Bus Rides with Bruce

In September he said he was on a mission to save this kid’s soul…

Last night was a surreal ending. I guess any ending would be surreal. Curiousity got the best of me and I had to look…glance down the sideline to catch the look on his face. The referee had just whistled us for a foul in the box in sudden-death OT, and you just knew…you knew San Clemente would convert and end the game, and this is how his high school coaching career would end. He had a look of quiet resignation…

* * *

The postcard was in the mail and I had no idea…at that time in my life I barely even knew what Claremont McKenna College was, but that didn’t stop Bruce from filling out an information card about me, without my knowledge, and sending it to Claremont’s head soccer coach. This was my junior year in high school—a year and a half later I was a freshman playing soccer for Claremont.

* * *

It was mid-November, 2001. I, like many others, was pretty disillusioned. I spent September of 2001, jobless, the month immediately after my year in Americorps, glued to an old TV set in a lonesome house in Duarte, California, watching 9/11 coverage and nothing else—media sensory overload. I was house sitting in this huge house with no neighbor except rock quarry to the left, and screaming, fighting, unfriendliness to the right—the three loneliest months of my life until my dad’s stint in the hospital a few years back. After one month of nothingness but ghastly TV images in Duarte, I got a job in the City of Industry at an after-school center for kids on probation. I played ping-pong, basketball, and handed out journal topics. I was going nowhere. On a mid-November Saturday, I drove in to the South Bay to watch a Nebraska vs. K-State football game with my buddy Andy. I stopped by Bruce’s house to say hello. He wasn’t there, but his girlfriend Krista, now his wife, told me I should be Bruce’s assistant coach for the Peninsula HS Boys’ Varsity soccer team—two weeks later I was.

* * *

From day one of the reopening of Palos Verdes HS in 2002, Bruce was in the ear of our principal, Chris Bowles. Bruce had resigned from Peninsula to go down the hill to coach at his alma mater. I went down with him because my loyalty was to him, even though Peninsula was my alma mater. He stayed in Chris’ ear until I got a teaching job at PV a couple years later once I had finished my credential.
And that is where I am at today, feeling at home…

* * *

It was December 17th, 2010. It was raining, hard. I drove down to Orange County to scout a double-dip—Edison at 3PM at Capo Valley and San Clemente at home at 5PM against Mission Viejo. Bruce said I was crazy for going down in the stormy weather and ominously recommended I didn’t do it. I thought he was crazy for telling me not to go scout for the sake of our team. Well, I got soaked from the belly button down because umbrellas can’t stop sideways rain when you are standing in high school bleachers trying to take notes. From 3 to 10 PM, 10 being when I finally got home because of two games, dinner to wait out traffic, and driving home in a downpour on the 405 with a tire I had to inflate every 7-8 miles because I had ran over a piece of metal, I was cold and soaked. A couple days later I got sick…for two months. Two months of sinus infections, fever, fatigue, cough, sore throat, ear ringing, joint pain, apathy, lethargy, bad eating, and bad attitude. I hadn’t been sick for more than a day in over three years. I thought my scouting report would finally come to fruition yesterday when we traveled down to San Clemente. We had too many injuries, too many makeshifts lineups, and got outplayed. It wasn’t in the cards. And I stopped patting myself on the back for not listening to my older brother that one day when he told me not to go down and scout because the weather was too bad. Getting sick in sick season could happen to anyone, but my history was against it. Coaching four of the next five days in rain didn’t help either. But I think of that day like ignoring a parent who tells you to bring or put on a jacket…

* * *

“Someone kept telling me to turn the headlights on, but I didn’t listen,” says Chief White Halfoat in Joseph Heller’s Catch-22, and then he gets into a car accident, flipping the car so everyone and everything is upside-down. Bruce kept telling me not to sweat the small stuff the past couple years, the stuff you think is in your control, but isn’t…this year I was upset by some lower level program stuff, and stressed out. And I stayed sick for two months…

* * *

It was late last November. Coach told the team our goals for this year were to not be behind at halftime (it only happened twice all season), to win the Bay League (which we did), and to win 20 games (we won 20). I thought he was crazy for stating these, based on the summer training and fall conditioning…

* * *

It was September. Bruce said he was on a mission in his final year to save this kid’s soul…call him Victor. Save this kid’s soul? A bit extreme, perhaps? No way. In this profession we are the catchers in the rye. We stand at the edge of the cliff waiting. The standard tool for measuring seasons are wins and losses, and playoff exits. God’s measuring device takes years of tracking. I still have a picture in my room that says, “What we are is God’s gift to us. What we become is our gift to God.” I read that John Wooden was asked once right after a season if the season was a success. He said, “I don’t know, ask me in twenty years.” The person was confused and Wooden told him that he would know in twenty years, when his players had grown up and were living adult lives and doing good unto the world if they were successful. That is how we always should measure—not instantaneously, but holistically.

Let me introduce Victor. He is a teenager. And now you know Victor.

In the summer he was not there. Sometimes in September, he was not there. And so Bruce declared his mission. And it was a beautiful thing. But missions are not easy to follow through with. And sometimes missions need assistance and assistants. This one would have many. But let us not forget, this was done out of love, and because of that, it is a beautiful thing.

Last season as a junior Victor did not score a goal, after scoring four goals his sophomore year. On and off the statsheet, it was a somewhat disappointing year. In our playoff game against Millikan, he had a one on one with the goalie in overtime that would have won the game—he shot it right at the goalie and we lost a few minutes later. This year he scored in our first game…

Victor’s grades were slumping, he was not turning in any work. I could see the dismay on Bruce’s face. Victor’s dad pulled him from soccer temporarily without really consulting us, distantly saying that he might be able to come back if he got his grades up. And so I spoke with all of his teachers. His teachers, by the way, love Victor, in the way any hearted teacher loves a respectful kid who is screwing up his life at the time—with frustration and a desperate hope that they can help turn things around. And they were all understanding and all willing to let him turn in late work to get his grades up. And so during practice Victor went to the library, sometimes, to do his work. I was resolute in telling him he must go to yoga with the team, because it would clear his mind. He would stay in my classroom in between practice and yoga and do his work, and then we would go up together, sometimes. But he would latch onto the idea of yoga as if he were a distinguished and practiced yogi. He was a natural right away…when he was there.

Bruce was pained in mid-December. He was already in pain enough from the impending hip replacement surgery he will have two weeks from now, and it pained me to see him limping around, unable to even kick a soccer ball. But most of the time he was pained by Victor’s inconsistency. We take these things very personally as coaches/teachers/mentors, just like a parent is pained when the child is lost in the dark, just like Jesus is pained to lose a sheep from the flock. Right before Christmas Victor started to show up again, and we thought he was fully back, but then he didn’t show for another game. There was a reason given—maybe it was true, maybe it wasn’t.

Winter break is a dangerous time for the high school sports season. Players break their collarbones snowboarding, players go on vacation and miss workouts, minds stray and wander…

But also sometimes things get squared away. In Victor’s first time on the field since early December, he scored a goal on a typical Victor play—sliding and colliding with the goalie, and deflecting a ball out of a scramble into the net. It was awesome…but he was injured on the play, and would miss the next game.

Bruce was frustrated, because it seemed like things with Victor had not changed. He had got his grades up, but he missed another practice. His play was inconsistent, because he had lost some of his fitness. Yet, he was still there…

* * *

Tom Osborne, ex-Nebraska football coach, former Nebraska Congressman, and current Nebraska Athletic Director, took a lot of heat in 1995 when he only suspended star running back Lawrence Phillips for six games for a physical altercation he got into with an ex-girlfriend—he had dragged her down a flight of stairs. In the eyes of most, this was an unforgivable offense. Osborne also knew Phillips had a different background. Phillips was an orphan from Covina; Osborne, the son of WWII soldier. Osborne’s dad was gone at war for most of his childhood. One of Osborne’s missions was to always be a father figure for kids who were perhaps missing one…In this age of media scrutiny of college athletes, we sometimes forget that they are in fact in college, and they are young. And let me ask you--what were you like at that age? How impressionable were you to what was going on around you? And what did you do in college that was so profound, so worthy of a Nobel Peace Prize? How many keg stands did you do or how many times did you get high? And I ask myself--What did I do that was so great? When was I the peacemaker rather than the instigator? When or where was my punishment for kicking a soccer ball through a parking lot and knocking off someone’s side-view mirror and never reporting it? And so on…

High school kids are even younger, maybe less independent, but more impulsive. And the question of varying punishments for different kids is a tough one to answer. Why are we more likely to bend the rules for certain kids than others? Why did Osborne reinstate Phillips after the six-game suspension for his physical abuse of his ex-girlfriend? To this day he says he probably made a mistake in not punishing him more severely. Phillips went on to have a trouble-ridden NFL career, and has always been in trouble with the law. But when I was back in Nebraska in late October talking to a couple of Osborne’s former players, they said Osborne had their respect, but it was more than that—they didn’t want to let him down…I could see the love and respect they had for their former coach, a football coach, but a coach of their lives. I do not think Osborne made a mistake in reinstating Phillips…sometimes people just can’t conquer their personal demons.

I felt invaded by demons when Victor broke his ankle four games into our league season--let down because I wanted to see this kid finish the year. We had already lost two great seniors—one to a dislocated knee, and one to a torn ACL, and now Victor. Losing a senior to a season-ending injury just may be the most heartbreaking part of my coaching profession. In the short view, I want to ask God, “Really? Why is that fair?” But at age 33, I can look back on my two-game college soccer career (done because of three knee surgeries), and my subsequent injury ridden three-year college baseball career playing one of those with mono, and see that God was steering me down other avenues. At the time, I may have cursed Him. But because I could no longer play soccer, I started writing for the college newspaper and acting in our student-run drama productions. Both of these activities would help shape the basis for my current profession as an English teacher. But still, to see a senior go down in his final year of play is heartbreaking, especially when it’s the kid you are trying to protect.

Sadly, Victor might have been ready to play next week if we would have made it to the semifinals. Bruce kept pushing him to get ready and get back. And I took my older brother’s leadership and did the same. I was looking for a fairy-tale ending…

* * *

Last night was my last bus ride with Bruce. At one point the tears came, because I thought of this. Bus rides are magical. There’s something about being cooped up in an even smaller space with the people who you are cooped up with in a small space (aka--a soccer season) that makes you feel spiritually closer to one another probably because we are, in fact, close to one another. But I think it’s that journey into foreign territory, away from home, that brings you closer. Last night was perhaps the most hostile crowd for a high school soccer game I’ve ever witnessed. And I loved it—that’s part of the game. We rally together while others rally against us. And I am going to miss those bus rides with Bruce. Ten years of them, ten years of not discussing strategies, but discussing life. From the fate of the world to relationship problems to what this ex-player is doing now to lots of jokes (some of them practical) to Dodger baseball to Bruce’s marriage and reflecting on his mother’s death from cancer to his having to see his father dead on the ground after a heart attack to my having to see my father in a mental hospital after an anesthesiologist’s error to his raising of his son Brooks, we’ve discussed it all. And what’s funny is that last night on the way home from San Clemente, we discussed all of those topics I just listed, on one bus ride. There’s a lot you can accomplish on a bus ride, and I am going to miss that, a lot. My friend Andy, who I am marrying to the lovely Vanessa in two days, always has said, “You only have so many bus rides.” And he’s right. As the tears come down my face right now, I realize that it is finally setting in that not having these bus rides with Bruce is already painful. He is still my friend, and like an older brother to me, and always will be, and we will talk, but we won’t have those bus rides anymore. With apologies to John Steinbeck (who happens to be the favorite writer of both Bruce and myself, Bruce’s favorite book being Travels with Charley, a book he gave to me, my favorite being all of them), there is a beautiful and painful scene added on to the end of the movie version of Steinbeck’s novella, Of Mice and Men. George, played by Gary Sinese, is stowing away on a train, sitting alone, with a look of quiet anguish. He’s obviously thinking about his best friend, Lennie, who he just had to kill so that someone else couldn’t. It’s such a lonely scene…the look on Sinese’s face reminded me of the look on Bruce’s last night right before the penalty kick was taken. And somehow I see that look on my face next year on our first bus ride without Bruce. Damn, I’m going to miss that.

One other thing we talked about last night on the ride home was Victor. Bruce said he felt like he had become a father figure to him this season. I agreed. After Victor’s ankle injury, I worried that he would disappear again. He had to miss some practices because of therapy, but he was there when he was supposed to be. And during games Victor was like an assistant coach. On a team desperate for emotional and verbal leadership, he was the guy getting fired up on the bench. He was the guy giving us hugs after we would score goals. He was the guy speaking up at halftime, making suggestions, observing the game, taking everything in, being positive…all of this does not happen unless Bruce shows Victor the love he had all season, and pre-season long. It was Bruce’s mission to save Victor, and—mission accomplished. I have a feeling one day Victor will go into coaching. I never would have thought that last season, but Bruce never gave up on the kid, and I think he is going to go on to do great things in this world. I think there will be bumps along the road, but I think he will be fine.

The same could be said for my life, or anyone’s life for that matter. There have definitely been so emotional ups and downs, especially in the past couple years which have thrown some bizarre curveballs my way. Life is like that, though. There would be no times of tranquility without the stormy seasons. And sometimes you have to be the one who is strong and saving others, and sometimes you have to cast pride aside and be willing to let others, through the Grace of God, help and save you. I’ve seen it both ways. And I keep learning as I go along. And sometimes I think I know it all, and that I can do things better, and that I don’t need others’ help. But that’s silly. When it comes to that time of coaching on my own, I will do the best I can. But I was so blessed this year to see one of the most beautiful accomplishments that nobody knows about—and that was Bruce’s love for the kid who needed a life vest. Because in twenty years, or five, or ten, I know Victor will look back on his time at PV High and realize how much we cared about him—I think he already knows it now. But it was Bruce’s stated mission that made this possible. These things are always possible if we believe in them, we put our faith in God, and we are not discouraged when the swells come, the boat tips, and we fall out. If we stay resolute, and we remember that we indeed have those around us who will give us their life vests, we’ll be okay. We will swallow some water, choke a bit, get drenched, and get sick sometimes, but if we can dial in to the love others show us, we’ll be okay. I learned that again this year. It’s just scary and sad to know Bruce is not physically going to be on that bus ride anymore with me.

* * *

It was the first week of school at Claremont. Things were in major turmoil in my family, my knee injury that would lead to three knee surgeries had caused me to start the season of the shelf, my best childhood friend’s father had just passed away—not quite the start you want to college. And I open my mailbox at school and there it is—a picture of Bruce making some sign with his hands which meant God knows what. And I’m thinking, “What the heck is this? Who would think to put a picture of Bruce in my mailbox?” Well, he had sent the picture as a postcard—just one of the hilarious things Bruce would do since I’ve met him, amongst hiding my bag every day when I worked during my college summers at soccer camps for him, singing my name into various song lyrics, making sound effects during soccer games, leaving 3-8 minute long voicemails, sometimes in his own voice, sometimes impersonating someone else, throwing tennis balls at me from a distance, calling kids over and telling them in a serious tone that they were in big trouble and telling them, “Gotcha,” all the while with me right there having to turn around because I couldn’t keep a straight face, and the list goes on. But that picture, for some reason, was hilarious to me—why was it in my mailbox? It’s still on my wall amongst a collage of pictures bulletin boarded together. And interestingly enough, when Bruce opened his new house, which was his childhood home, for a team dinner before our Bay League-clinching game against Mira Costa, there was that picture in his bedroom. He told me that his wife, Krista, loved that picture. I guess I do, too. It sort of epitomizes him, if you know him.

* * *

We are midway through the bus ride home last night, and Bruce calls his wife and tells her that we lost. He doesn’t dwell on it, he doesn’t ask for pity. Instead he talks about his four-year-old son Brooks and how cute it was when he was sitting at the picnic table earlier in that day. And this hit me like a bolt of John Wooden lightning. I’m freaking out before this penalty kick, knowing it’s the end, freaking out during Bruce’s post-game speech because it’s his last, freaking out on the bus ride home because it’s his last…our last, and he has this smile on his face thinking of his son. That is greatness, that is God’s love shining through us. I would like to be more like that. I’ve put on this sad face before at the end of seasons…don’t get me wrong, the end of seasons are sad…but my face was for the wrong reasons. Perhaps it was out of self-pity or self-addiction and wanting others to share in that sadness, a sadness that really doesn’t exist unless we create it. It is false. The true drama really lies in the journey, the whole season. The fate of a playoff game sometimes lies in the call of a referee, the malfunction of a soccer cleat that causes you to slip, or a ball struck off the post that would have gone in one inch to the right—over these things we have no control. We do control how we act during these times, and after them. And that is posed during the journey--the stated missions of our lives. The either truths or falsities of which we convince ourselves. The path of God which we either follow, or we don’t…last night I saw the look of quiet resignation during the painful moment quickly go back to the look of love, and I saw the path followed…

* * *

One more thing—when we got back to school late last night after the emotional ending to another great (and sadly last) season with Bruce, the biggest hug and thank you we received was from the players was from Victor. And I hope this serves as my biggest hug to Bruce…because I am forever indebted to one of the most positively influential people in my life.