Coaching the Green Jays

On By DanIn Wilson, RaceLeave a comment

On a recent trip to visit my son, his wife and our only grandchild, Andre, I was fortunate to see the “Green Jays” soccer team play 3 times.   While there is a Texas bird, a beautiful one much like our Painted Bunting, I heard two other reasons for the name selection.  One kid said, “There have never been Green Jays before.”   Another said, “They give us green shirts.”

Six year olds are tough to coach. You can count on two things:

1. If hurt, they will run to their mothers
2. Concentration vacillates.

My friend, Randy Campbell, has advised me, “You can buy grandchildren!” Or stated another way, “Money won’t buy everything, but it will keep the family closer.”  My grandson concentrates currently on quarters. Quarters beget dollars and dollars beget Legos.

He also likes to play goalie   After 40 years of coaching I have learned to put the variables together:
1. Memorize “tip”—Yields 1 quarter
2. Memorize tip 2—Yields 1 quarter plus 2 more if you can repeat tip 1 and tip 2
3. Memorize tip 3—Yields 1 quarter plus 3 more if you can recite tips 1, 2 and 3
4. Memorize tip 4—Yields 1 quarter plus 4 more if you can recite 1, 2, 3 & 4
5. Memorize tip 5—Yields 1 quarter plus 5 more if you can recite 1, 2, 3, 4 & 5

Here were the tips:

1. “The first part of quick is ready.”

2. “Kick it hard, and run fast.”

3. “Never, ever, quit.”

4. “Don’t be scared. Don’t get mad.”

5. “Have fun but learn something every practice and game.”

Andre did very well. Cost me $5.75 in quarters.   I have to admit, I’d sneak other suggestions in on him.    Example for #1: Remember to, as goalie, “Keep your hands up and bend your knees, and keep your feet moving.”   Got to be subtle with  corollary suggestions or he/she will want more quarters.

Not all are given to coaching much at age 6.   I was struck by the reaction of one youngster when a parent shouted, “Kick it!” at her.    Her face clearly stated she had no intention of kicking anything.   Don’t know about Boulder’s people…There wasn’t a Romney sticker in town, but if she lives in North Carolina in 2027, she’ll be a debutante.

PS: Another Boulder highlight was Sophie’s birthday party…One father brought his two goats.   I asked their names. “The female is Tallulah. The male is Vincent Van Goat.”

Doping

On By ethomasparhamIn E. SPORTS COMMENTARYLeave a comment

With the publicity about Lance Armstrong and the denial of Hall of Fame membership to Sosa, Bonds and Mcguire, perhaps it is time to dig in on the substance issue…1. Armstrong stated he would not have been selected if he refused to dope.  One potential pro baseball player told me the reason he was not moved up (management told him) was because he refused the “pack”, or steroid enhancement.  If this is the only was to advance then advancing may not be worth it.  It is certainly dangerous, and taking unfair advantage. “Cheaters never win” a passe axiom? 2 . In the “power sports” isn’t there an added danger in giving some parties strength, size, speed, injury recovery, frenzied mentality advantages etc?  E=1/2 m x v squared.  Or “energy equals one half mass times velocity squared” as proposed by O. Charles Olsen in “The Prevention of Football Injuries” in the 1970′  One football coach said the mothers were leading the charge against their kids playing some sports now. If these sports are worthwhile, and I believe strongly they are, shouldn’t they be played on ” a level (drug free) field”? 3. Who protects the 14year old (about age some are making the steroid decision) when parents either aren’t there, are ignorant of the issues, or sadly complicit in encouraging usage?  Is the “paste out of the tube”. Or is this a watershed moment requiring the parties that are in control to “step up”, to use a sports cliche?

Prescient?

On By ethomasparhamIn E. SPORTS COMMENTARY1 Comment

In 1976 James Michener wrote SPORTS IN AMERICA. He made the statement then “…I might allow my child to play football, but I wouldn’t encourage him to play.” I asked this fall on this blog, won’t this be a critical year in football history? (FOOTBALL AT THE CROSSROADS). Seems like the year proved the point…Continued head injuries, lawsuits, dementia, suicides, pretty brutal stuff.. The game is brutal. Still many love the “lions vs the christians”. Many think the rules are unclear or limiting. My guess is another influence is on the forefront, similar to Michener’s. “Mommas don’t your boys grow up to be football players.” This is not new, yet making more sense. It bothers me however that the great life lessons of football may be lost to many. If the savage control the game, to hell with it. If there is a “…turning loose of the steering wheel” then wrecks will occur. And , as good people abandon the game a lot will be lost. Every time an Incorrigible is recruited, selected, hired, etc., a good kid will be eliminated, or cut, or not given a chance. same for coaches, administrators, owners, all the way up and down…Face it–there are people that aren’t capable of benefitting from the great life lessons of football, and all sports. They use the game only for self gain. Many become millionaires only to squander the money. Bankrupt in short order, having gained no worthwhile skills, and having done only damage to society…Once again, who plays is important. People must be screened on a person by person level. Race should play no part in who plays. It does seem true that the more white kids drop out, the more black kids will fill the slots. It seems logical that if we fill the slots with incorrigibles, albeit good players, we will eliminate a lot of great black kids, whose only chance may be sports. Save the game for kids who, having learned important life lessons through their only available avenue,i.e. sports, go on to worthwhile citizenry. And make rules that protect them.  Begin with perfomance enhancing drugs control.   Lance Armstrong said he would not have been accepted if  he had decline to use drugs.   If the top (pro sports) demands usuage,  the news will flow to the bottom (even children’s sports).   Hopefully parents will guard their kids,  but some have turned the blind eye or even encouraged the madness.   Sanity is the only hope…

The Toughest Coach, the NAIA, Kansas City…and Russell

On By pasturespointIn E. SPORTS COMMENTARY6 Comments

One of the great coaches I ran into along the way was a competitor. Redlands University (California) was coached by Jim Verdieck. Jim was the best at winning I ran into, in any sport. And he was already a legend when my team made its 1970 trek to Rockhill Tennis Club in Kansas City, home of the NAIA Championships.

Verdieck was a strong willed football – tennis coach. His teams won 12 of 13 NAIA titles, starting about the mid-sixties. There was a “one-foreigner” rule in the NAIA early on, so battles pitting Texans against Floridians versus Californians were heated. The coaches were tough. Clarence Dyer of South Eastern Oklahoma coached in twenty-two straight tournaments, finishing 2nd to 4th of fifty teams or so, every year. He never won. Why? Verdieck and Redlands. Unlike the NCAA team format, the NAIA featured a single elimination, 256 draw men’s (and later women’s) tournament. The draw separated team members from early on meetings, but a #1 player could play a #4 guy on your team at any time. It was vicious, the draw could kill you. Pressure caused many seeded players to wilt. Endurance was the biggest factor. To win singles and doubles both, a player had to win 8 singles matches and 7 doubles. Fifteen matches in five days. And match #1 began at 7:30 AM. Early on, you played three singles matches the first day if you won. Tired puppies, and sore bones the next day.

The number one tough coaching trick was to get college kids to go to bed at 9 o’clock for a week. “Morning acclimatization” was crucial. You were up at 5:00 am, hitting to shake the cobwebs loose. My sidekick, Russell Rawlings and I would pound on the local McDonalds’ door, begging for egg McMuffins and juice for the players. They’d play at six different sites early on, so to get them up, fed, crapped, and distributed was hair-raising for a Robbins redneck. Russell helped immeasurably.

It was magic; 7-6 in the third set everywhere, hamburgers and ice cream from the Rockhill Grill, throngs of business men on their lunch hour-watching youngsters from all over. Mostly, they wanted to see Verdieck and his Redlands team. Doubles was great, particularly the Texans and Okies teams. They seemed a lot like us, but could play better. I began to pick up what Verdieck was doing, and watching various great players from all over. It was like popcorn going off. Later, as an old coach having moved up to Division I NCAA, I’d tried to tell the new ones how much fun the NAIA was. And how good.

It’s true, there were very weak players and teams there. I took some of them. A draw that pitted you against Donne, Nebraska or Cedaville, Ohio meant you at least had a chance. And every kid got to play, often 3 or 4 or 5 days. If you won you got to play again. Each match won counted a point for your team and the team with the most points won. One point could make the difference in your team finishing tied for 3rd in the nation, or being 6th. Kids played hard. They got to fly on a plane. There was a great banquet with good support from the NAIA staff, college volunteers, and the people of Kansas City. Our kids were taken in by our “honorary coaches,” a program that used volunteer townspeople to help out. Joanie and Bob Mullet drew our team, lucky for us.

Once you had hosted a team you could be reunited by choice at the next year’s tournament and my sidekick Russell had made note of a big hill near their house. Russell had been born with a hip problem, he couldn’t run on it and it limited his ability to exercise. This was one of life’s cruelties, as Russell really loved sports. His limitation caused him a weight problem and he was a big boy. Later, he did go from 320 pounds to 160 pounds, or “two good-sized Orientals,” he contended. One of my true joys was watching him conquer obesity. He did love to eat. As we exited one all-you-can-eat buffet, the Kansas City proprietor whispered to Russell, “Sir, it’s okay if you don’t come back.”

I was puzzled one year at the pre-tournament picnic the Mullets hosted at their home. After the meal, Russell asked Mr. Mullett if he could borrow his bicycle.

“Sure”, Bob said.
“And your station wagon?” asked Russell.
Puzzled, but courteous, Bob agreed again, “Sure.”
“Come on coach,” Russell enthused.

The hill was a constant decline for about three miles and Russell sent me and the station wagon down to the bottom. He then glided all the way down the winding road to me and the wagon. We put the bike in the back and drove back uphill to the Mulletts. It was his first long bike ride.

Soon after, sans about 150 pounds, he rode his bike from Wilson to Morehead City, one hundred plus miles.

CUZZINS

On By ethomasparhamIn F. MADISON2 Comments

We moved to Madison, NC when I was four. In two weeks the late Billy Fulton and similarly late, Sterling (Tuddy)Webster, were sidekicks for life. The Websters were next door and my first stop to collect them for the day. So as I crawled through the secret tunnel we’d made I noticed their neighbor’s garage was burned to the ground.”What happened to Miss Carrie’s garage?” I asked the whole stunned family as they watch smoldering smoke circle upwards from the ashes.
I grabbed Tuddy aside. ???? “Craig did it. He was hiding in her garage, smoking.”
Relieved it wasn’t Tuddy or Billy, I wondered about Craig. I knew there was a family with Craig (14?) and O’neil (18), who I’d heard “… that older one is a good guy, but watch out for Craig, he’s nuts.”
“Who is Craig, anyway?” I asked Tuddy.”He’s my first cuzzin.” Age 7, I wasn’t sure about genealogy.
When I got home My mom asked what all the excitement about? “Craig burned down Miss Carrie’s garage.”
What? Repeat. Report. Then I asked my also stunned Mother,”… Momma, what is a cuzzin? Do I have a cuzzin? Does it have to be a boy? Staccato to still reeling Geneva Phillps Parham.
Mom : Yes, you have several cousins.
Me: Who?
Mom: well, Aunt Mary’s Son, Ed, is one.
Me: Is he the first cousin?
Mom: Well, actually he is!
Me. Is he going to burn our garage down?
Mom: (laughs)
Me: What’s so funny? Do I have a second cuzzin? A third? Who are they? Are they dangerous as the Websters.
The total explanation took a while, but Mom did a pretty good job sorting it all out.
So the “Norfolk Phillips” are all first cuzzins–Jack, Henry, Eileen, and Mary Anita? We didn’t travel the then prohibitive journey to Tidewater often. But they travelled well as a group and always made better efforts than the rest of us. So fortunately I knew them enough to be proud they were my cuzzins, as I liked all four and they belonged to Uncle Lindsey. Uncle Lindsey was the youngest sibling of my Mom and her several sisters. Being last and male, Lindsey was messed up. From a bunch of Primitive Baptists, Lindsey escaped with a sense of humor and a taste for the kind of attitude that tickled me. And his siblings, Geneva, Aunt Olive, and Aunt Mary. We all looked to Lindsey for laughs and crafts (He could build anything, including home made toys for the kids. Cuzzins included.)
I’m losing too many. Jack just died after fighting the dreaded one, Alzheimer’s disease. He was the closest age wise to me and I liked talking to Jack. I am sad for Jack, but proud of my first cousins, who lovingly did all they could.

‘

TURNED TABLE

On By ethomasparhamIn F. MADISON1 Comment

About this time we’d found Melvin Steele down near the Dan River. They lived in the bottoms, and Mel’s dad, Mutt, was a plumber. Not only that he was an amateur boxer and taught Mel how to fight. This aided our arsenal.

Fighting was part of the deal and I’d done my share. Being the preacher’s kid my dad got every report. He’d “strap” me for fighting, I’d whip Tuddy or somebody else the next day.

One day E.T. called me into his “study”, a room upstairs in the parsonage where he’d prepare sermons. This memory is very vivid. The study was blue, an- other Sunday school classroom was pink, one was yellow.

My dad sat with his back to me facing out the window, toward the garden.

The conversation went like this, “Son, you continue to get into fights. I’ve strapped you, grounded you, lectured you, and done everything I know. Today we change course.”

Whereupon he removed his big leather belt and took off his shirt.

He turned and told me, “Now you hit me until I tell you to stop.” I couldn’t do it, I couldn’t hit my dad. He demanded, I cried. He demanded. I hit him.

UNCLE LOUIE

On By ethomasparhamIn F. MADISONLeave a comment

“Seventy may be the new sixty, but 80 is still 80!”  (Gary McMahan).

I did it again.  Used some bad language at the wrong time.   My Dad was a minister and I only heard him use smut once.  We were washing the parsonage windows, he was outside, I was inside.  I had somewhere to be fairly soon that I alone deemed more important than the Baptist windows.  The third time I barked “what time is it?”  came the stunning answer:  “Half passed the crack of my ass, fifteen minutes till farting time!”

At age 14 I already added profanity as a second language, but this coming from E.T. Parham shocks me in my 80th year.

My mentor in dirty language and impure thoughts began early.  Billy Fulton.   I think his source was Uncle Louie.  My lately arrived at theory that an offshoot of WW11 was that dirty jokes, limericks, poems, etc. got spread at an exponential  rate.  I wrote this about Uncle Louie . (from PLAY IS WHERE LIFE IS):

“Billy had moved in with Opal and Woody into a nicer home, albeit further away. He also got us closer to “Uncle Louie”. Uncle Louie was a World War II Vet. It seemed like he was always under the hood of his car. Later in life I’ve decided World War II was the vehicle that spread various types of humor throughout the country. Uncle Louie was our source. He knew every dirty joke, limerick, ditty, titty, or whatever. (See page 24 Archibald Bearasshole).  And I loved it.

Names of farts: Fiz, Fazz, Fizzle, Fazzle, poot, anti-poot, rip ass, and roar.

Sizes of brassieres: 32A, 34B, Hubba-Hubba, Oh Hot Damn, Here Comes the Showboat, and the F.O.B. Detroit.

“I saw her butt ……she didn’t see me. I saw her ass she crossed the street.”

I was becoming addicted to funny people and they were often “smutty”. Billy was an encyclopedia of vice. He had a “pornographic memory”.

 

 

 

 

 

Tuddy

On By ethomasparhamIn F. MADISONLeave a comment

Tuddy died on me. Though he was a year younger, he lost his last tough battle. I was asked to speak about him during our childhood in Madison, NC. We were seldom apart.

In the process of examining this period (1944-52) at ages 4-12, something personal dawned on me.

At age 74 memory becomes an issue. However, one of my memories is quite vivid today. My Father was Baptist minister and, while a mild man, he was serious.

the Presbyterian church. It is nighttime and we are door to door “evangelizing”. I am about eight years old, and I DO NOT like doing this!

It’s tough at that age to tell a father like mine “I DON’T WANT TO DO THAT AGAIN”.

As a matter of fact, I DIDN’T.

Looking back, while preparing my Tuddy-talk, I think I concluded I’d fulfill MY quota by saving Tuddy. Maybe even several of the Websters.

As I mentioned, we were inseparable. Homes too. Normal for
me was the austere parsonage we lived in. Small, plain, with the tacit understanding we had the “…way, the truth, and the light.” MANIFEST DESTINY: TUDDY FIRST. 216 Hunter Street was different. Dark, rich colored furniture, lots space. BUT — there were beer bottles in the house. SF(the father) and Irene (mother) both smoked Lucky Strike CIGARETTES. While they all seemed en route to hell’s fire, I did realize Irene was gorgeous and made me tingle. Looked like Ava Gardner, blowing sexy smoke
rings through deep red lipstick..LIPSTICK. And I perceived, or thought I perceived, an unspoken agreement with her that Tuddy NEEDED some saving.

Accident prone,never missed or won a fist fight, disheveled in any attire, somehow lovable Tuddy. We fought everyday. He, left-handed,
had the boxing glove of that orientation. (Wouldn’t you’d know he’d be left-handed?). I had the right glove. WHOP,WHOP, no ducking. After every fight or accident I’d take him to Hunter Street and Irene. She would look at me with mixed suspicion and understanding gratitude, as he cried tears, often accompanied with other fluids, i.e. blood, snot, or pee.

I OFTEN talked to him in commands (having accepted my role in his salvation): “Tuddy, blow your damn nose!” Or, “…you can’t wear that nasty shirt.” My sister,Gerry,said “no stripes with checks”,”no browns with blacks”, etc. Rules he violated throughout adulthood and without concern.

There was a compounding factor. BILLY FULTON, the third of the three muskateers, or “Tommy, Tuddy, Billy. “Fulton” was pathological liar and had a “pornographical memory”. Devil sent, I was convinced, not what Tuddy needed. The daily highlight Billy created with two challenges: (1)”I BET YOU CAN’T…” and (2) “I DARE YOU TO…” Manipulation directed at Tuddy.

This would result in my admontion, “Tuddy, you idiot, don’t try that!”

The scene is US220 (main street thru Madison) beyond

That would cause us to fight, and then a trip to Irene, Billy laughing at us. Somehow I instinctively knew I couldn’t save Fulton. And I was right. There was another easier cause. Tuddy told us he had a brother.

“What is his name? Deems. “What is his real name,” I insisted. “Deems” Tuddy said. “Deems Bourne Webster. And my REAL name is STERLING!? ME: Bullshit, your name is Tuddy. Always will be” Tuddy”: I’m telling you my name is Sterling Fountain Webster, the third!”

“FOUNTAIN? THE THIRD? Who the hell is naming people up there? We can’t have names like than in our group. The next thing you know they’ll want to name somebody Xavier,

or Reginald, or some other ridiculous crap!”

My Father accepted a job in another town and Tuddy became Sterling.

Vee Bundy spoke of the adolescent years..Business partner, Rocco Lassiter, spoke of adult shenanigans and stole the show with very plausible “Sterling tale”:

Rocco remembered a “flush” time when they rewarded the group with a trip to the NCAA FINAL FOUR BASKETBALL TOURNAMENT, to
be held in New Orleans. Rocco: “Sterling was in charge of housing arrangements. About a week before the tournament I called Sterling asked where he had booked us? Sterling said sheepishly ‘I haven’t quite got that nailed down yet. Call me back in two days!’ Two days later I was warned “…I might as well tell, you’ll find out soon. I got all of us a great place to stay. Lots of suites at a five star hotel. Great amenities. All first class’—Sterling concluded and paused. “I asked Sterling, what could be wrong with that”? His reply,”…Rocco, the rooms are in Las Vegas!”

Basketball, gambling, and flying,eh, Tuddy?

As the floor was opened for comments from his close friends and I enjoyed them all. At same time, with each story, I found myself thinking: Tuddy- don’t leave you keys in the car. Or, you speak about as much German as Mickey Mouse and you have no idea where we are! The gasoline doesn’t go there, you dumbass!

Irene–if my Dad hadn’t have moved I could have stopped SOME of that.

My messianic impulses were abated to the point that perhaps DEEMS got it right: “Parham, I believe the Websters CONVERTED YOU!”

BLISS

On By ethomasparhamIn F. MADISONLeave a comment

By now (age10) it was clear. I would quarterback Madison High under Coach Raymond Cure, go on to Wake Forest College, about to move to Winston Salem from Wake County in 1956. Later I attended the ground breaking at the new Wake Campus. Dr. Tribble was the university president, U.S. President Harry S. Truman was the speaker. Bob Bartholomew was an All-American tackle.I’d already assigned our positions. Each waking Saturday sent me through the neighborhood collecting them.

I already had a blackened front tooth, suffered in a pre-school, 2nd grade “tackle the man with the ball drill.
The highlight came at age 10. I had played catch with some of the high school players who were in our church. “Foot” Reynolds, Leon Tucker, Lee Anglin were gods to me. And Raymond Cure was the coach, a position higher than God in my mind. Coach Cure coached everything. He wore his football pants and a tee shirt everywhere. I was watching the high school team practice one day, when there was a rare lull in practice. Leon Tucker, with Foot and Lee watching, called Coach Cure over to watch me “go deep”. Leon hit me with a perfect pass with the big ball and I held on. It knocked me down but I held it. Cure watched me return the ball (I couldn’t hold it) to Leon, and left saying…”I’ll make him a quarterback. I couldn’t have been happier.