Sans Fig Leaf

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"Unexpected lesson"

16 October, 2003

My father was a state champion wrestler when he was in high school. The man who had been his coach was my junior high wrestling coach. At the end of my second season on the junior high wrestling team, Coach took me aside and said, "I know the only reason you went out for wrestling is to make your dad happy. It's also clear that your heart just isn't into it. I want to help you keep your dad happy, so here's my proposal, I'd like to take you up to the high school weight room a few times a week, and see if we can bulk you up a bit. We'll work on some other things, to try to make up in skill what you lack in instinct."

The plan was only a partial success. The only muscles on my body that seemed to be amenable to "bulking up" where my calves and thighs. I got stronger in the upper body, but not anywhere near as much as the legs. Coach was the one who suggested I should try track, and that proved to be a sport I could win in more frequently than not. But that wasn't the big lesson I got from this experience

The next year, when the dreaded President's Physical Fitness tests came around, I, once again, failed to climb the rope all the way to the top on the first try. But when I was about half way up and exhausted, Coach called to me to come down, because he thought he had figured out something.

So while some of the other kids were climbing, he said, "Once you've caught your breath, I want you to try again, but just let your legs hang loose."

I was very dubious. I suspect my expression implied I thought he was crazy, because Coach said, "I just want you to try it. I think you may be surprised."

So, a few minutes later I was at the rope again. I grabbed it and started pulling up. The next thing I knew, I was out of rope. I was at the top. I was tired, my arms were shaking, but I had made it. Coach called up to me to wrap my feet around the rope now, take a few seconds to rest, then slide down.

I did it. I was so shocked and exhilarated, I asked if I could have another go. It was just as easy and exciting the second time.

"I knew you could do it," Coach said. "We've discussed before that you have trouble coordinating your upper body movements with your lower body movements. When you tried climbing the usual way, your legs were pulling against your arms. You were fighting yourself. Since you've been working the weights, I knew you were strong enough to climb the rope, so I figured if we took the fight out, you'd make it."

Some people might have taken that simply to be a nice way of saying I was really uncoordinated, but I heard more than that: sometimes we're our own worst enemy. We can sabotage ourselves without even realizing it. Even when we place the blame squarely on ourselves, it's often for the wrong reasons. I assumed I couldn't climb the rope because I wasn't strong enough to pull myself all the way up. The real reason was my technique, not a lack of muscle.

I was too close to the problem to see what was happening. I thought I was moving my feet in just the way we had been shown. It took someone watching me to identify the problem. But it was more than just an identification that I needed. There had been plenty of times in my life when someone had watched me doing something and told me I was doing it wrong. The same Coach had made comments to me in previous years about my rope climbing technique.

What was new that year was a level of trust had developed between us. He had taken all that time out of his personal time to work with me. He had gone out of his way to keep most of the other kids from knowing that he was giving me extra help. I was much more willing to listen to him and try what he suggested than I had been. And he had a better understanding of my abilities, which probably helped him say it in a way I was more willing to hear.

I had always assumed that one reason Coach had gone to so much trouble for me was because he had been an under dog growing up. He had had polio when he was young, and needed the assistance of a leg brace to walk as an adult. His son was one of my classmates, and bore a strong facial resemblance to coach, but at fifteen years of age, the son stood over six feet tall, whereas Coach was only five foot two. But Coach could take students four times his weight out on the mat, and pin them in less than 20 seconds; and these were the kids who regularly took first place in their division at tournaments.

Many years later I found out that there may have been more to it than that. Out of the blue, I got a phone call from one of my other junior high teachers. The teacher had gotten my contact information from my grandparents. The teacher had called to apologize, or more specifically, to ask forgiveness. "There were several kids who were abused at home, and we knew it. But back then, you didn't talk about it. It wasn't considered proper for teachers to get involved. Now, if a teacher suspects something like that and doesn't say something, you can be charged with a crime, but back then you were just as likely to get sued by the parent and lose your job."

At the time, I had no clue that anyone knew what was going on, or if they did know, that any of them cared. Finding out that some of my teachers did know and care caused decidedly ambivalent feelings. On one level, I was touched to know that someone who hadn't seen me for decades felt the need to apologize for what happened. On another level, I thought it was a bit of an overreaction to bring it up now, so long afterward, when I had moved on and established a life of my own. Yet, at the same time, another part of me was upset to learn that there were people who knew and cared, but did nothing to help.

And on still another level, I knew that it was unreasonable to expect them to go outside what was accepted by society at the time. Because I could remember some of my fellow students coming to school with unexplained bruises. I remember one of the teachers who showed up one day with a horrific black eye (and other marks) who kept making jokes about how clumsy she was to hit herself with a door. We all knew that no door had left those bruises, but we also knew we were expected to pretend that nothing was wrong.

I don't really remember what I said to this former teacher in response to the plea for forgiveness. Something along the lines of how I had survived and had gone on to live a good life. That I was grateful to have survived and moved beyond it. And I was grateful that some of my teachers, while not riding in like the cavalry to save the day, had done what they felt they could. Many of them had gone out of their way to encourage me in my varied interests.

We eventually ended the conversation. For a while I just sat there and thought about all the people I knew back then, teachers and students. And that got me thinking about Coach. I had to wonder if part of the reason he had gone to so much trouble for me was because he was trying to shield me from my dad. Since I remember his clear reference to keeping my dad happy, it doesn't seem an unreasonable conclusion. As I was thinking about that, I remembered a particular moment I hadn't thought of in all those years.

Near the end of my final year in junior high, there was an assembly where, among other things, the letters were handed out for sports achievement. Back then, the only way to get a letter for a letterman's jacket was to go out for sports. And not just go out, mind you. Completing a season wasn't enough. You earned points for each event you participated in, but you also earned points for ribbons you won, or trophies you contributed to. If you earned enough points in a single sport, you got a little brass emblem of that sport to attach to the letter. If you didn't earn enough points in a particular season to letter, even in aggragate, some of the point (but not all) carried over to the next year.

I had been on several teams, but I hadn't lettered the two previous years. I knew, however, that because of that carry-over thing, I had finally managed to earn enough points to letter in wrestling. So I knew I was going to be called up and handed my letter and emblem. Coach was calling guys up one at a time. Some of them he shook their hands and gave them their letter. A few of the guys he hugged.

When my name was called, I walked up and reached out my right hand, expecting to be one of the guys who just got a handshake. So the rather intense bear hug was a bit of a surprise.

Okay, it was more than a surprise, it was a total shock. So much so, that I mumbled an embarassed "thanks" and slipped off the stage as quickly as I could. It wasn't until afterwards that it sunk in that Coach had quietly said, "I'm proud of you," during the hug. Maybe he said it to all guys, but it sure sounded like he meant it.

I have, more than once, taken a little guff from acquaintances in the fan and gay communities when they learn about my brief sojourn in the world of the jocks. Since I was also a band geek and a drama nerd (and several other kinds of freak), I understand why feelings of animosity toward that crowd can hang on for years after we leave school.

I have to admit that I wouldn't have done as much in the realm of sports as I did if I hadn't had Coach in my life at the time. I certainly wouldn't have accrued enough "points" to letter in one of the sports. He's the reason I have hung on to that silly letter all these years. Not so much because of any lingering affection for the sport. Mostly it's because of that day at the rope, when he showed me that I could accomplish something I thought was impossible, if I don't hold myself back.