Wednesday, August 20, 2003

I’ve told this story several times recently. It must be time to write it down, so I can stop talking about it, or at least that’s how this all seems to work sometimes. Writing often "completes" things for me.

We had a player who just graduated from CSU. He played for us for 4 years. Let’s say his initials are J.L.

Now J.L. has never been the most gifted athlete that the Good Lord has put on this earth. His skinny frame (6’1" and like 120 lbs.) wasn't very intimidating within the violent little game of war that we call lacrosse. The only thing that was scary about J.L. was how scared I was that he might get killed. The thing is, though, that nobody ever loved lacrosse, and more importantly being part of a team, more than this kid.

Somehow this tall, drink-of-water of a boy had space enough inside that body for a heart as big as all outdoors, and as golden as the ram horns on our helmets. J.L. loved and always put the team first. He "bled green". He knew that his job was to try and not screw up the flow of practice, and to cheer hard in all the games. When we lost a game, J.L cried all of our tears for us. When we won, he was all about it, whether he had stepped on the field during the game or not. He truly loved the team. He seriously respected how great it was to be a part of something like CSU Lacrosse.

All this did not go undetected by his teammates. There were countless times that the entire fourth quarter of a game against an "inferior opponent" was spent trying to get good old J.L. his first collegiate goal. The players would make a game of finding and feeding him so they might get that magic assist. From a coaching point of view, all this stuff was coming from the warmest and best place. No one mocked J.L. We all knew how big a part of us that he was, even if he were to never get a point. Still, try as they might, three years went by, and J.L. had nary a career goal in a real game.

In his fourth and final year, 2003, J.L. came back determined, both as a student determined to graduate, and as someone who didn’t want to waste any of his opportunity to be a college athlete for one more season. When I first saw him it looked like he had been in the gym, lifting, even if it looked like he had only been there once. He was not going to "bulk up" the way some do, but he was clearly a better player than before as the season began. It took almost no time for J.L. to break into the scoring column in 2003. It was on to the possibility of multiple goal games. J.L. finished in style. We won the championship, and he scored a goal or two in St. Louis as well. He was clearly the best he had ever been at the end, and I was proud of how much and the way he improved as a player over time.

Okay, so it’s all warm and fuzzy. J.L. and I hugged and cried goodbye several times, including a good one at the end-of-the-season banquet. No big deal. Seniors often cry when they must say goodbye. This is a big next step for all of them. There is no evolution into real life for most of us. Finishing college often just marks the very beginning of an odyssey that eventually totally redefines who we are, or who we thought we were going to be. Only the rare few have all their goals clearly defined, and the road to same mapped out at 22 years old. For the record, it took me about 20 extra years, which probably is some kind of a record. I always was a late bloomer, though. I’m still making a life based on Liberal Arts concepts, too, whatever those are.

Anyway, I met up with J.L. one more serendipitous time, after graduation, as he was getting on the road for his drive home to, let’s say Phoenix, his entire life crammed into his little Miata or whatever. Our paths crossed half way up my driveway as he was coming to pick up his game jersey, now signed by all his teammates. We got out and had one more long, teary embrace. At this point I became concerned. He was still very emotional. He kept thanking me, and I began feeling that this was all about something more than the usual "I love ya coach" thing. I grabbed his shoulders and pushed him back so I could see his face. He pulled his emotions together for a second and he looked at me.

"What's going on, J.L.?", I asked both out loud, and with the way I looked into his eyes.
"Coach", he said, and then he stared down at the ground. "I will never be part of anything this great again", and then his tears just flowed again.

I shook him a little, and I said, "No. No. That’s not it." I proceeded to tell him all about how it is his responsibility to take what he got here, and to go "out there", and do something great with it. Yes, it is good to know that he feels that strongly about it all, and it may in fact be the time of his life in many ways. There will be many more times for him, though. It can never just be about the "Glory Days". Use your tools, J.L.

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