It’s draft day, 1983 and my team is first on the clock. I have some very tough decisions to make.
But this is no NFL draft. It’s nothing close to college or even high school. I’m picking teams for a pickup Nerffootball game with a bunch of elementary-aged boys during summer vacation.
I’ve been a day care worker at this job, off and on, since 1980. During the school year I work from 3-6PM and during summer, it’s 9AM – 4PM. As I’m due to leave for Navy boot camp in about five months, this will be my last summer.
Our team has needs everywhere but quarterback. That’s because I’m the quarterback and coach. My good friend and co-worker Guy Wilson quarterbacks and coaches the other team. As I survey the lineup of choices in front of me, one stands out.
He’s a mousy-looking kid who’s slowly patrolling his nostril with his right index finger. Perfect! I call his name.
He looks surprised but walks toward me. The other boys, particularly the 5th graders are incensed.
“Why are you picking him?” they ask. “He’s a freak.”
I know what I’m doing so I dismiss them.
Then Coach Wilson has his pick.
His selection is a pudgy little kid who looks like he rarely ventures outside. Another perfect fit. His 5th graders who hope to play for him are equally disturbed.
Something is wrong in this universe.
Except that it’s not.
It’s intentional.
I can’t speak for Coach Wilson, who will likely be reading this, but I wasn’t born with superhuman strength, talent, good looks, intelligence, or really anything but creativity and curiosity. I preferred to spend my time alone, engrossed either in a book or building a model or creating a diorama. Thus, I never really considered playing sports.
Physically anyway. I would read about it though. As I aged into middle school, I decided to try sports. I sucked at them. I was short, fat, and slow. At PE, when teams were picked, I was usually one of the last ones picked.
And it hurt. Sometimes it still does when I think about it.
But then, in the summer between 7th and 8th grade, after a year being called “fats” or “fat boy,” I started a diet. It was some sort of protein powder that you mix with mil, ice, and chocolate extract in a blender. I think it was from a company called Shaklee. I drank one for breakfast and lunch, then had whatever my mom made for dinner.
In a couple of months, the weight melted off. When I started 8th grade, everyone noticed. Even Karen Hukee, who I had a mad crush on since 6th grade. It didn’t matter though; I was too shy to act on it. In my mind I was still the depressed 7th grader.
But with my lighter frame, athletics suddenly seemed possible. I went out for flag football and was one of the captains, and best players. I was voted “Most Improved Player.” My confidence soared. When PE came along and we picked teams, I was now among the first. It was a good feeling. But I still felt pangs of sadness as my former “late round” colleagues languished in wait.
I’m back on the clock now. The 5th graders are growing restless, so I decide to pick one of the “good players.” I don’t want my strategy to be predictable.
Coach Wilson makes his selection. Another “good player.” But then we continue our strategy. The boys are getting restless, but the draft is still on.
At last, the teams are intact. But Coach Wilson proposes a trade. He wants to trade one of his “good players” to me in exchange for some of my prized, former late-rounders. I’m not having any of it.
Then he ups the ante.
He offers up an additional “good player”. His team is stunned. They can’t believe their coach. My team is worried too. They can’t believe I’m turning down two superstars for a couple of terrible players.
At last, Coach Wilson has one final offer.
“If you do the trade, I’ll throw in Mrs. Klein.”
Mrs. Klein is an old lady who occasionally drives up in her beige Cadillac and tells stories and plays the piano for the kids. Once, she locked herself inside her Caddy and had to wait for a neighbor to call the police. She’s in her 80s.
Of course, I’m not putting Mrs. Klein on the team. I do have my pride. The game begins.
I can’t remember who won that game. When it ends, Coach Wilson and I scurry off to the kitchen to abscond with several grape sodas our boss Jim would stock. It was our secret. Our code word for the grape soda thievery is “Practice.” So, we are practicing.
But even though I don’t remember speaking to him about what we did (not the “practicing”) I’m sure we were on the same page. I became friends with Guy in high school and we played football together and carpooled for a time. But I suspect he might have been a bit like me. I think it’s what gave us the idea to show the kids what empathy can be.
Aside from one, who became a Marine Corps officer and survived a sniper’s bullet in Iraq, I’m not sure what happened to those kids. They are all adults now, some with children of their own.
I have to wonder if any of those kids we picked first were able to capitalize on that one little bit of positivity. I hope they all became successful, confident adults. I hope they remember that little act of kindness Coach Wilson and I showed that hot summer day. I trust they have and will pay it forward.
Coach Wilson became a teacher and high school football coach. He lives in Arizona, and we plan to meet up in Phoenix soon to compete together in a Moth storytelling competition. He’s a storyteller too.
Who will you choose to boost and elevate today?