Moving Forward in Reverse (21 page)

‘Oh, it was wonderful!’ Ellen chimed. ‘We were at the World Cup
opening match when Brazil beat Scotland. The Brazilian fans were so much fun!
Here, I’ll pass you to Scott.’ She leaned towards me, passing the phone from
right hand to left then out to me. ‘John Wedge is on the phone.’

‘John,’ I said as I brought the handset to my ear. His name was
almost a question; our 1998 roster was already set and there was still a month
to go before pre-season training would begin. What news could he have that
needed to be shared on a Saturday afternoon?

‘Sounds like you guys had fun at the World Cup,’ came John’s
British-accented voice.

I slanted a smile at Ellen. ‘Sure was. Best honeymoon I’ve ever
been on.’ Ellen just rolled her eyes at me, knowing full well it was the
only
honeymoon I’d ever been on.

‘And the only one you ever will be on,’ she chided.

‘I’m glad to hear it,’ John replied. I murmured a thank-you sound
in the back of my throat and waited while John drifted to silence. Something
was up – I could feel it just as I had felt it when Ellen called to ask me on a
date. This wasn’t just a courtesy call or a “welcome home” call. Ellen must
have had the same sense because she turned the TV off and twisted on the bed to
watch my face. I leaned towards her, tipping the phone away from my ear
slightly so John’s voice would carry, and waited.

‘I haven’t forgotten our agreement,’ John said at last. ‘Do you
know much about Gonzaga?’ My mind flashed to the private Roman Catholic
university nestled along the Spokane River and I felt my body go still.

‘More about their basketball than their soccer. What’s up?’ I
didn’t want to hope – didn’t know if I was hoping. Mentioning our agreement
that I work for free in exchange for his helping me move up the ladder and then
following that with the name of a Division I university; I was scared to hope.

‘The head women’s coach is going to resign,’ John said, his accent
nullifying the R’s and clipping the consonants. I held my breath, heard my
heartbeat echoing in my ears. This was it; what I had been waiting for. So why
was there foreboding in my chest where excitement should have been?

‘He wants to name you as his assistant so you can slide into the
head coach position on his heels. His departure needs to stay quiet until he
leaves, though. Are you interested?’

I paused, pictured myself standing on the edge of the field as the
head coach of a Division I soccer team, felt the satisfaction and glory of
having finally achieved my professional goal, and said, ‘Can I have a day to
think about it?’

‘Get back to me in the morning. This needs to happen quickly.’

‘Sure, John. Thanks.’ I lowered the phone from my ear and pressed
the End Call button with my eyes downcast. When I managed to lift my gaze to my
wife, she was staring fixedly at me, patient expectation sharp in her eyes.

‘You’re taking the job.’

I felt a smile twitch across my lips.
God, I love you.

As I passed the phone back to Ellen, I straightened my expression
and took a breath.

‘Hang on, let’s think about this first,’ I said. I could sense
Ellen stifling the urge to roll her eyes in exasperation, which only made me
more enamored with her. No one rooted for me harder than Ellen, even if my
achieving my dreams could cause her to lose a part of hers.

Suddenly wanting to think of anything but that single, defining
facet of the offer, I sighed and went into logistics. ‘Gonzaga is strong
academically, which is important for recruiting because these players are first
and foremost students. It’s also good for me because I could work on earning my
master’s degree while I’m there. But I know the program itself is pretty weak,
especially faced with the West Coast Conference which is really strong.’

I didn’t want to say it; didn’t want it to be an issue; didn’t
want it to come down to this, but what else was there for it to come down to?
So what if it wasn’t the top soccer school on the West Coast? That only meant
we had farther to climb. I had no qualms with coming in an underdog – heck, I
preferred it that way; more to gain and less to lose. But it wasn’t the caliber
of the school or the program itself that was twisting in my gut, dividing my
conscious into two warring parties, the ‘hell yes’-ers and the ‘we can’t’s.

‘If I take it,’ I murmured, the words drifting on a single breath,
hovering between us like the magician’s final act right before he pulls back
the curtain, ‘it will mean my moving to Spokane.’

Spokane was over five hours away. I looked at her and felt my gaze
turn imploring – but imploring for
what?
Did I want her to tell me to do
it, or to be the crux upon which I could hang my dismissal, my rejection? I
wanted both: her, and the opportunity to be at the top, to coach Division I
soccer, to do what no one thought a man with no hands was capable of. I wanted
it all.

But that wasn’t what was on the table right now. Ellen had built
her medical practice from scratch in this city. If it came down to it, could I
ask her to move to Spokane with me?

She reached for my hands, cupped them in her own as if I could
feel the confident strength of her fingers and, holding my gaze with ardent,
chocolate-brown eyes, said, ‘You need to take it. We’ll deal with what happens
after once you’re in Spokane.’

24

I was standing on flat ground in front of a building made mostly
of concrete. There was a sign out front. Grey speckled stone and concrete to
compliment the building, it declared in cold, metal letters:

The

Charlotte
Y. Martin

Athletics
Centre

With an eager sigh of anticipation, I shuffled past the strand of
neglected bike racks, a precious few bikes scattered throughout like forgotten
dishes in a drying rack, and yanked wide one of the four glass doors.

I left the stagnant heat of Spokane in summer for the
air-conditioned desolation of a building on Gonzaga’s presently near-deserted
campus. Cement walls towered above me. A gabled sunroof lent the memory of
warmth to the otherwise austere central hallway. I shuffled onward until I
reached a long, glossy wood counter. Seated behind the catwalk-esque desk sat a
pale-skinned girl with wavy blond hair bound in a low ponytail. As I
approached, she transferred her gaze from the computer monitor she had been
watching to my approaching form. Seeing her face-on, I realized she had
startlingly clear skin: crisp and white as if the only sunlight she ever
received was through the glass-paned roof towering over her head. She smiled at
me in a warm but detached way.

‘Hi,’ I greeted her, calm and composed (I hoped). ‘I’m looking for
the Athletics Department.’

‘Certainly. Upstairs and down the hall to your left.’ I nodded
once and continued on my way.

Upstairs was a gangplank of a walkway that led left and right,
linking the two cement walls of the hall. I turned left, as she had instructed
and shuffled past a series of red-framed windows, each one providing a glimpse
into another facet of the Centre like a living museum. I peered through each
window in turn: a room crammed with rows upon rows of treadmills and elliptical
machines and stationary bicycles and rowing machines and Stairmasters; an
indoor, full-sized track of red turf that overlooked basketball courts on the
ground floor below; several rooms of shiny wood floors lined with mirrors. With
the exception of two lonesome joggers on far removed treadmills, the place
appeared devoid of life and disremembered. Even the joggers seemed to be
remnants from bygone days.

I shivered and navigated past a few more display-case rooms until
a sign indicated the Athletic Administrative Offices could be found through a
door to the left. As I passed from the light of one set of florescent bulbs to
that of another, a woman’s voice beckoned to me from my right.

‘Hello!’ she chirped like a door chime the moment I crossed the threshold.
I turned my head and determined the source of the call to be a middle-aged
woman with fluffy brown hair that filled out the space around her head as
generously as she did the navy “Go Zags” sweatshirt she wore. ‘Can I help you
with something?’

She beamed at me from behind a counter covered en masse by stacks
of documents and manuals for the fall athletic programs. My eyes fell on a
familiar cover on the left side of her desk and a small smile tweaked my lips.
the
Soccer Atlas,
I lovingly mused at the sight of my old friend. Printed and
ready to be distributed to my new team.

Looking up from the chaos on her desk with renewed alacrity for
the start of my new job and pursuit of my master’s degree, I replied cheerily,
‘I hope so. My name’s Scott Martin. I’m looking for Coach Ric Grenell.’

‘Oh, so you’re the gentleman that Coach Grenell appointed as his
assistant.’

I smiled and dipped my chin.

‘Yes, ma’am.’

‘You know,’ she went on, the smile fading from her face as her
words took on a different tone – apologetic, perhaps? ‘He left before he could
meet with our new Athletic Director, Mr. Roth, and Mr. Roth appointed Melissa
Ziegler as the interim head coach.’ She gave me a smile that was more grimace
than anything else, as if she were a sympathetic wincer and was empathizing
with the pain this news must cause me.

I realized I was staring at her and blinked hurriedly. Melissa
Ziegler, the former assistant coach, was now the head coach? So I had come all
the way out here for … what?

‘Will I be the assistant coach?’ I asked, less than hopeful. No
matter what her answer, it wasn’t going to be good news.

‘I believe so. Here’s Coach Ziegler’s phone number,’ she said,
handing a piece of notepaper to me across the piles of packets. I pinched it
between the fingers of the right myo, barely aware of its presence. For once I
didn’t feel robbed of touch by the myos; I was relatively certain that even
with human hands I wouldn’t have been able to feel the paper between my
fingers. My mind had detached itself from my body and was now processing things
from somewhere distant and disconnected.

‘You might want to call her,’ the empathetic secretary told me. I
glanced at the note more out of pretense than interest.

‘Those manuals that you requested to be prepared are right there
on the counter,’ she offered in a high voice, a concession prize for being
demoted before I was even officially promoted.

‘Thank you,’ I murmured in the best imitation of gratitude I could
muster. I cradled the box of Atlases and left the way I had come, somewhat the
worse for wear.

~~~

Melissa and I met in what was now
her
office
a few days later. As it turned out, the office of Head Coach Melissa Ziegler
was as much of a display case as the exercise rooms I passed throughout the
Martin Centre. The front wall made entirely of glass looked onto the central
area of the Athletic Department. From within the confines of the room, the only
place an occupant could hide was directly behind the wooden door on the
left-hand side of the wall. Unfortunately, as much as I would have liked to
feel consoled at this fact, it did nothing to lessen the blow of having Coach
Grenell and Mike Roth not meeting. I would gladly have taken that office as The
(New) Soccer Office.

As I neared the wooden door with the empty name
plaque, I had a clear view of a petite, sharp-boned woman with light auburn
hair seated behind the wooden desk inside the head coach’s office. Try as I
might to take her measure through the glass wall, all I could gauge was the
Spartan décor: a simple wooden desk with papers and things scattered in a
vaguely organized manner across its surface; a
solitary bookcase against the wall with as many
holes as there were clusters of objects on its shelves; and the typical,
requisite Gonzaga Bulldogs paraphernalia dotting the walls. Nothing personal.
No family pictures or team snapshots, no loved mementos or congratulations
cards. Nothing to give me a clue about the woman poised behind the utilitarian
desk like a Meerkat, frozen and erect as it scans its terrain.

I knocked and waved through the glass when her head swiveled
around to face me. With a flap of a hand she beckoned me inside, standing when
I drew near. She thrust her right hand at me.

‘Scott, I presume.’

She spoke in clipped tones, striking each hard consonant with
lavish force so my name became sCoTT when emitted from her lips. I swallowed a
grimace and replaced it with a smile.

‘Coach Ziegler,’ I returned and gave her the right myo to shake.
Her eyes strayed to the myoelectric hand now clasped in her own, but they held
only morbid fascination without surprise; she had undoubtedly been warned about
my handicap.

As I settled into one of the two chairs across from her desk, my
only thoughts were of how much I suddenly missed the Soccer Office. I had been
on this side of the desk with John at TESC, but for some reason the divide felt
larger here. Perhaps she had a bigger desk…

It’s probably just a matter of time to adjust,
I told myself as I waited for
Melissa to open the discussion.
You came here expecting one thing but got
another. As soon as you tweak your compass a bit, things will feel more
comfortable.

‘So, Scott,’ she segued after an expectant pause on both our
parts. ‘What can I do for you?’

I blinked at her owlishly. What could
she
do for
me
?
Seeing as I was now her
assistant, it seemed the question should have
been reversed.

‘Uhm,’ I said, struggling to regroup my thoughts. I had been
anticipating a briefing with her giving me an overview of how they did things
here at Gonzaga and the players I’d be working with. Apparently she had
envisioned it another way.

‘Well,’ I ventured, ‘I was hoping to get a run-down of things
before the season starts. Tactics, players, what I can expect my role to be...
That sort of thing.’

She nodded along to everything I was saying like a therapist
taking mental notes of my complaints and symptoms. ‘Okay. That shouldn’t be a
problem.’

I stared at her, uncomprehending.
Shouldn’t be a problem? What
does that mean?

As it turned out it meant the exact opposite of what she had said:
it was a problem. My pre-season briefing quickly turned into a
question-and-answer – or rather, a question-and-evade session as I continually
supplied the questions and she, in turn, did what she could to avoid giving
direct answers. I may as well have been seated across from a politician. It
made no sense.

Why would she be trying to hide things from me?
I wondered after departing.
You
would think she was working on some top-secret tactical scheme. But even that
makes no sense. I’m her assistant. Of everyone, I’m the one person she’d have
to include in such strategizing.

I shook my head in bafflement. For all the questions I had walking
into the meeting, I was walking out with a whole slew more. For instance, her
only reference to her coaching background was the previous season at Gonzaga. I
hadn’t pressed her for more details at the time because it wasn’t my place, but
my curiosity would lead me to later discover that that season was in fact the
entirety of her coaching experience. So there I was with nearly twenty years
under my belt and suddenly I was expected to train the team, develop a style of
play, and evaluate match play but not select the lineup, make substitutions
during the matches, or be involved in recruiting.

It’s okay,
I told myself time and again.
It’s still Division I, which
makes it a step in the right direction.
But no matter how many times I
repeated the mantra, doubt and dismay would rekindle their cumulative flame.
Together they’d burn a hole in my optimism, creating an opening through which
The Fog, my ubiquitous foe, could wade in.

Ah, who am I kidding?
I’d surrender in the end and shake my head in disillusionment and
dread. It was going to be a long year in my company.

The only truth I could console myself with was that the situation
couldn’t have been much easier on Melissa; thrown out onto center stage after
only one rehearsal and suddenly she was expected to not only perform, but
direct the rest of the show as well. No, this was hardly what you would call an
ideal situation for anyone involved. And yet I was trapped with no one to turn
to who could balance our scale.

~~~

Midway through the season, Athletic Director Mike Roth came to
watch a training session. High-ranking in education and aesthetic appeal while
also being an NCAA Division I school, Gonzaga was an easy school to sell to
recruits. As a result, we had a decent base of players to build from. What Mike
wanted to discuss with me in his office the next day, however, was not just the
program itself.

‘Can I ask, Scott,’ he gently probed, peering at me from beneath
low hanging brows which sat like two straight black lines above his eyes. ‘Why
are you in charge of training the team?’

I took a breath and said the only thing that felt right to say:
the truth. ‘Last season was Melissa’s first time coaching.’

Quiet descended on us as Mike processed the information I’d just
pitched into his lap. I watched from my seat across from him as all the pieces
began to slide into place. His eyebrows drew together to form one long line as
if to physically underline his thoughts and conclusions. Then the muscles in
his forehead gradually slackened their hold and released them back to their
original, distinct positions. With his thoughts reconciled, he let his head
teeter forward and back on his neck like a bobblehead doll.

‘Keep training the team,’ he said as I stood to leave.

‘Yes, sir.’

~~~

I spent the next week doing
what I did best: training the players. Melissa made the calls and I learned the
art of suggestive reasoning to coax her along what I viewed as the correct
path. We fell into as much of a groove as was possible considering our
situation. Still there was this discontent within me like an itch you can’t
scratch. I tried to shake it, telling myself Mike had the facts now, so it was
probably only a matter of time before things righted themselves, but I couldn’t
sit still. I rounded out each day with a feeling that there was something more
I could be doing and spent most of the night tossing and turning in my lonely
bed without Ellen’s warmth to guide me to sleep.