“Did you play as a professional, Coach?”
“No. What’s the answer to number 4?”
Dembe looks back down at the paper, squints and looks back up to me.
“Not even college?”
“No, Dembe. Lots of pick up but that’s it. I wasn’t good enough. Number 4.”
“Come on, Coach, you know I don’t need to know this shit.”
“Language,” I say, brushing away one of the other kids trying to encroach on our table.
“Oh, I’m sorry,” Dembe replies. “But I know you’ve cursed before. In your life, right?”
“Never.”
“Oh, come on, Coach.” He leans back in his chair.
“Yeah. Never cursed. I never forgot to do my homework in 7th grade either,” I say, pointing back to the worksheet.
“Oh, right.” He nods. He grabs his pen and starts working again.
“But how did you get the job coaching college soccer?” He asks a few questions later. ”You know, if you didn’t play college, how are you supposed to know what to do?”
“Okay, look. I’ll explain, but you have to promise me we will get the rest of your homework done. I don’t want to hear from your teachers that you didn’t turn it in.”
“Promise.” Dembe sticks out his hand and I reply in kind.
I tell him how I somehow didn’t fail the final interview. The head coach assured me I was perfect for the job and gave me the offer before I left back to Ohio. When I brought up last year’s bad season she told me The conference was winnable this year for once. We had a great incoming class. The upperclassmen were stepping up. I was going to be part of something special. Everything, this time, was going to finally change.
We began the season with a 7-0 defeat. We tied the next game 3-3; We should have won 3-2, but the last kick of the game was called a goal before it reached the goal line and our goalkeepers hands. The center ref walked away before my head coach could stop screaming at him. Before our second to last game, the head coach told the team she was leaving at the end of the season. We finished the season 2-14 and 0-7 in conference play.
I didn’t tell him about the few morning practices I showed up smelling like a bar because I was drinking away the losses and homesickness. I didn’t tell him about the graduate assistant cheating ring I almost got roped into because I was the only one who would bother to read the text books. I don’t mention my breaking point, when a police officer was called on me because I was having a phone conversation with headphones in. The cop almost ran into me with a golf cart as he hastily asked what I was doing here. We chatted for 10 minutes. He didn’t like that I’m aggravated and he tells me I should come with him since I’m a threat to campus. I don’t like the police interrupting my phone call and that I’m being told to leave the premises with which I work.
I especially don’t tell Dembe that I told the cop to fuck off several times.
I eat a quick bite in the dining hall after finally getting away and make my way through the gym to get to my office. When I arrived for the coaches meeting, I’m pulled away by the athletic director and a different police officer. The AD explains to me the importance of mental health and how much she values it. This, of couse, means she is taking away my coaching duties because I am “mentally unwell.” She and the officer will not let me leave the building until the officer escorts me to the therapist that’s just a short walk across campus. Maybe then I can get some of my coaching responsibilities back when he agrees I’m okay.
I can still see their flushed faces against the purple office walls while I began to lay into the athletic director.
“I spent 3 months in this room as an interim head coach and never once did you bother to come in here and ask me how I was fucking doing,” I begin. “Maybe you could have fucking helped me when I asked. Maybe you could have included me in head coach meetings when I came into your office instead of ignoring my emails asking and my knocking on your damn door to ask for help with recruiting. Maybe you could have been my advisor instead of shuffling me off to the social media manager after a 5 minute lunch we had where you promised me you’d support me. Maybe you could have come to my aid when my team was at each other’s throats and spreading rumors in an attempt to get our head coaches fired instead of waiting for her to quit. Maybe you could have been here when my team captain came to me crying at 9 in the morning because the seniors and freshman got into a fist fight at a winter practice that I’m not allowed at. What the hell do you know about mental instability,” I shout, “when you did the same damn thing for months and expected the situation to change? Do you think I’m a miracle worker or do you just not give a shit?”
I only tell Dembe it didn’t work out. It’s all for the best, I say. I’m at this nonprofit job now. I get to know all these wonderful families and make a difference in a city I really care about. I get to coach the sport I love without the toxic competitiveness attached. I’m not taking college kids’ money to lose soccer games anymore. It’s the “right” thing to be doing.
Right?
Good Enough 