his mind and what was expected because he shared his laser-like focus with you often and publicly. He was not a screamer – at least not unless you were a zebra inclined to throw your yellow hanky on his players – but when Coach Allen spoke the world (or at least anyone in a Spartan football uniform) listened intently.

Indeed, I was often the object of that pointed communication as he had a distinct habit of grabbing my facemask and walking me across the practice field while imparting his gridiron wisdom in correction of some obvious shortcoming that I had shown. It is amazing how closely one listens to input when they are being dragged across the field by their facemask. He was tough but then football is tough and life is tough so he taught us that the weak need not apply.

Coach Allen knew that executing simple things was critical because that formed the foundation of later excellence. Take a simple 3-point stance for example. Balance is everything in the trenches so putting the right weight on your hand was essential to a perfect stance. I got bruises from Coach Allen kicking my arm suddenly every time he noticed too much forward weight in my stance – the result was always falling on my face until I got it right.

Now, I don’t advocate kicking players these days but I can tell you that it did not take me long to develop the most perfect stance of any lineman in the league. He did that not to belittle me but to coach me because he knew the position required perfect weight distribution to be most effective. I never thought twice about his methods or his counsel. He was my coach and everything he did was to make our team better.

I remember one time in particular at practice that he was upset with our first team defense for not having intensity on the field (probably due in large part to the exhaustion we felt after a brutal conditioning session but excuses were never allowed). He got in our grill pretty good and rode me hardest as captain to the point where on the next play I exploded from my defensive tackle spot through the surprised offensive lineman and sacked the go-team quarterback so hard that his foot came through the bottom of his cleat. I can still see him laying there on the ground with his white tube sock sticking out the front of his separated cleat (kind of twitching actually). He was most definitely in no shape to stand up and run the next play.

Coach Allen’s reaction was to step over the kid and move the scrimmage 10 yards downfield, turning to me with eyes that could give you a concussion by themselves and saying just one word … “Better”.

The man lived football and his players loved him for it. He was a history teacher in the school but he put in unbelievable hours as a coach. From the first day of school to the end of the season, every lunch period players piled into his classroom with the movie projector running and the blackboard filled with Xs and Os. He never called a meeting, players just came on their own because they respected the man who led them – not because he was easy on them, but because he was hard; not because he coddled them, but because he refused to; not because he promised them playing time but because he made them earn it.

He played the best players, period. No one was entitled to play. No one even thought like that. If you wanted more playing time from coach you got out on the practice field and played like a man possessed. Excellence, effort and results dictated his roster and we all knew it. Whatever choices he made were done to give our team the best chance to win and we accepted that.

Coach Allen was old school before there was old school. Players feared his gaze almost as much as they feared disappointing him but they worked tirelessly for him because he made them better. When he said, “good job,” you felt like a million bucks.

Not surprisingly, Coach Allen didn’t get along with the school brass but after coaching for some 3 decades he had seen legions of them come and go. In his mind, they played petty games that he had neither time nor the stomach for so he pressed on with what he knew he had to do – and we loved him for it. Football was serious business to him because he knew it was shaping young men’s lives; we just knew he had our back.

For Coach Allen, the brass was dedicated to rules written to homogenize school life, they danced to the tune of a few noisy parents and pledged allegiance to some distorted view of fairness where the less qualified moved to the front. None of that silliness mattered in his world; it was all background noise to him. Coach Allen was dedicated to his players and that calling gave him a sense of purpose that routinely escaped those supposedly higher in the food chain.

It did not escape his players though. We understood him, believed in him, respected him and would move mountains for him. We embraced the tough love philosophy he preached. All that mattered was within that locker room – players and coaches forging a bond that would last a lifetime.

I can’t remember the names of the principal, the AD or the superintendent or even most of my teachers from those years but Coach Allen’s legacy is an integral part of who I am today. Why is that? Those others were no doubt good people with good intentions and good hearts but they left no lasting memory. Whereas one old man with a sharp mind and cutting stare can inspire me more than 30 years later. Such is the power of a great coach.

We were champions my senior year, fighting through game after game and coming down finally to the last play in the last seconds of the title game when a spiral pass into the corner of the end zone capped a winning experience that is as fresh a memory now as it was when it was made. But even championships could not hold back forces of bureaucratic mediocrity and Coach Allen would eventually be forced to retire a few years later.

But you cannot erase a legend. Coaches leave more than a win-loss record behind. The imprint from a man intensely dedicated to his calling always outlasts the din of dissent.

Fast forward twenty years from that senior year and there is a class reunion in Salt Lake City. More than a dozen of our 1978 team came to the gathering and while it was nice to see classmates and teachers over that long weekend, what struck me most was how the first person every football player sought out was Coach Allen.

In fact, we huddled quickly around the man we still addressed as "coach" and headed to the hospitality suite where tapes of our championship season (converted from the 8mm originals!) were played on the big screen for hours and hours as the memories and laughter flowed.

While the reunion events went on, we had a reunion within a reunion, enjoying the only gathering that really mattered for us – a chance to see our coach again. There he was, old as Moses but pointer in hand, breaking down miscues and miracles on a gridiron long since faded; and there we were, teenagers again for a few hours, embracing the moment and the man that had changed us all for the better. It was the last time I saw him but I was so glad I went.

Great coaches are rare because what it takes to be a great coach is often at odds with what is accepted outside the huddle. The system values harmony and compliance but football is a violent sport that finds success only when it harnesses a rebellious aggression. Put another way …

Bean-counters don’t bust broncos so great coaches tend to be more cowboy than chuck wagon cooks.

But whatever the individual skill set, great coaches all share one common thread – a deep, undiminished respect that they garner for a lifetime from those lucky enough to have been inside the huddle.

Football (or sports in general) is often the first exposure most teenagers have in following a true leader, in learning how to march through adversity, recover from setbacks, ignore distractions and play through pain and fear. It is an intense experience. Players learn that respect isn’t about being liked – great coaches don’t win popularity contests. It is about rising or falling as one.

Great coaches stand with their team in blistering heat, freezing rain or bone chilling snow seemingly oblivious to the elements but engrossed in the coaching moment. They see potential before even the player does; they sense greatness before it is revealed. Great coaches push players beyond boundaries, challenging them to be more than they are, instilling motivation, drive and dedication not just to be their individual best but to excel in a way that lifts the entire team. Great coaches share the joy and feel the pain of every player; they teach them to care about each other and value the team. Few experiences in high school are as meaningful or lasting.

Great coaches change young men because they get them to believe that tough goals require tough action; that accepting tough criticism is part of the journey toward success; and that tough lessons are often life’s best lessons. They teach that champions are defined by character, commitment and camaraderie as much as by the scoreboard. They hold players accountable for their actions and get them to be accountable to each other.

At a time in a young man’s life when they are discovering what it means to grow and trust and believe, those fortunate enough to play for a great coach are blessed to have the guidance and fire of a leader whose measure is performance, not politics, whose focus is team, not stars, who will not give up on them no matter what. For great coaches, the ultimate victory is the difference they make in their player’s lives.

Coach Allen was not a perfect man, not by a long shot, but none of us ever fell into the trap of expecting him to be so. For those of us privileged to play for him, he was the perfect man for the job and that was the only standard we measured him by.

Coach Allen may be gone but I think he’d smile knowing that he taught me a lot more than football – he just wouldn’t let me see him smile!