The impact of six simple words

I don’t think you can really hate someone in sports like you hate an opponent that is evenly matched against you. Ryan Palmer was my nemesis in high school. When we beat Albert Lea in football for the first time ever my senior year, I took great joy in reading his whining in their student newspaper. In wrestling, we seemed to take turns beating each other. Each one of those wrestling matches was a knock-down, drag-out battle in which the fans could sense how much we disliked each other.

Sometimes I came out on top, like in a home match where I was sick with the flu and trailing late in the third period before grasping him in a bear hug, tripping him backward, and pinning him with less than 30 seconds in the match. Other times I was not so fortunate, such as the Faribault tournament where I lost by one point on a dubious stalling call. The rage I felt at what seemed to be an unfair call followed me into the locker room where I expressed my anger by attempting to destroy everything in my path. I threw my headgear, slammed lockers, kicked over chairs, bellered obscenities, and bloodied my knuckles on the grates of the lockers. Only one thing could stop my destruction.

My dad walking into that locker room.

It was like someone sucked all the air out of that room. I could tell by the look on his face that what I thought was private ranting was heard by everyone in the gym, including my parents near the top of the bleachers. He didn’t speak immediately, which was worse than if he would have simply yelled. My father never really yelled. He was slow to anger but frightening when he was pushed to the breaking point. I was tormented for those 10 seconds that felt like hours as he stared at me, disappointed. He only said one thing before turning and walking out of that locker room.

“Son, you need to grow up.”

I stood there in stunned silence and embarrassment. Silent because my father never interfered with sports. The idea of my parents ever even talking to a coach was unheard of and complaining about playing time or positions would have certainly earned a spot on the bench. Embarrassed because what I thought was my private fit of rage turned out to not be so private.

But my embarrassment went much further than that. In that moment I realized that my babyish behavior felt as bad as, if not worse than, the whining of my nemesis. While he whined in the school paper, I was whining out loud, in public. Furthermore, I came to the conclusion that my actions are bigger than myself. Not only did I embarrass myself, but my actions also reflected poorly on my family, friends, and community. I was the very thing I despised: A whiner. In that moment I resolved to never embarrass myself or my parents in that way again.

Sometimes I think my father wonders whether his stint in the Navy and 37 years as a letter carrier for the United States Postal Service impacted anyone, let alone his family. The man who took all of us kids camping every summer and every MEA break “up north.” The man who preached conservation and ecology (recycling) way before it became a common practice. The man who always found time to play catch with a football or baseball in the backyard, even after walking all day delivering mail. The man who knew when I was going overboard and could let me know it with six words that sent a shock through my system.

My father rarely ever yelled. On that day he didn’t need to. His calm, measured, disappointed six words screamed through my head and brought the sickening revelation of extreme embarrassment to the pit of my stomach.

Of course there were disappointments in life after that, but I never reacted in the same way again. Six simple words taught me a lesson I have never forgotten.

An ode to the linemen

One of the most influential books I read growing up was Football Dreams by David Guy. It is a coming-of-age story in which the main character, Dan Keith, must overcome the death of his father and the realization that he would be playing football on the line while other people get to play in the “glory” positions like running back or quarterback. In particular, there is a crucial scene in a big game where Dan has the opportunity to make a huge block that will spring his running back for the score — the same running back who stabbed him in the back, got the girl, and was constantly fawned over for his athletic ability.

In this dramatic moment that is written in a marvelous slow-motion and detailed way, all of these things run through Dan’s mind. Why should he continue to do the dirty work while others get the credit? All of the past transgressions run through Dan’s mind before he knocks the defender on his ass and the crowd roars in approval. Not for the block, but for the excellent cut the running back made before scoring the touchdown.

It is a juvenile book that is a bit overwrought and I loved every page.

I had my own Dan Keith moment as a junior in high school. The school year had just started and my good friend Eric Leonhart and I both had a goal to crack the varsity starting lineup in football. We lifted weights all summer and were ready once camp started, Eric earning a starting role while I was splitting time at nose guard with a senior. We were proud of our accomplishments and walked down the hallways with an air of confidence. At least I did until Jennifer Grubish, one of our football cheerleaders, asked me if I was going to the football game Friday night.

Honestly, I was struck speechless. I think I stammered out an “Uh, yeah,” but I think Fer (not Jenni) could tell by the look on my face that something was amiss. When the shock that no one knew I was going to be playing on that varsity field subsided and my wits returned, I told her that I would be there on the sidelines, in uniform, you know, playing the game. Somewhat embarrassed, she said that she would see me there and hurried away.

It was that moment when I realized playing high school football was not going to instantly transform me into the stud of the school, especially as a lineman. Kenny Chesney singing about being “The kings of the school, man, we’re the boys of fall” was full of shit, at least in my school in 1989. While the dream of being a running back died slowly, it was replaced by the thrill of the workmanlike precision of the line, operating as a unit in an intricate dance designed to overpower the opponent with better blocking angles or simply putting more people at the point of attack. The thrill of blindsiding an opponent on a trap, kicking out an end, or steamrolling a cornerback on a sweep became a source of pride.

That pride and craftsman mentality was cultivated by our line coach Mr. Ed Draheim. He was a phy ed teacher at our school, so of course we called him “Physical Eddie,” but not on the football field. There, he was simply coach. Eric and I would grin at each other during our pregame chats in our position group because coach would pump us up by laying the weight of the world on our shoulders.

“It all starts with us on the line,” he would say in such an intense way that you would have thought we were on a mission to save the country from foreign invaders.

But what really established that sense of pride was during practice. After working our tails off pounding on dummies and each other, we were always the last group to return to the rest of the team. And it was at this moment coach would say, loud enough for the quarterbacks and running backs to hear, “Jog it over with the touch boys.”

This simple line might not seem like much to the casual observer, but to us it meant everything. It validated the fact that we worked hard and hit every day while our precious “skill” positions were too valuable and delicate to take the pounding we dished out and received continuously. It oozed just the right amount of sarcasm. Whether our running backs and quarterbacks knew that shade was being thrown on them or not, it didn’t matter. We knew. Coach knew what he was doing and we would do anything for him and for the team. It didn’t matter that we didn’t get our names in the paper and no one knew who we were. We played because we loved the game and we played for each other.

Head coach Jerry Peterson also played into this mentality during practice when he stated, “You know, we put our worst athlete at quarterback.” I don’t think there have ever been bigger grins on our line’s faces than that day.

One of my former high school football teammates posted a story on Facebook that said offensive linemen are the best humans on earth for the simple fact that they do the dirty work while others receive the credit. No one (outside of maybe a line coach) keeps track of the awesome blocks a lineman makes. Instead, teams tally yards and touchdowns for a select few. This selfless devotion earns the linemen little in the way of appreciation outside of the people who actually know what is going on. But it is that work ethic and lack of concern for taking credit that makes linemen who they are: The kind of people who are dependable, selfless, and willing to do their part for the success of the whole.

Relevant and meaningful schools? Here's one idea.

As an educator, it can be infuriating to read the “What they SHOULD have taught me in high school” memes. You know the ones where a disgruntled former student decries that they were not taught how to do taxes, change a tire on a car, take out a loan, or write a resume and cover letter. The frustrating part of this is the fact that literally all of these things are taught at our high school in a variety of classes. A former classmate from Owatonna even had the gall to post some variation of this meme on Facebook, prompting a challenge from me. Other classmates chimed in, describing how all of those things were taught, but it was up to us to actually learn them. The classmate who originally posted it said she just liked the meme.

Thanks. Thanks a lot for perpetuating the tired idea that our schools don’t really teach anything of value or substance for, you know, real life.

So I was quick to feel my blood pressure rise when a class began to lament how school wasn’t really teaching them anything of value like how to do their taxes, change a tire, or write a resume. I calmly corrected them and informed them that they could learn all of these things in classes offered right here in their school. They knew all that, but said it was difficult to fit all of those different classes into their schedule in order to get all of the things students need to know as they head out into the world after high school.

That really stuck with me. Despite our best efforts to provide important skills to our students, they were not able to learn all of them because of the problem of fitting everything into their schedules along with all of the other requirements. The answer, they said, was to offer a class called “Life.”

To be honest, I do think they were regurgitating some form of this meme that they had seen. However, the idea does have some merit. I decided to brainstorm skills that they would like to learn if we were to offer this “Life Skills” class and my students did not disappoint. Here is the list we came up with:

• Basic auto maintenance, such as how to check fluids, change oil, check tire pressure, and change a flat tire
• How to sew on a button or fix a zipper
• Taxes and finance, such as how to do their taxes, how to take out a loan for a car or house, and how much it would cost them over the life of the loa
• How to write a resume, cover letter, and interview for a job
• How to perform CPR, and perhaps become a certified First Responder
• Survival skills, such as how to start a fire without any “cheats”
• Etiquette in formal situations, such as fancy dining
• Winter survival like layering clothes and packing a survival kit for the car
• Etiquette while communicating via voice on the phone
• How to pay a parking or speeding ticket along with how to dispute it
• How to do laundry
• Perils of credit cards
• How to find low cost or free entertainment
• Self defense
• Firearm training

Again, our school does teach most of these to some extent, but they are in a wide variety of classes. The idea that these classes are available but not fully accessible is something that had not crossed my mind. Teaching this class would appeal to me, though I don’t think I would be great in all areas. Perhaps students would take this class for a semester, rotating between teachers every 2-3 weeks to learn these skills. It is an idea that could work, would be a benefit to our students as they graduate from our school, and would show that we are responsive to their needs.

You know, all the things those memes and critics claim we do not do.