In Which Our Author Tells a Mildly Mawkish Tale

I came home Friday night to visit my parents for fall break.  Saturday morning we went to one of my dad's soccer games, and I realized something in a moment that I never want to forget.  That's why I'm typing it down.

First, you need to know that my dad is a very interesting character.  His biography would probably make a very special night of television on the Arts & Entertainment channel, or at least a good Lifetime movie.  For various reasons, though, I don't feel like relating it here in any depth.  Suffice to say he found the most dramatic way to travel the 17.8 miles that Google Maps says it takes to get from the slums of East Chicago to the suburbs of Schererville.

The first time you meet my dad, you'll notice that he loves people, especially young people.  He has no end of things about which to talk to you, and I mean that literally.  If he starts talking, you're not going anywhere for a while.  When I'd have friends over, my mom would distract Dad with a steak while my friends and I ran to the video game room and shut the door.  There was no other way.

The second time you meet him, he will almost undoubtedly have a personalized lecture, tailor-made just for you.  He will tell you exactly what he thinks you need to hear, and more often than not, he'll be right.  I, however, do not have the time or patience to re-listen to hand-me-down lectures altered in places to fit you.  StarFox 64 will not play itself.

So for most of my life, that's how I thought of my dad.  A long-winded nuisance. Now I realize that he's actually a very passionate, very wise, very insightful nuisance.  But back to the story I wanted to tell.

My brother and I played on the community soccer leagues for thirteen years, and for the last five or so, my dad has been head coach of one or both of our teams.  Last year, Mike turned 18 and was ineligible to play another season, but my dad had so much fun coaching that he signed up to take one more team.  Now my dad knows little to nothing about coaching.  His idea of practice is to play a couple scrimmage games, give a couple lectures, and call it a night.  His idea of game-day coaching is to yell at the team to get the ball.  If his voice is up to it, he'll shout out a few lectures.  Our team is also the only team in the U18 league that still gets treats (and lectures) after the game.

But I went Saturday to the last game of the season and watched my dad handing out trophies, telling jokes and stories about each player as he did so.  Marco, who has been on my dad's team for three seasons, asked if he'd be back next season.  As the other players talked and joked about the game, my dad replied that no, his kids were grown, and he had other things to get done.  When he said "no," there was a brief but noticeable hesitation in all the kids.  Every last one of them stopped completely, just for a moment, and that moment is the way I always want to remember my dad.  However else he may grate on my nerves and play on my guilt, I never want to forget him standing there surrounded by mouthy teens struck silent by the idea of playing for someone other than Coach Rich.  He's not the winningest coach, or the most knowledgeable, but he's the one who cares the most for his players, as a team and as individuals.  If I can grow up to be more like that, I will count my life a success.

In conclusion, Mrs. My Third Grade Teacher, that is why my hero is my dad.  Also, ma'am, I think you need to read my last post because boy does it apply to you.