I remember sitting in the Chiles Center with my cap and gown, looking up into the crowd for my family. My family who had come to see me walk up and get my diploma that I earned through hard work, perseverance, and barely getting through Mr Nye's Algebra II class! So as my eagle eye perused the audience, what did I see, but a glimpse of my "recently ex"-girlfriend sitting with her mom and...her loser ex-boyfriend?? WTF? We we're just a few weeks removed and she's back together with that stoner?
Yeah that was a great memory! With all the emotions running high, I was already an anxious mess and this was the cherry on the sundae, the straw that broke...well you get the jist! My stomach turned sour and I lost it and had to get up and run to the bathroom. I'm in there crying, sobbing, hyperventilating, when ol' Coach Foust walks in and asks me what's wrong. "What's wrong?...What isn't wrong right now," I'm thinking to myself. Nonetheless, I spilled my guts to him in that empty bathroom. I told him that seeing her up there with that other guy really knocked me for a loop. In the process, I learned alot about how compassionate the human race can be.
You see, I played football in high school. However I wasn't a jock, I was a "student-athlete." Jocks were the ones that wore sweatsuits to school, frequently left loogies in the water fountains and picked on the intellectually gifted kids. Nope, I was a student athlete, a good guy, a friend to all, ala Ferris Bueller! I wore silk shirts, Z Cavaricci pants, and the latest Capezzio footwear that Jay Jacobs had to offer. Coach Foust was a coach on our football team and doubled as a P.E. teacher, not the type of authority figure that most kids took seriously because, well, he taught an easy subject. A subject that wasn't given credence because it really wasn't going to hinder your entrance into major colleges. Well, I remember there were several occasions during football practices or games when our head coach and Coach Foust would argue about something. Perhaps a formation? Maybe a blocking assignment? I always remembered feeling sorry for Coach Foust because Coach Ackerman would tell him flat out that he was wrong in front of all of us. How ballsy was that? Didn't even pull him aside and discuss it in a civil manner. Just berated his opinion, demasculating him in front of all of us. Foust never retaliated or took the lower road, as he was a fairly calm man. That is what I respected about him then. I'm sure he had his words with Coach Ack in private though. God, I hope he did!
My senior year, I was summoned to Coach Foust's office after a practice. We were in the playoffs that year and it just so happened to be the week we were preparing for our quarterfinal matchup against the perennial power that was Roseburg High. At the time, it made me curious as to why Coach Foust wanted to see me because he wasn't my positions coach. Was I in trouble? I entered his office and he was sitting there, all calm as can be, and he just cut to the chase:
"Rich, do you think that we have a shot at beating Roseburg?"
Now what kind of question was that? Was it a trick question? It sure was a loaded question. I didn't know what his M.O. was, so I replied:
"Of course we do."
To which he replied:
"I'm not so sure that you think we can win. I can see it in your eyes. You are pretty easy to read and not very good at hiding your emotions."
I immediately started thinking, "okay what did I say or do to make him think this?" But the guy was right. He could read me. He could probably sense that I was losing the passion for the game, that I had my doubts. What did he see? I replied with my best line of bullshit, trying to convince him that I was onboard and that we were going to crush those Indians. I'm not sure he bought it. Heck, I'm not sure if I even bought it! This guy was the first adult mentor to ever tell me that I am readable.
To make a long story short, we ended up losing 36-0, eliminating us from the playoffs and officially ending my career as a football player. However, I gained a respect for a coach that cared about my feelings and not just how tightly I could cover opposing receivers, or how elusive I was after making a catch. No, this man actually cared about my psyche. In all the years of playing sports, I never had anyone call this into question or even give a damn.
So you can imagine how apropos it was that he was the one that came to my aid in that lonely bathroom, while the whole auditorium was filled with proud families, nervous/anxious kids, and teachers who were standing guard to make sure that no shenanigans broke out. I didn't see him as a coach that day, rather a concerned teacher trying to calm down an obviously distraught kid who needed some serious calming.
As I returned to my seat, things were a blur after that. I remember getting up and walking in a single file line to get my diploma. I had done it. I didn't know what was coming next in my life, but I had just closed a chapter of what were soon to be many. I graduated and wasn't looking back.
Years later when my little brother would attend the same school, I would hear stories from my stepdad about how Coach Foust was a solid guy who really cared.
I already knew. I still know.
Last I heard, Coach Foust was coaching and teaching somewhere on the Oregon coast. Wherever he is, I'm sure he has no clue that he provided me with the grandest memory of my high school graduation.
Thanks Dave Foust. Thanks a million!
(In this picture, you can see Coach Foust, right, checking
up on me after the ceremony. Also, here is further proof
that I wore Z Cavarrici's!)
No comments:
Post a Comment