My Greatest Teacher

Sandboxes and Lines Crossed

pen & ink by J. Annie McDonnell

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My world in 1971 was still run by a crew-cut basketball coach who wanted me to play his game, not the one on the court, but his “my way or the highway” game, the power play of control, his dress code that stood firmly against any rebellion (of appearances) or breaking of his rules, all that “peace, love, and nonsense shit they saw on TV,” even the passive resistance of growing one's hair longer than Papa Bear. There would be no protests or displays of self expression, no crossing the line. If you wanted to play ball “for him” you would do-as-you-were-told because he could do-whatever-he-wanted (that kind of unquestioned authority American cops have had until now, maybe) “the final say” given to him by the administration. Yes, that was my old pal, Mr. K.

He had a long history of “breaking the colts” before I showed up. My older brother played for him, everybody's brothers played for him. He'd been in his comfort zone, “the Mr. K Show,” for over a decade when I entered his world. We'd all heard tons of stories about how he'd screwed over our big brothers long before we became his players in high school. But if you wanted to play ball or any sport (he coached them all) he was the only game in town.

He was undoubtedly my greatest teacher. I learned early on that the world was not fair. A liar, a cheat, a tease and a flirt, Trump had nothing on this guy when it came to bad behavior. He held the power and used it to benefit himself. He was an asshole and a bully, but he was also a big kid—funny and mean. He could be a sweetheart, too. Human beings are complicated animals. He wanted you to be his friend so he could take you in and in the end do whatever he pleased. If you played his game, kissed his ass, you might do fine, but if you resisted his absurd antics to any degree, he made you pay.

In the spring of my Freshman year we played softball for P.E. We chose up teams and Mr. K, of course, acted as the umpire. That meant the show was behind home plate. I was up to bat, and the first pitch was behind me. Strike one! He hollers out, and I forgot to mention if we struck out, we had to run five laps around the football field. The next pitch bounced in front of the plate. Strike two! The umpire yells with glee. So I could see I was going to strike out unless I hit the ball. I told him I wasn't going to run his laps if he called me out. He grinned and giggled. The next pitch was lobbed so high over head when jumped I couldn't tag a piece of it. Strike three! Take your laps! No, I said, you cheated! He kept telling me to run my laps while I stood in the outfield. As the standoff, the game, continued, the clock ticked toward the end of the period, and he kept warning me that I was running out of time. We didn't speak on the walk back across the tracks to the school. After I showered and was waiting for the bell to let us go onto English or study hall, he called me into his office. “You'll have to run those laps to pass this class,” he said. I told him I wouldn't, that it wasn't fair. The bell rang and I left. He gave me the cold shoulder, the freeze out, for the rest of the quarter. There were only three weeks of classes left, but he was the track coach, too. So after school I was faced with the same choice, run the laps or go home. So I quit track. He taught me how to stand up for myself, not how to cut off my nose to spite my face but how to make a conscious decision to oppose injustice and accept the consequences, make the hard decision to deny myself the joy of playing the game.

I got an F for a grade that quarter. Paired with the A from the previous quarter, I received a C for P.E. that semester. My parents wanted to know how in the Hell I could flunk P.E. I told them and asked them not to do anything about it, to let it go because I (so desperately) wanted to play football the next fall, and of course Coach K held the locker room keys.

My Freshman year I let him entertain the class by beating on me. He carried a meter stick or a pointer, either one he used as riding crop or a sword. He could approach from any direction while you were in your desk, maybe jab you in the ribs or whack your head, and as you grabbed at the wound he'd attack an exposed zone. Shins were a delight for him. He wore cowboy boots, so when he kicked your shins, and you tried to protect them, your head became his target. Back and forth, head and shins, head and shins, fake, shins, head, fake, shins, shins, fake head, kick, you get the drift—the class would roar. I was young and thought of it as an initiation, something I needed to do, so I did for awhile.

I remember one time after an evening bath, I sat down in the living room in my shorts to watch Johnny Carson with my mom. She saw my black and blue shins, ankle to knee, and asked me if “those god-awful shins were from football.” Without really thinking about it, I told her that Mr. K kicked me in the shins everyday in class. Of course she was horrified and determined to go to the school and take care of that. I pleaded with her not to do it, to let me take care of it, so she grudgingly relinquished that task to me.

Fast forward through my Sophomore year when I became a mainstay on his teams, starting both ways in football, and being a starter on the his basketball team that won the district championship. I guess the summer had helped him forget my P.E. treachery. That year he had backed off on the classroom beatings. I was now his size. My hair was longer. I wore my own boots, and had no patience for his attention-seeking shit. I thought our relationship had evolved, figuring he wanted me happily on his team, but guys like Coach K and Trump can't stop themselves. They desperately need to be the center of attention and the top dog, so I was caught off guard by his surprise attack, his bizarre need to assert his authority.

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Panthers

*

Maybe it was the full size

Nazi flag I wore to school

like a cape, a memento

my father brought home from the world war

to remind us never to forget.

Or it could have been I wanted a shotgun

blast like the one in Easy Rider –

flipping the bird in the mouth of death.

God knows Vietnam showed us

(each night before dinner) war cannot be won.

Yet I was my father’s son.

*

As a Freshman I kept the code

of silence, endured the meter stick

beatings, the cowboy boot kicks

to my shins by the sadistic coach

masquerading as an algebra teacher.

By 1969 I was one of his Panthers –

the revolution was a foregone conclusion.

I needed to stand up,

let this son-of-a-bitch know –

no one, no bully, no military prick

of a piss ant coach could hide

behind the skirts of adolescent soldiers.

*

Taking a test in his Driver’s Ed

class (Coach held the keys to our mobility

too) my head down in some yield

right of way question, Satan

with a dick got a firm pinch-grip

on the hair at the nape of my neck,

pulled me to my feet and ran me headlong

into a wall. The class roared

when I thumped the sheet rock – a flailing

bug, his latest jock clown.

*

The fucker grinned, winked, and bowed.

I heard drums, saw the fires burning.

He was trapped in the play he’d designed.

I chased and cornered his eyes

with mine, whispered through clenched teeth,

“If you ever touch me again,

I’m gonna nail you in the fuckin’ face.”

*

I walked back to my desk and finished

the test. That first victory set the stage

for war. I guess we were destined to be –

my old coach, Dennis Hopper,

my father, and me – a brotherhood

of leather and sweat and blood.

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It was inevitable that eventually this conflict would come to a head either on the court or the football field. There are lines in the sand that once crossed can't be uncrossed. We have to be able to live with ourselves, to look in the mirror, and into the eyes of those we love. There are places we cannot return from. Unfortunately sometimes there are good reasons to go to war. And as my Old Man used to tell me (all the goddamn time) “Take inventory on yourself because you can shit me all you want to, but you can't shit yourself.”

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War Dogs

*

One biting October afternoon

the coaches ordered us

to smear goofy Edgar for

dogging it on a kickoff drill, teach

a lesson we’d never forget. They made him

hold two footballs, blew their whistles

& grinned. Twenty guys hit Ed

at once. I watched him go down.

The pigskins popped loose, wobbled

on the ground. Edgar’s knee bent back the wrong way.

The coach screamed, “Get up & do it again!”

Ed moaned & rolled on the turf.

*

The song, For What It’s Worth, pounded inside:

there’s somethin’ happenin’ here.

Call it mutiny. Call it treason.

What it is ain’t exactly clear.

I picked up the footballs, took Edgar’s place,

curse-spit on the coaches’ military bullshit,

called them pussies & fuckin’ Nazis.

*

When the crimson-faced coach blew his whistle,

I threw the balls high in the air,

drove my fists, my helmet into the reluctant

pie-eyed rush. Going down

I grunted & heaved, grabbed masks,

kneed, elbowed & punched,

raked my cleats across the shins

of my friends. They looked lost, dazed

by my wolverine rage.

Did they discover my secret,

bittersweet truth that day:

that I wanted to kill them,

punish them for their weakness?

*

Nobody’s right if everybody’s wrong,

but if everybody’s right, nobody’s wrong.

We are the heroes of our own bloody dreams,

strutting the dark night like wolverines,

rooting out & pissing on the enemies

we need to let slip our dogs of war. We love

to do it, to settle the score. It’s what we

do that we don’t understand . . .

and it’s time we stop.

Children what’s that sound?

Everybody look what’s goin’ down.

*

– for Stephen Stills