Moving Forward in Reverse (15 page)

17

In the 1995 season, with only two players left from my first team
at UWEC, I was forced to face my new, amputated self more than ever in regards
to soccer. What had been my one haven on campus, my refuge from strangers’
peeping eyes, suddenly became unfamiliar territory. I found myself standing
before a group of young women I hadn’t known before the illness. I didn’t know
what they were thinking as they stared up at me with keen eyes. What would any
player think of a quadruple amputee for a coach?

As the academic-year work schedule resumed, it also became
apparent that the bolster I had felt from joining teams with Herrick and Hart
was mostly hot air. The prospect of a trial, although to all appearances a
positive thing, in actuality raised more questions than it did answers. As the
leaves began to change, I found myself confronted with the same struggles I had
faced the past winter, only this time with seemingly nowhere left to turn.

The Fog rolled over me like waves at high tide, and with each
swell I felt myself sinking deeper into its murky depths. I swirled so deep,
not even my nomination for National Coach of the Year for the successes of the
previous season could keep my head above the suffocating mist. I was drowning
in its vapor, so fast I was barely aware of the rate at which I was descending.
If the prospect of a lawsuit with Herrick and Hart had nudged the pendulum a
few degrees forward, the slow deterioration of my soccer team yanked it right
back again.

Because I failed to recruit a top goal scorer, we had issues
heading into the season. Starting at number 12 in the national rankings, we
slipped from the beginning of the season and ended with 10 wins, our poorest
showing ever. Looking back, that season reflected my attitude, my lack of
spirit.

~~~

When the hole in my right foot resurfaced at midseason, I had no
energy left to feel. I took a breath as I gazed at the red divot in the
forefoot under the metatarsal bone, and felt my lungs begin to fill with
metaphoric dank air. On the phone with Dr. Rucker’s office, I heard the perky
voice of a well-meaning nurse come across the line. I told her who I was and
explained what was wrong, answering her inquiries in an inflectionless
monotone. I already knew where this road led and had started boxing up my emotions
for the long trip that lay ahead.

We scheduled my surgery for the day after the conference
tournament because I knew we wouldn’t be receiving a bid to the National
Tournament. During this surgery, Dr. Rucker told me, he would like to try
lengthening my Achilles tendon.

‘I believe that your tendon shortened from the reconstruction your
foot underwent,’ he said in his matter-of-fact tone, ‘and hope that if I
lengthen it, we’ll be able to get a more natural pivot. Or, at the very least,
change your foot’s pivot point inside the insert to an area that isn’t
immediately under the metatarsal bone.’

I dipped my chin once and made a sound in the back of my throat
intended as consent but which could just have easily been read as ‘I couldn’t
care less. ’

‘Now,’ he went on, unperturbed by my lack of enthusiasm or
concern, ‘there are four common ways of lengthening the Achilles surgically.
The technique I think best in your case is called the percutaneous method. It
requires that I make several small cuts in the tendon using stab wounds through
the skin. The intention being for the cut ends to then move apart and lengthen
the Achilles.’

I nodded along, barely listening. By this point, I wasn’t sure I’d
even care if they gave up half way through the surgery and sawed my foot off.
It had become just another piece of baggage. Maybe it was better gone.

Dr. Rucker went on to assure me that this, too, was a very simple
surgery which had seen ‘excellent functional results and low complication
rates’ in case studies. I should recover as easily as last time and hopefully
require no future surgeries, he assured me in a light tone.

Another bob of my head. No need to inform him of just how “easy”
my last recovery had been.

Following the morning surgery, I was back on my knees that
afternoon. Like dolphins to a drowning man, people began to flock to my side.
Tom and Sue took over my groceries and, on occasion, my cooking. I sensed my
family taking stock of me whenever we spoke or spent time together and wondered
if they shared notes on what they saw in me. Everyone hovering uncertain,
waiting, looking for a sign.
Will he be able to cope?
their overly
attentive eyes seemed to be asking. Their altruistic efforts fell on my
unresponsive shoulders.

They did have cause for concern. More so than even I realized at
the time. My team noticed, though, and our seasons were hurt for it. As poorly
as the ‘95 season turned out, ‘96 was no better with another measly 10 wins.

As we gathered to say our brief goodbyes after the 1996 season, I
gazed tenebrously at the players sitting around me. Through my own obscurity,
everything seemed as it should be. In a life void of emotions, it’s easy to
overlook those of others.

~~~

Life returned to campus after winter break as it had left: in a
trickle followed abruptly by an all-out flood. I opened the doors of the Soccer
Office and set about the routine tasks of each day. After going through the
mail and finding nothing of particular interest, I turned to the school
newspaper for a momentary indulgence. Called The Spectator, the paper was
student-run and naturally student focused. Just as naturally, my primary
interest lay in the Sports section, so, after skimming the front page, I
flipped to page one of Sports.

And there it was: Front page, above the fold, an article that
would change everything.

The headline escapes me now, but it was of little importance. What
mattered was the body of the piece where the author seemed to have taken one
comment from a player and blown it up to make a story in the frame of gossip. A
piece worthy of The National Enquirer, in my opinion.

Three of our players were quoted as saying they’d lost interest in
the program. Among them: a team captain. Her main contributing quote read, ”The
focus is too much on winning. We just want to have fun.”

I read those two sentences, and then read them again. And again.
Each time I felt the same aura of betrayal lacing her words. It was a slap in
the face of the University, of the students and the Athletic Department, and of
her teammates and the coaching staff. Athletics was funded by the school and
the student body; they weren’t paying for the players to ‘just have fun.”
Representing UWEC in a varsity sport was an honor. I found myself blown away by
the arrogance and audacity of such a statement.

And yet, although I was disappointed in such a thing being said
publicly and in how they had conveniently forgotten the list of priorities I
had indoctrinated them with during recruiting, I couldn’t begrudge them their
feelings. The signs had all been there – the conversations consumed by talk of
parties, the fact that one of the players had shown up to a match hung-over
during the past season – and it was my job as a coach to address these issues.

What did it say about me that I may have been too disconnected to
see what was right before my face? What did it say about my relationship with
the team that when the player in question  arrived hung-over, none of the
other players who knew came forward to tell me until after the season?

With a weary sigh, I turned back to the article and read it
through. By the time I was finished I had sunk back into my familiar
disenchantment. I shook my head and set my eyes back at the beginning. Partway
through rereading, I looked up at a figure in the doorway.

A tall, slender woman with bobbed silvering hair slid through the
doorway, her bright floral dress a spot of color in an otherwise suddenly dull
space. By the strained and sympathetic expression on Marilyn’s face, she knew
what was in my hands.

‘May I sit?’ she asked, taking a seat on the edge of the blue sofa
cushion. She settled herself and took a moment to collect her thoughts. Marilyn
was my boss and the type of person to speak always with conviction and
forethought, two qualities I greatly admired in her.

After a lengthy pause, she told me of a similar situation in which
a reporter once published comments from her players that negatively slanted a
story while brazenly failing to ask Marilyn for her own comment before printing
the piece.

‘Deal with it in the manner that you feel is right,’ she advised
me in the end, ‘but don’t do it through the press.’ Her expression was solemn
and stern. I wasn’t sure if it was a boss’s order or a colleague’s concerned
advice she was offering. Either way I nodded my agreement. Apparently
satisfied, she stood and left me to my rereading.

~~~

The columnist who had written the story called me the next morning
fishing for a response. I listened to this faceless voice and tried not to
think of him as a scapegoat for my frustrations.

‘Don’t you think,’ I said when he paused for my response to his
question, ‘it would have been responsible journalism to have asked my opinion
before you went to press? Unless, of course, you were more interested in
reporting only one side of the story.’ I let the implication linger just long
enough to prove he had no ready response to such an accusation then added, ‘As
to your question: No comment.’

No follow-up story was run.

~~~

I called the apartments of each of the players who had appeared in
the article. All three calls dumped me to voicemail. I left each a message
calmly asking for them to return my call; if they had issues with the team or
my coaching style, they needed to bring those concerns to me. I hoped that
after an open conversation we could resolve the problems and move forward.

When none of them returned my calls or took the time to stop by
the Soccer Office to talk by the end of the following week, I paid a visit to
Marilyn in her office.

‘Scott,’ she said by way of greeting. I thought I could detect
wariness in her tone and recognized the same keenness in her eyes as she gazed
up at me that I saw in my friends and family. I held out the piece of paper.

‘What’s this?’ she asked, taking the sheet from me.

‘My resignation.’ Her eyebrows peaked over wide eyes. When I
glanced pointedly at the letter in her hands she did the same. I watched her
read it with her elbows propped on her desk and the letter pinched between her
thumb and forefinger. In it I stated my respect and gratefulness to the University,
the Athletic Department, and Marilyn for giving me the opportunity to represent
them. Then I regretfully said the past season would be my last with UW Eau
Claire.

When she had finished reading, Marilyn looked up at me carefully.
‘Are you sure this is what you want?’

‘You know that I didn’t come here to build a recreation program.’
She watched me, then nodded slowly, lips pursed, and glanced down at the paper,
gingerly laying it on her desk.

‘I’m going to pay for you to attend that coaching school so you
can earn your Advanced National Diploma,’ she said, still looking at the
letter. ‘Submit the paperwork to Nancy when you’re ready.’

My jaw went slack. The thought of having the university support me
while I earned my Advanced National Diploma in coaching, a goal I’d set for
myself before contracting the illness, had never crossed my mind. Clearly
Marilyn hadn’t forgotten, though.

‘Thank you.’ She closed her eyes and shook her head slightly in
acknowledgment. Still a little dumbfounded, I started to leave, turning towards
the door when a thought struck which stopped me in my tracks: One last thing to
do while I still had some sway over the program.

‘Oh, and Sean can run this program,’ I told her, referencing one
of my assistant coaches. ‘I recommend that you hire him in my stead.’

I thought I could feel her eyes on my back as I left, but when I
snuck a glance over my shoulder as I turned the corner, she was looking down at
my letter on her desk.

~~~

The following week, I returned to the Soccer Office one last time
to pack my things. Ironic that I was leaving at the time I’d always intended to
go.
Different terms, but still my timeline
, I supposed.
Build a
strong program, then move up the ladder in three to five years.
I could
still remember the fearless, determined coach who had set those goals. If only
he’d had any idea of where that road would actually lead him.

I smiled. He’d never have let it stop him.

With two boxes on the floor at my feet, I shut the door on the
Soccer Office, and then, with one final farewell pat on the door, I put the
University of Wisconsin at Eau Claire behind me.

I left with no regrets, but over time, one would grow: To this
day, I still wish I had written to the graduated players, thanking them for
their dedication and support in helping me transition back from the hospital.
It was my first season back with all of them which set the bar.

I wasn’t sad when I returned to my off-campus apartment. I wasn’t
angry or even disappointed. I felt nothing, empty.