The Truth Doesn't Always Win: The Story of Parker S.

(Or--File This under the Category of “The Stories You’re Lucky to Hear”)

True lies are only those self-told. One says, “I’m going to get back in shape this week/month/year,” or “I’m going to stop cussing,” or “I’m going to do everything I can to get that job/promotion/girl/guy,” or “I’m going to stop lying to myself.”

But there are other lies. There are the blatant childlike “no I didn’t take the last cookie, mom” lies. There are the save your butt “I’ve been feeling under the weather/I’ve been busy” or “I didn’t see that you called” lies.

And then there are the lies we tell each other because we know the truth
doesn’t always win. And under this filing falls what will probably go down as one of my favorite coaching stories of all-time, the story of Parker S.

It was one of those seasons in which “everything went wrong.” Of course that is a lie, because it is impossible for everything to go wrong, and this soccer season was far from a season in which everything went wrong. But everything was definitely not right. And because everything was definitely not right, everything did go wrong…

(Note: If you don’t want to read about all of our injuries, just skip down to part where it says “Start Here”)

We lost our most skilled player in August when “the academy” decided it was not going to let its elite players play both high school and developmental league soccer anymore. So gone were the best players of Southern California. Many teams were affected. We, a team that desperately needed a player who could control the middle of the field, distribute, settle things down. So it goes…
A senior starter, and one of two third-year varsity players, decided during the offseason to mature, to turn the corner away from poor decisions. He was becoming the kid who finally got it. He was becoming what would have been another great story of a kid finding the right path. His attitude was positive, his attendance clean and punctual—winter had cleared, spring had arrived…but spring is not without rain and wind, and desert summer comes and overheats the passion, and so it withers and struggles to survive. The heat brings high temperatures and tempers, and so he decided to come late to a practice, and then another. And his quest to become captain was over, and as the heat rose in the Santa Ana winds, it thawed his fortitude, and he melted down, and received back-to-back-to-back red cards before we had even reached January, and so according to CIF rules, his season was over. And with him, for a while, he took the focus of the team. He was (and is) a great kid; fun, personable, but teenage moody, too—and his departure left waters unsettled. And with his departure was also the departure of our most dynamic player on the field. And with him he also took some of the focus of his younger brother, who was also on the team—a younger brother who would battle through injury the entire season, scrapped as much as we could ask, but as a forward never found the back of the net, including a few days ago when he found himself point blank, one-on-one with goalie three minutes into sudden death overtime, but fired his shot right at the keeper, and the game went on.
Another senior starter, and one of our captains, tore his MCL surfing, tried to play a couple games banged up, and then came clean and told us what had happened, had to sit out for a month plus, came back for a couple games at the end of the season at about 75% (but still good enough to be out there), and then had his season ended three games prematurely when he had his kidney lacerated in a collision with a goalie of an opposing team.
Another senior tore his ACL in our holiday tournament. He was the player who got in for a couple minutes a game, wasn’t very skilled, but was ferocious—a regular Rudy.
Our star junior sweeper, and our only captain until November, played the whole year on a bum hip he had injured in club season, and then played the last seven games on one ankle, and the last two games he couldn’t even play sweeper anymore, and in the last game he did not play the last three minutes of sudden death overtime, the three minutes in which Long Beach Millikan ended our season with a quick counter through his new stopper position.
Another senior sprained his ankle walking down a flight of stairs the day of our first playoff game, and so he was not able to fulfill his newly acquired late-season starting role for our two playoff games—just another senior who had to watch the final games from the bench in street clothes.
A sophomore starter sat out three games late with a hip injury.
A junior starter missed the first half of the season with a dislocated kneecap.
Our sophomore center midfielder and second leading scorer sat out seven games and played the rest of a season with a knee that dislocated three times, another knee with Osgood-Schlatter’s, lower back problems, and a torn ligament in his wrist that almost caused him not to play our last playoff game because the ref made us produce a doctor’s note 20 minutes before the game that cleared him to play with his cast, even though he had been doing it for two weeks prior.
In our last league game of the year, our freshman, who was now a starter, came down with an infection because of an emergency root canal, leaving us with three substitutes for the game.
A sophomore forward, who of course was now a starter at the end of the year, suffered a concussion in our next to last league game, sat out a game, came back in the playoffs, slide tackled a defender to cause our first goal, and sprained his ankle on the play, leaving us starting two forwards in our final game who were not forwards.
Somewhere in the middle of season when we were running out of sanity we were also running out of jerseys. We had a player end up wearing three different jersey numbers this season, and four different jersey numbers were worn by two different players. I changed our roster just about every game.
El Nino struck and caused us to get ready three times for a game that was only played once, and to not get ready for a game that was only played once.
My only playoff prediction after we scrapped to get in as a wildcard team is that there was no way we would play Servite in the opening round, because we played them last year. Because I knew that CIF’s rule was to not have the same two teams play each other in the first round in consecutive years. But I said that if we did end up by error playing Servite, it wouldn’t be on the road again like last year. Of course in the wildcard round of the playoffs we opened up on the road playing against Servite.
But not yet have I mentioned the story of Parker S. The story that in my pseudo-divine revelation, controlled the fate of our entire season. So it goes…

(Start Here)

It was game six of the season. We had four wins and only one loss, we were controlling the ball well, and our senior who got three red cards had not received his first yet. We felt we were back on the map, and back on the path that had led us to back-to-back CIF championships only three seasons earlier. The two seasons after that we had only produced a fifth and fourth place finish in league, and only one playoff game (a loss, of course, to Servite on the road). Back to this year…we were on the road to play Santa Monica for a night game. I remember telling Parker before the game, “Remember that story I told you about going on that date with the girl when my mind was completely elsewhere because of all the stuff that was going on in my family at the time, but how that was no excuse because my mind should have been on the date since other people never really know what you’re going through and you can’t expect them to know, and how a lot of times you only get one chance to do things? Well, I asked her to come to the game tonight even though she’s already dating another guy. I don’t know why I asked, why we even do things we know we shouldn’t, but I asked anyway. She said she would come, too, but unfortunately she can’t get off work soon enough to make it. But at least I asked, I guess.”
Now, it’s not like I wander about, telling my students/players about my social, or lack of social, life—but I did have a point one day when we as a team went to the weight room and I wanted to let the kids know that soccer/sports is their escape, and how you really do only get one chance to do a lot of things in life, whether it’s play a game, go on a job interview, or…go on a first date and either blow it or not blow it. And Parker, who I also have in my Senior AP Lit class, had already struck me as the kid who would understand the point of my tangential anecdotes. And for some reason that night I felt the need to tell him before the game that stubbornly I asked that Santa Monica girl to come, knowing fearfully that (1) she might actually show up, and (2) worse yet, she might show up with her boyfriend. All of this was not too long after the night I looked more like a patient telling my life story to a psychiatrist rather than a guy with momentum on a first date. Later, I would ask if there would be a second date when I already knew the answer. I was smitten over that girl. My God, her eyes, her poise, she was gorgeous and fun—why do he have to meet the people we fall for right away that have no interest in us? And then other times why do we have to be the ones fallen for and have to tell others, “I’m sorry, I don’t like you”? But for some reason, we stayed in touch, and I prolonged that self-told lie that I still might have a chance. I digress though…I most want to relate that I trusted telling Parker this story playfully…even then, I remember thinking it odd I mentioned it. But the point is, I still had to ask.

Now let me tell you about Parker—he listens. In his generation…check that, in any generation, this is a rarity. The kid actually listens. You can see him nodding during lectures, reassuring you that at least one person is paying attention. And you know he listens because he puts into practice what he’s told. I begged my AP Lit seniors to do their senior projects for their sake, and not mine. And Parker did. He had to miss a couple practices to head to Orange County to do stem-cell research on rats. He would come back with a genuine interest on the topic and a lengthy and graphic description of the procedures he observed. I remember a funny moment when he nervously told me he really didn’t have any documentation to show for his work and I amusedly told him, “You already did, Parker.” As far as soccer goes, he’s athletic enough to make the coaching staff reconsider whether or not we made the right decision having him on the JV as a junior. In retrospect, it was the wrong decision. Because he is so genuine, ethically intelligent, and fit enough to support his mind, he would have absorbed us like sponge. So we could count ourselves lucky that we at least got to work with him during the summer, the fall, and then during the season in which everything went wrong. And in my estimation, the season took a turn for the worse December 17th, the night of the Santa Monica game, the night we temporarily lost the life support of our team.

Actually, that night is not so dramatic, unless you count what’s already been said as dramatic. I just think, “So it goes.” And so it went with Parker that night, which also was the same night our other senior received his first of three back-to-back-to-back red cards. He got it with about four or five minutes left in the game with us holding onto a 1-0 lead. Playing a man down, we would give up a goal on a corner kick with no time left and end the game with in 1-1 tie—not the result we desired. But this all happened after what I felt was the seismic shift in the season—Parker’s broken collarbone. It happened about midway through the first half on what looked like a harmless foul. He was tripped from behind while taking a defender on. He was going with speed through the defense, just like we had been begging our forwards to do ALL of last season and they rarely did, the season we had Parker on the JV team…
(It hurts most when the kids get hurt doing something we ask them to do. Like when Jason lacerated his kidney challenging the goalie. Frankly, Jason shouldn’t have challenged on that particular play, because it was clear the goalie would get the ball, but then again, you never know, he might drop the ball. And that’s what we tell the kids, “You never know, so go for it.” And Jason did, and so it goes. And so Parker went down that night onto his collarbone.)
When Parker made it back to the bench, he was in too much pain. Some futbol players are dramatic, Parker is not. The way he did and did not move was not good…he was in too much pain. I tried to play doctor…I couldn’t feel that his collarbone was broken, but I had no idea. I’m not a not a doctor. Things did look a little out of place, but I tried to remain optimistic. Plus I had to coach the game, so all I could really offer him was an ice pack and a “hang in there, it’s going to be okay.” What else can you do when there is not a trainer around? The frickin’ kid didn’t want to leave though and go get x-rayed. That’s typical for this kind of story. And I knew it was “this kind of story” because he’s tough, but he wasn’t moving well. And so I had to tell one of those lies, “I’m guessing that you just sprained your shoulder a little bit, or maybe you popped it in and out. You’ll probably be fine in a few days.” Also typical of this kind of story is the follow up phone call when you hear, “Coach, I have a broken collarbone.” And then as so often happens, that moment hovers for just a trice longer than most moments. And again, what does one say? “I’m sorry”? That’s about as good as it gets in those frozen moments…those moments when Snowden spills his secret all over this God-forsaken world—the secret that man is just matter. But the other part to that secret is that man is just matter without the spirit. And for the love of everything Holy, Parker S. has as much Spirit as the Lord Himself as far as I’m concerned. Because when I wake up, I am thankful for the Parkers in our lives just as I am thankful for the Lord, because within the Parkers I see the greatness of God.
And it was after this frozen moment on the phone when Parker gracefully/full-of-Spirit/maturely/lots of other adverbs said, “Coach, I guess it’s okay though, because I also found out today that I got into Santa Clara…so I guess it all equals out in the end.” As I type this, I have to pause and not faucet tears over my keyboard, just as I had to pause on that phone call, get myself together, and not cry and try to come up with some response for the high schooler who had greater perspective than I. “Well,” I awkwardly paused, “I don’t know if that really equals out, but I admire you for thinking so.” Perhaps it was one of those moments when I should have told one of those lies like, “Yes, it does all equal out, you’re right.” But that wasn’t right. His getting into a school he applied to and deserved to get in to does not equal out his having to miss his senior year with a broken collarbone. Maybe if he broke it snowboarding (I don’t believe that either), but not breaking it doing something we begged our forwards to do. There is no fairness in that. It is just the way it is. So to try to find fairness, I told Parker he had to do everything possible to try to make it back by the end of the year. His doctor told him because of the complexity of his fracture, he wouldn’t be fully healed and ready to go till mid-March, but I didn’t think that was good enough. I told him he could do acupuncture and visualize himself being healthy and eat well and sleep well and be ready for the playoffs. Of course, by the time we would reach the playoffs, he would be so far behind everyone in fitness and touch, he probably wouldn’t see the field. Of course, little did I know how many injuries would follow his…

It is now February 9th, the night of our next-to-last game of league against West Torrance, the number three team in CIF, the number one team in our league. They have only lost once all year, have only tied twice. We don our black jerseys for the first time all year, play an awesome game, and end up with a 0-0 tie. It is a momentum swinger for our team which has suffered through an emotional rollercoaster of a season—so many injuries, so many close calls, so much off-the-field-unanticipated drama…it is the season in which everything went wrong, but maybe something is on the horizon after this spirited performance. And apparently Parker’s mom is sitting in the stands wanting Parker to play, even though the doctor says “not yet.” I have no knowledge of this. But I do want Parker to see the field again. So I come up with the idea to start him in our final league game and take him out after the first play, just so he can be on the field again, because he deserves it. I ask Parker if he is okay with the idea. Some kids might not be—to go out there for the first play of the game knowing you’re not going to be involved and that you are going to come right out. A lot of kids wouldn’t go for that, but Parker does—he finds the ray of sunshine behind every cloud. And so I ask the opposing team’s coach, and he is more than happy to oblige thirty seconds of the game so Parker can get back out on the field. He is wearing jersey #13, the number of his fellow senior Faraz, our Rudy senior who tore his ACL. Parker’s number at the beginning of the season was #5, but we already had to give that number to the junior who came back from the dislocated knee because we ran out of jerseys. But it all seems fitting. And that week Parker has also been involved in some non-contact drills and looks pretty good. He is moving fast as he always does…unfortunately, he is not cleared to play…

A week after Parker’s injury we were talking during our holiday tournament and he told me, “Coach, I am going to work at my free kicks, so when I come back, I can take them and score.” I didn’t really have the heart to tell him that he’d have to be in the game to take the kick and that you can’t just sub someone in on a free kick, and so we worked late December through early February on his free kicks…

It is early February. I tell Parker to start working on his PK’s for the playoffs, because anyone on the roster can take a penalty kick if it comes to that, and I tell him he will be on the roster. I see the excited look…

It is last Tuesday. We are on the road at Servite in the wildcard round of the playoffs, the team that beat us soundly 3-0 last year at their home field—not as easy place to play. I am stunned the day before when I see the playoff draw. Servite has been ranked at the top of Division 1 for all of the preseason, going 11-1-2, but fell victim to their very dangerous Trinity League, going 3-6-1 in league, finishing fifth out of six teams. According to CIF rules, they are not eligible for a wildcard spot unless they finish fourth, like we did. Nevertheless, CIF shows its bias and allows them in the playoffs, and we have to travel out there for a second year in a row. If we manage to win that game, we travel to Long Beach Millikan to take on the number one team in CIF. With our injury decimated team, our prospects are not looking good. Early in the Servite game, one of our sophomore forwards slides to steal the ball from a Servite defender. He succeeds, and another sophomore, the one in the cast with the old man’s knees, takes the ball and scores. The sophomore who stole the ball is writhing on the ground in pain. He has sprained his ankle badly and he is done for the year, just like the senior who sprained his ankle earlier that same day on some stairs, just like our senior with the three red cards, just like our senior with the torn ACL who gave Parker his jersey, just like the senior with the lacerated kidney. The sophomore with the cast scores another goal and we go up 2-0, and we start subbing players every three minutes to keep them fresh so we can run out the clock for the final sixty minutes and hold onto our 2-0 lead, despite losing our junior sweeper in the same game with about fifty-five minutes to play. At one point in the second half, we actually consider putting Parker in the game for a couple minutes, but think better of it because of the physical nature of this game. We don’t want to put his health in risk…

It is after the game now, and everyone, coaches and players, are exhausted, everyone but Parker. Parker is full of energy, of course, and he comes up to us and says, “I’m ready to play. My doctor said I’m cleared as of next week, but I’m ready to go next game if you need me.” We tell him in our desperate state that if his parents send us an e-mail giving us clearance from liability to play him, we will let him go out there if we need him against Millikan. But it’s not about that. It’s not about that at all. We know how much his heart wants to be out there, and if his parents are okay with it, who are we to say no?

In December, my thought was that even if Parker did get cleared, he would not be ready to play…but this was before all the injuries.

It is December. Before I go to bed, I pray that Parker can make it back to play before our season runs out.

It is January. I go to St. Lawrence on my lunch break, my favorite place to go when the winter sun illuminates the stained glass windows as I am alone in the big cathedral, alone except for the echoes of my thoughts and for God in this place of no lies. I pray for Parker’s healing. I feel he deserves to heal just a little quicker than schedule so he can at least be eligible to play if we make the playoffs.

It is February. Parker is running around, moving quite well, asking to participate in drills. One, I wonder if we’ll make the playoffs. Two, how long will we be in them? Long enough for us to even consider playing him?

It is the cold nights of February. I fall asleep on the couch because the end of the season brings insomnia, my bedroom TV is broken, and TV is the only thing that puts me to sleep when I’m anxious (that or tequila, but I check the freezer and it’s out of stock). By the glow of the living room TV, the last light I see, I fall asleep before waking up at 1AM and move to my bed. I ask that Parker is allowed to make some contribution, some contribution that is most meaningful to him.

It is 1AM again on another night, and all I can come up with is getting him on the field against Mira Costa in our last regular season game. So it goes, I think…

It is right after the bus ride back from Orange County after our 2-1 win over Servite. It is the first time Coach and myself have had a conversation about life, relationships, religious, hypocrisy, the absurdism of the concept of fairness—with this win comes a feeling of redemption, that a burden has been lifted.

It is right after the bus ride when Parker tells us about his desire to play against Millikan, a longtime nemesis of ours. It is then that he tells us his mom wanted him to play against West. There is no doubt in my mind in an hour or two I will receive an e-mail from Parker’s mom telling us she gives us her blessing to play, they understand he could break his collarbone again, etc.

It is Thursday. We are about ten minutes into the game against Millikan, holding our own against the team that is 21-2-4, tops in our division, thinks they have our game plan all scouted out, has scored 70 goals on the year and given up 12. Parker gets the call to come into the game and jumps off the bench with a smile…he is more than ready.

And this is where the story ends, partially. I could describe his play in detail, I could talk about the moment when he fell on his shoulder, came up and was holding the same area where he had the broken collarbone and scared the heck out of me. I could talk about the game…man, what a game that was. It was the most fun I’ve had coaching a game ever, and I know part of it was because Parker was back in, he’s an energizer, the team feeds off his aura…a lot of it was because our entire team played their best game of the year. I think the story could/would end whether we won or lost the game…

It is the night before the Millikan game, and of course I’m battling insomnia. I’m worried about Parker. All I pray for is that he doesn’t break his collarbone again, but if he does, that it’s not excruciatingly painful for him. I also pray for us to play a good game, but Parker is really first on my mind.

It is about two and a half hours before the game. I feel like through these few days we’ve had in the playoffs, I’ve never been more relaxed. Perhaps it’s because we’re the underdog and we have nothing to lose. Perhaps it’s because we’ve already gone through so much already, I’m thinking “What else could possible happen?” Of course, that’s not a wise question to ponder in this everything went wrong season.

It is still about two and a half hours before the game. I am no longer relaxed. But this is typical for me. But when we get to the bus, and I see Parker ready, and I see the rest of the team laughing and having a good time, I feel content. It is one of those moments when the world seems right.

It is twenty minutes before the game starts. The ref informs us that our sophomore with the cast can’t play with a cast unless he has a clearance note from the doctor. I am no longer in that not-freaking-out zone I was talking about last paragraph.

It is two minutes before the game. The ref says he has received the clearance note on his Blackberry. I’m still not relaxed. It takes about two or three minutes of actual game play for me to settle down and start coaching again. Bruce, our head coach, is already cracking jokes. I feel good.

And so again, it is ten minutes into the game, and we’re holding our own, and Parker goes in. Again, I could end the story here. I’m sure you would like to read the lie that Parker went in and scored, or that we won the game and won CIF and Parker contributed to all these subsequent victories, or that we went to PKs in this game and Parker converted his penalty kick for the victory. Well, we were seven minutes away from penalty kicks in double-overtime, tied 0-0, and Parker may have converted his penalty kick for the victory had he have had the chance. I know he would have taken that chance and would have been mentally sound in such a stressful situation. But after playing 93 minutes of out-of-our-minds soccer, one freak play on which no one was really to blame and a quick counter, cross and beautiful volley into the back of the net later, Millikan was moving on to the next round of the playoffs after being dominated by a team most people had probably forgotten, including the people of our own school—the same people that had celebrated us grandly just a few years before when we brought back the school’s first CIF championship since reopening in 2002. Now in the next day’s newspaper we were just another underdog losing on the road 1-0. So it goes…but the people who were there saw the truth, so a team that had to wait 24 games before it could present its masterpiece, even without some key colors.

It is now five minutes after the game. Players are sitting on the bench and ground devastated. Some with tears, some with blank stares, some grimacing and shaking their heads. I choke back tears and tell the kids how proud of them I am, and how in sucks to dominate a game but lose 1-0 and how that reflects life, that sometimes you get the breaks and sometimes you don’t and there is really no rhyme or reason to it, etc, but as long as you keep trying hard, you will get some breaks.

It is ten minutes after the game. I am sitting next to Parker on the bench and I ask him if his parents were able to come and he said, “Of course.” He also tells me that his friend and his friend’s dad who have wanted to watch him play took off from work and school to come watch him play. I have to look the other way for a couple seconds to choke back some more tears. I tell him that getting to see him play today is why I coach, and it has made my season worthwhile, and that at the end of the day I can go home and sleep and be satisfied and wake up in the morning feeling good. Parker tells me, “That means a lot to me coach. Thank you.” I remember when I was eighteen. I wish I would have been poignant enough to say things like that to my teachers, my coaches, and especially my friends, and most especially, my parents.

It is the day after the game. I come back to my fifth period class after all the students are in there because I had to run some copies. When I walk in, Parker is sitting in my chair behind my desk. I think it’s odd, but I really don’t question him. He has my eternal trust.

Curiosity gets the best of me as it is now right after school and our soccer team is meeting in my classroom to vote on team awards. I see Parker in the parking lot so we walk together. I ask him, “Hey, not that I really care, but why were you sitting in my seat when I got to class?” He tells me he was looking at our CIF Championship banners (they are right behind my desk) from a few years back. I didn’t have time right then to be emotional about it then, but the tears come out as I type this right now…

But the story does not end here. Because if you listen to good stories, and I hope this is one and am pretty sure it is, you know that there has to be one more twist at the end, so here it is…

It is about an hour after the game. We’ve sent the seniors off the bus when we arrive back at PV and told the underclassmen to thank all of them for their service to the program. Everyone is in good spirits. It’s as if we all know we probably couldn’t have taken this season much farther. As one of the coaches of the team, I don’t know how much more we could put this team through or ask them to do. Many times I felt sick to my stomach knowing how many injuries happened under our watch. I worried if parents would start to resent us for sending their children into these battles—not just battles against other teams but battles against chronic pain. With such a young team, we were usually outsized, and I just wondered how many more injuries we’d sustain and how much damage it might do to our players playing hurt if we had to go another three games or so. I guess I’ll never know, but I don’t think I’ve slept more soundly than I have the last couple nights knowing that our players gave everything they had, dominated the best team in our division, and rode home happy on the bus after the initial end-of-the-season-on-a-quick-counter shock. Really in the end, that’s all I can ask for as a coach, that’s all any coach can really ask for—that our kids play hard, they play smart, and they try, and that they have fun.

So, two more things. The third time Parker came off the field, which was about midway through the second half, he had his huge smile on as he said, “Man, it’s fun out there. It’s a lot of fun.” In a sports world highlighted frequently by a lot of idiocy, glitz and glamour, idolization of amoral beings, etc., it’s a pleasure to see the Brett Favres of the world who go out there, smile, get their butts kicked, get up, smile some more, and go out and do it again. And it is the ultimate pleasure of a coach to hear a senior who has missed 19 games in a row, but makes it back for his last one to come off the field in a 0-0 tie in the playoffs saying, “Man, it’s fun out there.” It makes me realize that I did make the right professional choice in my life—that I am fortunate and blessed to be able to work with the Parkers of the world.

And so the last thing…when we got off the bus and all the hugs had been exchanged and we took our last steps together before the paths diverged, Parker caught me by the shoulder and said, “Coach, in all my time in this program I have never lied to you or coach, or to my teammates or to the program, but I have a confession to make: my doctor told me that I’m not allowed to do anything on my shoulder for another month. But I couldn’t wait, I had to get out there.” I just laughed and said, “Really? Wow.” And I just laughed some more. What else can one say?

What else can one say other than “I’m extremely proud of you,” or “I’m thanking God you escaped injury”? Because there are the self-told lies, but then there are the lies we tell because the truth doesn’t always win. We create our own realities, we have free will to do what is right, to be heroic in these small battles that don’t register as blips on any radar other than as the pulse in our hearts’. The truth was: I was always pretty sure Parker was done for the year…that was until he was on the field in our greatest game of the year, the game when we had the best team rattling in their boots. The truth was: He knew he wasn’t going to be cleared until the season was long gone. But it was his last season, and he knew that doors only open and that possibilities are only visible if you ask. And through that broken collarbone very visible was one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever coached. That was the story of Parker S.