It is hard not to fix some of the grammar or style of these older posts. But the voice of the writing still reflects me well. This is an open letter blog post to my high school football coach, posted March 2010.
“Open letter to Coach Yeaman, my football coach.”
Dear Coach Yeaman,
I hope this letter finds you in good spirits and still coaching. At the moment, I am at a crossroads in my life and find myself relying on a foundation you helped install in me to get me through this moment. I do not know if you consciously thought of this foundation in your coaching philosophy, all I know is that it was a major factor in how our athlete – coach relationship was built. And that foundation was Truth. The truth of where I was athletically, of who I could become, and what it took to get things done. I do not remember you ever talking about this foundation, but you coached it. Even on my first day of organized football.
I had just moved to Douglas, Wyoming, the summer of 1984. I would have been a seventh grader and wanted the chance to play football. I wanted to be a running back. I had big dreams of breaking tackles and running for the end zone. But, I was over-weight. Coming from a lifestyle of sitting in front of the TV, playing video games (Atari at that time) and eating frozen pizza almost all the time. I was at 200 plus pounds, but in my head, I was a running back.
We had finished warming up, the weight of the helmet was stiffing up my neck, and I was sweating; yet feeling good. You hollered to break up into offensive groups. Running backs were in the west corner of the field (oh yes, I remember because me and the light post in that corner would be good friends soon).
“Monkey rolls. Eighth graders show them how it is done.”
Three boys fell to the ground in a blur of motion, one body popping up every other second as the other two rolled. The whistle blew, three more bodies. My turn. We did not make it ten seconds. I did not know it then, but I was a DK (drill killer). My group did not get through a cycle, but I was winded. I walked back to the line to wait my second turn. My head drooping.
“Let’s do this right this time, men.” I was determined to do it right. My group actually got through a couple of rotations before I killed it again, but this time it was because I was going to be sick. My body felt like lead, my head light, and I stumbled toward the light pole for support. I could feel the group watching as the wave of nausea moved up and out. I did not even have time to take off my helmet. I do not know how long I was there, but it felt like forever. Just when I thought I could stand, another wave would hit. In the distance, I could hear practice continuing without me.
At some point, I stood up and there you were.
“Get a drink, rinse off your helmet, and why don’t you go practice with the line,” and then you patted my shoulder and walked away. I was heartbroken, but headed to the other side of the field. You did not make a big deal about it, but simply stated what was true at that moment. I was not a running back, yet.
I would spend the next month finding my athletic ability. I practiced as a center; in fact, I would be a long snapper, at times, even in high school. Many nights after practice I would get home and fall asleep from exhaustion. However, toward the end of the season I was practicing as a halfback. (Remember my first attempt at running our reverse play? How John and I just ran into each other at full speed. I do not think I ever saw you laugh that hard ever again.)
I was lucky enough to have you as my junior high and high school coach. Over the next five seasons, there would be all kinds of moments where you would use the truth as a foundation of coaching.
I got the chance to be a varsity kick returner as a freshman because I held onto a punt as I was leveled during a JV game. As a senior, a junior wanted my position as kick returner. He was faster then me. I lost the “run-off”. Yet, I did not lose my position, you said there was more to returning than speed. You even apologized to me when you were wrong. We were flagged for false start during a trick two-point play. On the sideline, you yelled at me for it. However, after watching film you apologized because it was the fullback. There are a number of different memories I have that you let me learn the hard way. But it always revealed the truth of the situation or my effort.
I wish I could say we had won a state title, but my senior year we went 2-6. We lost our last game in triple overtime. I wish I could say my life was a typical teenager’s, but it was not. I had to go through some very rough times. But your greatest lesson to me, the one that helped me through high school, and throughout my entire life happened in eighth grade.
It was halfway through the season; I had grown a few inches. I had filled out some. Life in school was good. I had made some good friends during my seventh grade year. Home life had, at the moment, settled down. I was feeling good.
We were practicing offensive plays. I was not actually dogging it, but I was not practicing hard. I was being tackled by the first hits. The whistle blew. I dropped the ball down, headed to the huddle, only to be grabbed by the facemask, and turned 180 degrees to face you.
Honestly, I cannot remember exactly what you said. The main point was that I was too big, too talented to be playing like I was. The message was delivered hard and fast. The message was not negative, but I was crying. You blew the whistle, called the play, and continued to tell me that I needed to hit that hole like I could.
I could barely see the offensive line through my tears. My mind had cleared with an intense “I’ll show you” focus. Snap. I shot forward. I do not remember seeing the hole or the defense. But I ran.
The whistle blared, “Freeze, everyone. Don’t move.” I “opened” my eyes. I stood alone looking at the tennis/basketball courts in the distance.
You hollered for me to turn around. There was a line of junior high players on the ground highlighting my path.
“That is what you are capable of, Jamey.” And practice continued.
Again, it would be nice to express how life was perfect from that moment on, but that would not be the truth. I did get a scholarship to play football at Hastings College. But I quit after one season (my biggest regret). I have had other low points, but have focused my efforts and ran through. I am now a father of five and married to a lovely wife. I am a teacher and a coach. And one of the founding aspects of my coaching philosophy is truth. To show my athletes what they can do, just as you did for me so many seasons ago. Thank you, Coach Yeaman.
It is all Connected 