Tyler Symenchski, the first future President of the United States…from a junior college, took Sara’s virginity then cheated on her a few months afterwards. My break-up with Sara only proved what I feared to be true, besides her being magnetically drawn to taller men—she may have felt love for me, but she never truly loved me. She gave all of herself to this douchebag without question all because he stood about eight more inches off the ground than I did. I actually felt bad for Sara when she told me, but it also took a sizable bite out of my pint-sized ego. Although it stung to know that something I could never change about myself was why I never felt truly loved, it still failed to destroy my belief in true love. Somewhere among the countless millions, the love I believed in existed. Like a shipwreck survivor floating on a piece of driftwood in the middle of unpredictable waters, I had to continue to believe, even beyond hope, in order to survive.
In 1993, the Frugals store, where I was transferred to after Sara and I broke up and the same store I befriended "Sweetie at, was looted. I was watching the news at home when they showed footage of the store being ransacked then burned to the ground. It turned out someone wanted the insurance money from a store that bled red the previous years before I arrived. Since I couldn’t return to my old store because of Sara, they tried to relocate me to another Frugals store an hour away—but it would push me back a year or two from getting my degree. When there were no other options made available to me, I suddenly found myself out of work. Since I paid my own way through college this sudden unemployment threatened to make my father’s words about college, prophetic. I had just switched majors and had another two years to go before I got my business degree—I was desperate. I had moved out of my parents’ home just three months earlier and the last thing I wanted to do was move back. On the same day I had no other choice but to talk to my father about returning home, my roommate told me about an opportunity in a daycare center at the school where his mother worked. It was a Lutheran Church with a school that taught kindergarten through the eighth grade, just minutes away from our place. When he proposed it to me, I was skeptical. Could I make the same money working at a daycare center as I did working at Frugals? I didn’t get paid much at Frugals, but they gave me forty hours a week and benefits—enough to afford my monthly expenses, including tuition. When I learned during the interview, I would work fewer hours but make a dollar an hour more, I couldn’t accept the position fast enough. My Friday nights were now freed up again—I wouldn’t have to work until three in the morning anymore and only had a five-minute drive to work. My job responsibilities would also be substantially less, which allowed me to concentrate more on my studies. Not to mention, I couldn’t imagine it was less fun supervising kids than unloading a truck at midnight.
I always enjoyed being around children—their innocence is one of the best things about life, and it made me naturally protective of them. Although I didn’t have a bad childhood, I felt part of it was robbed by my father’s bitterness. I didn’t hate my father; I understood where his unhappiness came from, but it definitely strained our relationship. I couldn’t help but feel he took something away from me every kid needed—self-confidence. I didn’t want any child I came across to ever doubt themselves and to have it rob them of their childhood experience the way it did mine. Since I didn’t have children of my own, I buffered that disappointment with the relationships I built with the kids at the daycare. I hoped to preserve their innocence by warding off the bitterness of people who had the joy of their childhood taken from them. I even lived vicariously through them—to better understand all that was taken from me. I thought supervising kids would be a way to relive the times I never enjoyed during my own childhood—and to also help me deal with the disappointment in not having children of my own yet. I always dreamt of coming home from work to a son or daughter, but it seemed I would be in my early thirties before that dream came true, if at all, and it caused a lot of sleepless nights. My father had a son when he was twenty-seven, but he was dating my mother for eight years—I was twenty-six and not dating anyone.
My father was none too pleased when I took the daycare position. Even after I explained that it gave me a chance to finish school quicker and maximize my grade point average, he didn’t care. According to him, I made a colossal mistake when I didn’t take a job on the docks. In his eyes, he was married by the time he was twenty-seven and I should be too. Even when I didn’t live under his roof, he took shots at me whenever I visited. I didn’t need the reminder that I was behind in life—it already ate me up alive and spit me out. I never received help from him for college, just taunts of not being able to make it. He even gave me a hard time whenever I needed to use his computer to finish an assignment because my computer was down—I couldn’t afford a new one or to get it fixed. My mother always gave me an oar for positive strokes, but my father would just break it over my head. The daycare job became my spare oar and it allowed me to see the lighter side of life when the world seemed against me. I hoped to impress upon them to embrace what their passions were as early as possible with a higher education in mind. I didn’t want any of them to end up like me at twenty-six years old—a breathing cautionary tale. During my first few weeks there, I learned most of the kids were from divorced families. I then not only felt obligated to supervise them but also help fill the void they may have felt in their lives. When I landed the job, I never imagined I would face such a role. The more I thought about it though, the more I couldn’t escape the reason I was chosen for this—who was more qualified to teach kids how to deal with feeling alone than someone who knew everything about it?
On my first day on the job, my attempt to connect with them didn’t go the way I envisioned. When I walked inside the daycare center to supervise the morning group of kindergarteners, there was no one there—they were all playing outside. When I walked out onto the blacktop, there were a group of kids being supervised on the field below, and another group being supervised by someone on the blacktop. Since it looked like there was adequate supervision outside, I turned around to walk back inside but noticed a lone child in the sandbox-swings area. When I reached the little tike while she sat in the swing, she didn’t acknowledge my presence. She had short, wavy blonde hair and green eyes with a hint of frustration on her tiny face. I then sat down in the swing next to her but that didn’t even get her attention. She suddenly kicked her legs out, but the swing didn’t budge. She then thrusted her tiny white and red-kneed legs out again hoping that would do the trick, but the swing remained still.
“Hey, kiddo.” I said unsure how to present myself properly to her. “Would you like me to push you?”
“Nooo!” She shouted without looking at me.
“Are you afraid?”
“Nooo!” She shouted again.
I couldn’t say the same for myself—I was afraid my new co-workers thought I was murdering her.
“Oh, you can swing on your own?” I asked as she kicked her legs out again to no avail.
“Yes!” She said while she kept her legs out and the swing remained unresponsive.
“Great! Can you please show me how to swing? I’ve been wanting to learn. I always see all the other kids get sooo high…I mean super high and I’m like way down here.” I said as I pointed to the sky and then into the sand below. “It makes me sad because I wanna get high up in the air like them. Do you think you can show me how?”
She nodded then bit her lip and put her legs out. I then tried to kick my own legs out to stay on her level—I didn’t want to show her up.
“Oh, I see…like this.” I said as I stuck my legs out but stayed still to mimic her.
She then shook her head and stuck her legs out again, yielding the same result.
“I got an idea.” I said then jumped off my swing and got behind her. I then grabbed both chains on her swing and brought her back as she kept her legs out.
“Keep your legs out, okay? Hold on tight!” I said as I pulled her back a few inches before I lightly let her go.
She kept her legs extended, but she was just too small to generate momentum. I encouraged her to keep her legs out to give her the impression she was doing it by herself, but I would push her just a bit harder each time she kicked to make it seem she did it on her own.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
“Jilly.” She replied quickly as a smile broke upon her face.
“Look how high you are! I’ve never been that high on a swing before!”
“Higher!” Jilly ordered.
“Yes ma’am!” I exclaimed as I pushed her a little harder.
While I pushed her and she demanded to go higher, Jilly started to sing all the classics, from “Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star” to “The Alphabet Song”. I encouraged her to kick out her legs, bring them back in and then kick them out again—each time she did, she would go even higher. Fifteen minutes later, I stepped away and stood next to her—she was swinging all on her own.
“Nooo.” She said when she saw me standing next to her.
“Look at you, Jilly girl! You’re doing it all on your own!” I encouraged. “I’m going to need a ladder to get you down you’re so high!”
“I want you to push me.” She whined.
“Okay.” I caved when she stopped swinging on her own—either too scared to continue or to put me back to work. While she broke into “One, Two, Buckle My Shoe”, I continued to push her for another twenty minutes. When I saw the other kids go back inside the daycare center, a half hour after my encounter with Jilly began, it was time for us to go back inside as well.
“Alright, Jilly girl—we have to go inside now.” I said as I now flanked her.
“Nooo!” She shouted at the top of her lungs.
“Yes!”
“Nooo!”
“Yes!”
“Nooo...” She cried. “No.”
“I’ll push you on the swings later, okay?” I said as I gently placed my hand on her tiny back. “Do you need help gettin’ down?”
“You’re a meanie!” She shouted.
“A what?” I smirked.
“You’re a meeeeeeeanie!” She blared again with extra emphasis.
“Sorry Jilly girl, but we gotta go back inside now.” I said then picked her up from out of the swing and placed her on the ground.
I thought she would jump back on the swing, but she just called me a “meanie” again to drive the point home. As we walked together back to the daycare center, she stopped then extended her arms out to me—she wanted a free ride to our destination. As she sat on my shoulders on our way back, she made sure I knew I was a “meanie” a few more times.
“I never thought I’d say this, but I miss ‘One, Two Buckle My Shoe’”. I said before I put her on the ground. She then ran inside to join the rest of the kids while I questioned the meaning of my existence.
Two weeks after the “Jilly Experience,” I still felt disconnected with most of the kids. I thought supervising children would be a piece of cake, but I found it difficult to build a bond with the kindergarteners. One spring morning while I patrolled the schoolyard’s blacktop during their play time, I noticed a small boy all by himself on the soccer field below. In contrast to the large group of kindergartners congregated on the asphalt above, it seemed he made the executive decision to excuse himself from the activity. When I approached him, I didn’t recognize the light brown-haired dissenter with pulsar blue eyes and huge cheeks, but the school often received new kids.
“Hey! What’s goin’ on down here?” I asked.
“Hi. Oh, nothin’.” He claimed.
The little guy left me speechless—he greeted me and was polite. With each step he took though, his face never left the grass he kicked at. I then flashbacked to times when I was too shy to interact with new people. Although I wondered why no one integrated him into the group when we were all in the daycare center, I took this as an opportunity to connect and create a bond with him.
“What’s your name?” He asked.
“It’s Landyn.” I replied in complete shock. “What’s yours?”
“Albert.” He said in a sad tone as he looked up at me while the sun intruded into his eyes.
“It’s really nice to meet you, Al.” I said as I knelt down so that he didn’t have to look up into the sun. “Do you mind if I call you Al? You’re not gonna beat me up, right?”
“No.” He smiled widely as he suddenly stopped kicking at the grass.
“Whew! Okay good! Thank you, Al! I was worried!” I said as I put my hand up for him to slap it.
He then flashed another smile and quickly gave me a high-five.
“Why are you down here all by yourself?” I asked.
“I don’t know anybody.”
“What? You mean to tell me that no one, not one person up there, knows my new friend, Al?”
He then shook his head and kicked at the grass again.
“Then that means…I don’t know if I should say it.”
“Say what?” His asked excitedly.
“That you just came from outer space?”
He then stopped kicking the grass and looked up at me in complete confusion.
“I didn’t tell you I came from outer space!” He laughed.
“You had to come from outer space! No one knows who you are!” I stated. “What planet did you come from? Can I see your spaceship? Where’d you park it?”
“I didn’t come from outer space…I came from here. I don’t have a spaceship.”
“Oh, I think you do have a spaceship and I think it’s time to get in it and meet some new friends.” I said as I picked him up and placed him on my shoulders. “Alright, strap yourself in! Hold on tight! Here we go! Four-three-two-one…liftoff! We have liftoff!”
I pretended to throw a seatbelt on him, and I even made the spaceship control sounds for him as well. I then ran carefully up the steps and onto the asphalt. When we got to the group, I lifted him off my shoulders and brought him to the asphalt as if he had a jetpack. When his feet touched the ground, I saluted him—he even saluted me back. I then backed away from him while he stood before the group of kids who were now curious—along with the other daycare supervisor.
“We have a visitor.” I announced. “His name is Albert, and he’s super cool—he even lets me call him Al! Although he denies it, I think he just got back from outer space and would like to make new friends. Can you please show him how to play this game you’re playin’?”
“Sure, Mr. Lastman!” Said one of the girls who grabbed his hand and began to integrate him into the group activity. All I could do was stand there in disbelief at how smooth it all went. The minute I saw him on the field with his eyes on the ground, it reminded me of the times I was too shy to be social because of my low self-esteem issues. I had to change what his tender five-year old mind absorbed while he kicked at the grass—before he pulled it out of the ground like I did.
From that point on I never saw Al playing alone again. He even became one of the more popular kids, and that made me feel less worthless. One day he asked if I would babysit him, but I told him he would have to ask his parents. When his parents approached me with the offer, there was no way I could say no—he was a well-behaved kid and his parents were great people who rarely got a night out together. During those nights we hung out, we ordered pizza and he made sure I knew all the current shows…on Nickelodeon. One night while we played Mario Brothers, I found it ironic that I gave up my pursuit of an English degree to find myself in a teacher’s environment—the very one I ran from. The kids at the daycare though gave me a welcomed respite from the stress of the real world, and never more so than when I was made aware about the hardship of a particular nine-year old boy. A four-foot five, green-eyed, fair-skinned, white-haired kid named Ryan who was literally on his death bed at the age of four, dying of starvation in Belarus. Fortunately, he was adopted by a prestigious American couple while they were in his country on business. Even though letting him out of class and into the daycare was like letting a bull on steroids loose into a hospital, I connected with him through sports. I taught him how to play baseball, football, and basketball, much to the appreciation of the other daycare staff. Although he could be a handful at times, he also had a different perspective on life than most kids, and even most adults. I was super sensitive to his plight, but there were times I had to be tough on him—to instill a sense of discipline when a time for him to learn arose.
“I no wanna play no more!” Ryan barked at me in his ruffian Belarus accent. “This game is stupid!”
“You don’t have to play basketball if you don’t want to. You’re always free to go inside the Daycare center and do something else if you want.” I reminded him.
“I no wanna go in there!” He shouted then took the basketball and kicked it down onto the field. The other eight kids on the court groaned then looked at me to do something.
“Ryan…go down to the field right now and bring that ball back!” I sternly instructed. “In fact, I want you to run down to the field and bring the ball back. Now go. You have ten seconds—ten…nine…eight…”
“No! You not playin’ right!” He said then stomped his right foot. “I not going! I sit! So, there!”
“Ryan, we all agreed that if I played, I couldn’t shoot the ball or score—it’s not fun that way. I told you before the game started that if you picked me on your team, I could only pass the ball.” I explained. “That’s no excuse for you to kick the ball on the field. Now either you get up and go get the ball or you’re gonna sit there for a long time. Is that what you really wanna do? Just sit there?”
“That’s what I wanna do and gonna do!” He shouted, sat down, crossed his arms in defiance and nodded.
“Fair enough…but if you don’t get that ball in seven seconds, you’re gonna sit there for the next thirty minutes! Seven…six…”
“What? Thirty minutes? That’s child abuse!”
“Five…four.”
“I hate you!”
“Oh, geez Rye, I hope I can make it through the night—I just hope you won’t be sittin’ here through the night.” I countered. “Three…two.”
“I WISH I WAS BACK IN BELARUS!” He hollered.
Kids were always dramatic, but Ryan’s “I wish I was back in Belarus” outburst was in a league all its own since he was actually dying of starvation in Belarus. At a time I reprimanded a child that badly needed it, the last thing I wanted to do was laugh, but I never got to “one”—I lost it.
“Is it really that bad, Ryan? Really?”
He gave me no answer as he tightened his folded arms, puffed out his chest and then grinned at me.
“Just get up.” I laughed. “Don’t ruin any more games for everyone else—I know you’re better than that. We were all havin’ a lot of fun before you kicked the ball on the field.”
“I go get the ball.” He replied then sprang from the ground, sprinted onto the field and handed me the basketball.
“Still wish you were back in Belarus?” I asked as we walked back onto the court to restart the game.
“No.” He replied.
“Good to know.” I said as I bounced the ball lightly off of his head.
“Can you babysit me this weekend?”
“Sorry Ryan, I can’t.”
Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.
“No? How come?”
“I would, but I’m goin’ to Belarus this weekend—that place sounds like a lot of fun.”
Needless to say, I forwent my trip to Belarus and babysat him instead that weekend. Ryan had come a long way in just five years—some people went their entire lives unable to put traumatic events behind them. Although I tried to teach kids when I could, there were times they taught me as well. I always tried to have a unique connection with each kid at the daycare. Either through a game we always played together or a problem we worked on a solution for, to build their trust so they felt comfortable coming to me if they needed to. I had my favorites at the daycare, but I never played favorites—I just wanted to be fair and there for them.
I spent more time supervising the boys than I did the girls. Since my co-workers were mostly female, they didn’t mind at all—the boys were the crazier ones. It also seemed to be an unwritten rule at the daycare among the supervisors, but it made sense. I loved outdoor sports and organized most of the activities for the boys centered on basketball, baseball, football, soccer, and even roller hockey. The girls generally liked to stay inside the center with the female supervisors doing…only GOD knows what. Sometimes the girls wanted to play sports too, and I always found ways to integrate them into the activities monopolized by mostly disapproving boys. When the boys got sour, I usually joined the girls’ teams and humbled them. Although I hung out with the boys more, I still connected with many of the girls—I always treated both equally. One of those girls was a kindergartner by the name of Maya. She had thin, shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes, rosy red cheeks, and a four-tooth smile. She was the female version of Albert—demure and sweet. I only had one goal to make the shy ones feel more comfortable and to be more social—to make them laugh. Maya really took to my strategy but there was one problem—she latched onto me more than the other kids. While I played all-time quarterback for both teams during a flag football game I organized on the field, she spotted me before I saw her. By the time I did, she ran right on to the field in the middle of the action. I saw this unsuspecting smiling face come bounding onto the grass excited to see me until she got hit by a kid running with the ball. When her body slammed to the ground and she started to wail, I felt helpless and awful. I picked her up, took her inside the daycare center, put band-aids on her “Ouchies,” and spent the rest of my shift hanging out with her inside. Thankfully, she wasn’t hurt, but it should’ve never happened. Just before we began a third straight game of Candyland, she had something to tell me.
“Mr. Lastman?” She asked.
“Tired of Candyland?” I smiled and hoped. “Wanna watch a movie? You choose and I’ll put it on.”
“Can we watch Veggie Tales?”
“If that’s what you wanna watch—then we’re watchin’ Veggie Tales.” I smiled.
“I wish you were my Daddy.” She said as she rose from the floor and hugged me.
Her words hit me like a train in the dark. Although it made me feel good, it was also bittersweet—her real father wasn’t getting his due. Maya didn’t come from a broken home, but I still felt obligated to explain myself to her.
“Very sweet of you to say, Maya. Did you know that we only get to hang out together because of your daddy? When you’re here at the Daycare, you get the “fun” Mr. Lastman who plays games all day, but if I was your daddy, I’d have to work all the time just like your daddy does. He works really hard just so you can come to the Daycare and hang out with me! He’s like Superman actually…no one really sees all the good things he does when he’s Clark Kent. Without your daddy, we couldn’t play games together because we could never see each other! You’re really lucky to have the daddy you have.”
“Okay, Mr. Lastman—but I still wish you were my daddy.” She said.
Although Maya didn’t buy what I tried to sell her, for the first time I saw the impact I had on kids. I could tell her father was a real parent—not just a best friend. I think most parents tried to correct mistakes their own parents made with them, and I’m sure I would be less critical of my kids to resolve the issue I had with my father’s parenting. Some parents took it too far though—they wanted to be known as the “cool” parent. They are more concerned with their child’s approval of them as if their approval meant they had superior parenting skills. That kind of parenting only created entitled superficial human beings that society would eventually be left to deal with. Some parents could pull it off, but most could never do it. Whenever a kid would tell me they wish I was their dad, it told me one of two things—they either had an abusive parent or a really good one. Maya’s words told me I could make a pretty good dad someday—something I always dreamt of being. It also bummed me out too, though—I was running out of time for such a simple dream to come true.
“If I’m ever lucky enough to become a daddy one day, Maya, and if I have a girl, I hope she’s just like you!” I said as I lightly touched the top of her head. “I might even have to name her Maya!”
“Really? If you have a girl, will you invite me over so we could all play together?” She asked as she started to hop up and down and clap. “We could play all day long!”
“You’ll be the first to know, Maya.” I laughed when I visualized the absurdity of the scenario that could only come from the mind of a child.
I used to get the “I wish you were my Dad” quite often. It was always such an honor to hear because if you ever wanted an honest opinion, just ask a child—they never spun a single thing nor ever played politics. Their candid wish gave my life a real sense of purpose—the only time I ever felt I made a difference in the world. As much as it warmed my heart, it also saddened me to know their real heroes never got the credit they deserved. I always told the kids the same thing I told Maya—their father was the real hero. The kids I connected with usually told their parents about me. Whenever parents approached me, I’d immediately feared I said or did something wrong, but each time they did, it was only to offer me extra money that I always turned down or to thank me. Even the athletic director, my boss, Cal Sutton, took notice when he returned to work after his late morning run.
“So, what’s your secret?” He asked me one day while I sat at the desk next to his as he traded his black Nike tennis shoes for flip flops.
“Secret? What are you talkin’ about?” I asked.
“I get compliments from parents all the time about you.” He revealed as he put a blue Dodgers baseball cap on to hide his receding dark brown hair.
“Really? I’m just being myself!” I laughed. “I’m just tryin’ to keep them all busy while they’re here so our time goes by faster.”
“It’s more than that, Landyn.” He said to me as he rose up from behind his desk.
“I can’t see it being more than that.”
As he shook his head and grinned, he then took his thin and sunburnt six-foot frame, and swiped away the sand off his Tommy Bahama shorts. He then walked gingerly until he stood in front of the coloring book-laden desk I sat at. Since it was lunch hour, we were the only ones within earshot of each other.
“You treat them like people. You never talk down to them—you respect them.” He expanded as he used a small brown towel to wipe off the sweat from his arms and legs. “Even though they’re kids and you’re in charge, you never take advantage of your authority—unless you have to.”
He then took the towel, wiped his face with it, and threw it on the chair he just vacated. Placing his hand on his hips, he exhaled and looked at me.
“I guess I just treat them the way I would like to be treated.” I said.
Childhood should be the best time of our lives—we had the rest of it to be stressed out and miserable. Life was short enough, especially our childhood. These kids needed to be happy and stress-free because as sure as the sun, one day that will all change on them. I’m certain some were prone to heart disease more than others, and I took it upon myself to delay the inevitable for them. I was able to exercise this personal philosophy of mine when I was asked by Cal to be the head coach of the mixed seventh and eighth grade boys’ basketball team. The school’s Pastor, Tim Farely, along with other church members, were none too pleased after a non-Lutheran and a non-member of the church was asked to head the team. Not to mention, the former head coach’s popularity with the congregation failed to further my cause. After he took the vacant head coaching position at another school and transferred there, he offered to play us in an exhibition game. This invitation ran deeper than a mere exhibition though; he wanted to prove that Cal Sutton made a bad choice in allowing me to coach the team. When Cal offered the position to me, I initially turned it down—I was going to school full-time and wanted to concentrate on my studies. He then allowed me to sit on it for a week after I declined.
Before I started working at the daycare, there was little to no interest in basketball among the kids. They were far more interested in soccer, but after I organized daily basketball games, more kids enjoyed it. To keep from ten to twenty kids engaged for a couple of hours each day at the daycare of sixty kids was no small feat, and it helped the other supervisors focus on fine tuning their arts and crafts skills, an ability I certainly didn’t possess. When I asked the seventh and eighth grade boys if they planned to play soccer or basketball this year, most of them told me they were going to play soccer. When someone told them there was a possibility I could coach the basketball team, those same kids suddenly all wanted to play basketball. When I told them there was no truth to the rumor, it fueled a disdain for soccer—they would now either play basketball or nothing at all. I found it funny how some of the boys worshipped me as a basketball player. They even wondered why I wasn’t in the NBA, but they had no idea how really good NBA players were. I always felt if I didn’t show them my skills as a basketball player, they would have no interest in the sport. I didn’t want to “show off,” but if they saw me hit shots, dribble between my legs, put the ball around my back, and dunk—things that looked fun to do—it was something they wanted to at least try. I began to feel that if I didn’t coach the team, I was falsely promoting the game to them. They also believed we would have a good team if I coached them because I was a good player in their eyes—something I didn’t plan on when I first started basketball activities at the daycare. I enjoyed playing hoops when I was their age, and I wanted to build off of it. I didn’t want to let them down. I then reconsidered and accepted the position without knowledge of Pastor Farely’s displeasure. When we beat the former head coach’s new team by twenty points in their gym, he refused to shake my hand after the game. After I witnessed him chewing out his new team over a loss in a mere exhibition game, I couldn’t believe he was highly revered and I was frowned upon by Pastor Farely.
When we started the season undefeated after four games played, the Pastor remained greatly dissatisfied with the athletic director’s decision to allow a non-church member to be the boys’ head basketball coach. When I lobbied Cal to ask Pastor Farely to show more support for the team after we played our home games in front of only five people, my request fell on deaf ears. The former coach’s teams always played in front of a packed gymnasium, and even had cheerleaders, but during the games I coached, there was no such fanfare. Pastor Farely and his band of false prophets could hate me all they wanted, but wanting to see me fail only penalized the kids. Not only did I volunteer to coach the team, I was really busy with school and work at the time—but in his eyes, I was an intruder. At a time I could use a little faith in something, he only further validated my reasons for being a borderline atheist.
When we were scheduled to play a league home game against County Day School, I had Pastor Farely wholly on my mind. They were not only in first place, but Lutheran Christ had never beaten County Day before in the school’s twenty-year history. In forty games against them, they were a perfect 40-0. Before we played them, we sat tied with County Day for first place—they had won their first four games too. I also learned that all their wins were of the merciless blowout kind and came at a frenzied unsportsmanlike pace. The coach of County Day usually kept his starters in the game even when they were up by thirty points. I never saw the logic behind it, other than to humiliate the other coach and his team. Losing was bad enough, but to be humiliated while losing was maddening. I always respected the losing side and played the kids that never got a chance to play—there was no need to rub it in if we were up big. One thing was certain though when County Day visited our gym—their coach planned to humiliate us too. In order for us to avoid the same fate as those other teams, I had to light a fire under these kids. Our four prior games were all competitive and most of the kids grew as basketball players. The coach of County Day was out to destroy that confidence and progress though, and I refused to let that happen. He also planned to make a joke of me—I was certain he knew Pastor Farely, and this game presented a favor to him. After our last practice before the game against County Day, I brought the team in for one last huddle.
“I just wanted to let you guys know that I received a phone call earlier from the head coach of County Day.” I said as they goofed off with each other in the huddle while some even sat down and groaned.
Confusion suddenly broke upon their faces—they all wondered where I was going with this until one of them broke the silence.
“Why did he call you, Coach?” He asked for the group.
“He wanted to know if there were any pizza places near our school.”
“Why would he ask that?” Inquired one of my other players.
“I was confused by it too guys…so after I told him Big Ed’s Pizzeria was the closest one, I asked him why he wanted to know—do you know what he told me?”
“No.” A few of the kids said in unison while others shook their heads.
“He said ‘because that’s where we plan to go after we beat you tomorrow.”
Those who sat suddenly stood up and became vocal. They shook their heads in disbelief and with irritation. One of the boys bounced the basketball so hard on the gym hardwood floor that it nearly hit the ceiling. Once I had their focus, I then inspired a response from them.
“So, what’s it gonna be tomorrow? Are you gonna let them have a pizza party?”
“No way, County Day!” Roared a team member as they then broke out into a chant of ‘No way, County Day’.
When their focus morphed to tight rope walkers from circus clowns, I left the gym feeling warm and fuzzy inside. I could only hope they laced up their Air Jordans instead of their clown shoes when the next day arrived. When it did, they came to the gym firing on all cylinders. Unlike our prior four games, there were no jokes exchanged with one another or laughter in the layup line—they were focused more than ever. Just before the jump ball, when I reminded them about the pizza party in the huddle, they all nodded in unison and understanding. From the opening tip, their fire scorched the court as we jumped out to a 12-2 lead. It even forced the coach to call a timeout just three minutes into the game. As my starters were running back to our bench, one of them shouted at the opposing players that there would be no pizza party today. After I scolded my team not to taunt them, I nearly broke into laughter when I saw the look of mass confusion on the faces of the County Day players. I was just so proud they responded to the challenge in front of them against a superior team. County Day boasted of two potential NBA players and I had players who never played organized basketball before. After the time-out, we then took a 22-16 lead into halftime, but the best part wasn’t that we were winning the game—it was the look on the coach’s face. Gone was the smile that took pleasure in humiliating inferior teams, replaced with an air of disturbance and discontent. As he yelled at his players, I even caught him peering over at our inspired team and its head coach. In the middle of his tirade, another unlikely event, unknown to me, began to take shape. Word got around to Pastor Farely that we were leading County Day and there was a real chance we could beat them for the first time ever. At the start of the fourth period, a once nearly empty gymnasium suddenly became standing room only—he let the entire school out of class early. My players were so excited about our sudden home court advantage, I had to call a timeout to make sure they stayed focused on winning the game. Although they now had an audience, I wanted to make sure they didn’t turn into Kobe Bryant trying to impress a girl they liked. I couldn’t blame them one bit if they did, I was just as excited too—we finally had our school behind us. As I gazed upon the crowd after our time out ended, in my mind we had already won.
At the beginning of the fourth quarter, County Day took their first lead of the game, and with only four minutes left to play, we fell behind by ten points, 42-32. The coach had spotted a weakness and made the adjustment to exploit it. Now they smelled blood in the water and looked to devour us. I then called a timeout and singled out my point guard and best player, Nate Fell. He was the shortest player on the court but the quickest and was killing them all game—he scored twenty of our thirty-two points. When County Day started to deny him the ball with double teams though, he became less aggressive on offense and just stood around. This compact dark-brown-haired, green-eyed dynamo was simply our best player and he needed to be more active—or we’d be County Day’s next blow out victim.
“Nate, you know they’re looking to embarrass us, right?” I reminded him in front of his teammates after County Day called a time-out to set up a play. “They wanna push this to thirty if they can—that’s why they called the time-out.”
“I know, coach.” He nodded as he tried to catch his breath with his hair nearly in his eyes from the sweat. “But they’re not letting me touch the ball.”
“You can’t stand around hoping for the ball, Nate.” I scolded. “If they’re gonna deny you the ball and take away your offense, you need to step it up on the defensive end. Their point guard doesn’t have a left hand, so you need to guard his right hand and force him to use his left. If you do, you’re gonna get your hands on the ball. When you get the steal, you need to attack the basket, alright? If you’re aggressive, they’ll foul you…that way, we can stop the clock—time isn’t on our side right now.”
“Got it, Coach.” Nate nodded; his eyes locked on mine.
“If you can’t be aggressive on offense—you MUST be aggressive on defense. If you do that, I promise you it’ll feed your offense.” I told him as the buzzer sounded to indicate our time out expired. “Guard his strong hand. Force him to his weak hand. Steal the ball.”
He shook his head in understanding as he toweled his head dry and walked back onto the court.
“Attack the basket! Don’t let them smell the tomato sauce!” I reminded the team as they walked out back onto the court.
Nate pumped his fist in acknowledgment and barked at his teammates as they got into their defensive positions. Being told what to do and actually executing my vision were two entirely different things, but Nate went on to do exactly that and more. He stole the ball and then hit a wide open three-pointer. On the ensuing inbounds play, he stole the ball again, drove to the basket, scored, and was fouled on the play. After he hit the free-throw and completed the three-point play, he stole the ball again from the dribbler and found a wide-open teammate who connected for two more points. With one-minute left in the game we now trailed 42-40, but we fouled a County Day player on the next play. After their player made one of two free throws, we trailed by three points with less than a minute remaining. Without blinking an eye, Nate came right down and hit a BIG three-pointer that tied the score at 43 all. His crucial shot rocked the entire gym—the crowd exploded with excitement. It even brought Pastor Farely out of his seat as he ran down the baseline slapping the hands of kids in the stands. Nate’s shot forced County Day to call a time out to draw up a play for a chance to win the game. On the ensuing play after the time-out, with just seven seconds left to play, we again fouled a County Day player. After they hit one of their two free throws, and now down by just one point, I called a timeout to draw up a play to win the game. I thought they would expect Nate to take the final shot, so I set up the play for a player they didn’t expect to take the shot. County Day was ready for it though, but Nate alertly recognized the player wasn’t open, and instead took the ball to the basket. Although he missed the shot, he was fouled with no time left on the clock. As he came to the free throw line with a chance to not only tie, but win the game, the crowd roared—the gym was electric. After he took the ball from the referee and looked to find his rhythm before he took the free throw, the coach of County Day called a timeout to freeze and throw him off. As the crowd booed County Day’s strategic move, I tried to downplay the significance of the moment.
“How you feelin’?” I asked Nate as I put my hand on his shoulder.
“Nervous.” He confessed as sweat fell down the side of his face.
“So, you’re human after all, huh?” I joked.
He nodded and smiled as his teammates laughed and surrounded him with words of encouragement.
“I used to get nervous when I played too, but you know what I did? I pretended I was just shooting around out on the playground all by myself. I worried about my form more than my shot. I knew if I bend my knees and felt the ball off my fingertips with my follow through, that nine out of ten times that ball was going in. I even pictured the ball going through the net before I took a shot.” I told him as the buzzer sounded to end our time-out. “Don’t think about the shot, just concentrate on your form. If your form is good, that ball will always have a chance of going in. Don’t put more pressure on yourself than there needs to be. At the end of the day, it’s just a game, Nate. Some people just get paid to play it.”
“Yeah Coach…but the pizza party though.” He replied as he wiped the sweat off his forehead.
“Yeah, well…it’s still only a game.” I said as I patted him on the back before he walked back onto the court.
The entire gym stood in silent anticipation of Nate hitting both free throws to put an end to County Day’s dominating run over the school for the last twenty years, their own perfect season, and their hopes for a pizza party that only existed in my mind. When the ref handed him the ball, I looked over at the coach of County Day who also stood in silence with his arms folded across his chest. He then turned his back to Nate and began to pace the sideline—unable to watch himself.
Nate took a few dribbles to find his rhythm, bent his knees and put the ball up high—his form was immaculate. That bright orange Spalding basketball then bounced on the rim twice before it landed back onto the floor without going through the net. Although the gymnasium groaned, the missed free throw was not the end of the world—we could send the game to overtime if he made the second free throw.
When Nate took his second shot, his form looked even better and he held his follow through to perfection. The ball then bounced softly on the rim before it fell off without going in the net for a second time. The game was over—County Day had beaten Lutheran Christ School yet again and took over first place.
When the ball failed to bounce our way, the disappointment I felt wasn’t because we lost the game, but for Nate when I saw his shoulders slump and his head drop. His teammates tried to cheer him up, but he had his head in his hands, unable to take in the scene that unfolded around him. While the County Day players jumped around jubilantly and our fans piled out of the gymnasium, he refused to leave the free throw line. His teammates respectfully then began to walk back to the bench with their heads and eyes on the floor. As they walked away from Nate, I knew why he was terrified to leave the free throw line—he didn’t want anyone to see his tears. On my way over to him, I told my players to hold their heads high and to form a line to shake hands with the County Day players. When I arrived at the free throw stripe, he was sobbing heavily but quietly with his head in his hands. I draped my arm over his shoulder and slowly walked him back to the bench where the rest of the team waited along with Pastor Farely. When I saw that the Pastor took an active role in the sportsmanship line with County Day, I stopped to talk with him before we reached the bench. There were still people in the stands who were concerned about Nate—not knowing if they should cheer or leave. Even though he missed the free throws, he deserved his moment in front of his witnesses. Before I spoke, I recalled all the sports trophies I had won over the years that were now in a box somewhere in the garage at my parents’ house—insignificant and forgotten. Nate then swiped at his eyes as he continued to sob, unable to speak, still shaken up by what transpired. I didn’t know the right words to say that could make sense of the trauma he just experienced—I just knew I couldn’t remain silent.
“Hey, Nate…we lose as a team and we win as a team. You did not in any way, in any way, lose this game for us. We wouldn’t have even been in a position to have a chance to win this game without you—we would’ve lost by fifty.” I said as he slowly peered up at me. “I know this sounds crazy right now, but one day you’ll forget all about this game. Your form was perfect on both those free throws and nine times out of ten those go through the net, but that’s life…it’s unfair, Nate—sometimes things don’t go the way they should. Like I told you before you went to the line—it’s just a game. Sometimes free throws will fall through the net, and sometimes they won’t, but it’s how we handle things when the free throws bounce off the rim—to make sure we can take those shots again someday. I’m super proud of you. You hit big shots all game long and you gave County Day a run for their money today all by yourself. And that’s a team with a potential NBA player or two over there—that’s no small feat. Believe me, you taught those kids a lesson today—from now on they’ll think twice about underestimating anybody else they play. When you walk out of this gym, you have no reason to hang your head—you got that?”
He looked at me, wiped his eyes, and nodded as his sobbing halted to a dry heave.
“Oh, and by the way.” I then leaned into his ear. “The County Day coach never called me—I made up the pizza party story. Don’t tell anyone.”
“What? Coach? You made that up?”
“Good game, Nate!” I shouted out to everyone still in the gymnasium. I then grabbed Nate’s arm, and raised it to the air like a prize fighter, and started to clap as we walked back to the bench together.
His teammates and the thirty people still inside the gym then began to applaud and cheer him—even the County Day side. When we arrived at the bench, Pastor Farely patted him on the back and then brought the entire team in to start a group prayer. After the prayer, one in which I chose not to participate in, Pastor Farely approached me, shook my hand, and thanked me for taking on coaching duties at the school. He also promised me there would be a continued crowd presence at our home games from this point on. After we talked briefly, the coach of County Day then stood before me.
“I probably shouldn’t say this because I’ve known Phil for years, but you’re the best coach this school has ever had. You did an excellent job today and made all the right calls—very impressive.” He said as we shook hands. “I look forward to playing against your teams for many years to come.”
As I thanked him for the kind words, I also felt obligated to tell him about the fabricated pizza party, but decided not to give him the secret to my coaching success. After we finished the season in third place, the highest the school’s basketball team ever finished, I was asked to coach the next season as well—by Pastor Farely. Even though I took on the extra responsibility of running the KinderCare program and dealt with the stress of a full-time university class schedule, I couldn’t tell him no. Although we finished second to County Day the following year, we finally beat them, and with much less drama at the end of the game.