I Owe You

To Coach Steve Feaver,

I remember coming to practice with a sprained ankle in the early weeks of swim season my sophomore year, that would make it January, cold. You could see the swelling, the black and blue as I pulled my pantleg up to prove my reasoning. I'm hurt, coach. You smiled, "drag it behind you, you'll be okay." I did and I was, but it struck me that you knew how to push people to make them better.

Later, I came to you febrile with a cough and headcold. Congested and nasaly, I told you I was bad-sick and needed to sit this one out, I'd be back in a couple days; I bartered with my best prepared statements. You listened and smiled, "Welcome to the spa of healing, get in the water", you said. And I did, again. After a short while it became obvious that weakness wasn't welcome on your team. If a swimmer could walk the deck to explain himself, he could certainly get in the water and put in the work. You made us champions in this way.

When the pool heater would malfunction for weeks in its decrepit old age, we would swim anyway. I remember you pulling the skinnier athletes from the water a few minutes early when you saw their lips turn blue. They were sent to the showers in a shiver, and the rest of us finished the practice yardage and wished we were built like them.

You coached us in a time when outrage wasn't an option, at least not for us. You'd walk through the locker room and confront us publicly for bad behavior that we displayed in our classes throughout the week. You'd talk to us about our grades and pull us from the water early to study when we struggled. It was discipline, you taught us how to manage priorities. To be on a team like ours was a privelege only granted to those who could maintain the minimum grade expectations. You knew when we had a big test coming up that we needed to study for, you'd follow up to see how we performed. You'd tell the heavier kids that they needed to lose weight, and you encouraged them to do so for their own health and the success of the team. You never hesitated to make the whole team pay for the transgressions of one swimmer. Extra yards, faster pace, whatever made us think twice about foolish decisions or casual lack of effort. It worked. We became accountable to ourselves and each other. The sentiment pervaded: let's do everything we can not to make this day any worse than it is about to be.

I remember the stories about you, some were real, some weren't, but the lines were blurred. You had us treading water and answering tough questions with our hands overhead for what seemed like hours. If we didn't start the day acting like a team, we would certainly end the day hurting like a team. You threw a clipboard every once in a while, a folding chair here and there over the years (that one may be lore), plenty of waterpolo balls. We would sneak into your office and find the notepad that you kept all of the practice yardage on. A messenger would scamper back into the locker room and declare the day's regimen. You'd adjust practice accordingly and we learned that the notebook was often a decoy, a psychological tool. You knew we were in there trying to get an early glimpse of what we had to face that afternoon.

As you thinned in your old age, we called you Feve-bones and made Chuck Norris jokes with your name in his place. You never heard them, but you may have appreciated the creativity. Among the favorites:

When Superman goes to bed, he puts on coach Feaver pajamas.

The flu gets a coach Feaver vaccine every year.

The only time coach Feaver was ever wrong, was the time he thought he'd made a mistake.

Coach Feaver doesn't wear a watch, he decides what time it is.

Coach Feaver doesn't turn the lights on, he turns the dark off.

When coach Feaver stares into the abyss, the abyss nervously looks away.

Now as I drive Down North Berkely Avenue between the two halves of the high school campus, I pass the pool. It's nice now. Unlike the old one that we trained in with the cracked, slick cement deck and exposed fiberglass plaster that would haunt our skin for days in red itchy patches when we would dive too deeply or scuff our bodies against it during waterpolo practice. I can almost smell the chlorine on my skin; it is only my imagination. I haven't swam a lap in years, but I carry with me the things I learned in those cold winter afternoons. A young man can learn a lot in the water. Flipturn after flipturn, I remember you kneeled down and yelling with gravel in your voice when we fell behind the pace clock. Your commands were fragmented between strokes and breaths, but we all knew what you were saying. It's a temptaion to conserve energy when a swimmer knows that the day is far from over - but that isn't how you get better. You taught us to leave everything in the water and walk away better than we arrived. You were a legend then, and you are a legend now. I'm surely not the only kid that grew up and took with me the lessons that you taught. Among them:

You can always give more than you think you can.

You can always improve in skill, no matter how good you are.

When you mess up, it affects the team.

Keep focused on the little goals, and let them stack up to complete bigger ones. A 10,000 yard training day is made up of 25 yard laps.

Don't make excuses, admit mistakes and do better.

You can turn a bad day around, but it takes effort and it is always worth it.

When you cheat, you cheat yourself first and most.

Thank you for these.

Now, at the new pool with the new fence and locker room facility, your name is posted high up in laser cut steel letters, "Steve Feaver Aquatic Complex". There is a generation for whom that title would evoke nervous shivers. Perhaps hyperbole, but totally plausible.

Sometime in December, 2013, I drove by Monte Vista Chapel headed North. My pickup was loaded with camping gear and a few buddies. We were looking to get away for a few days, somewhere that smelled like pine. Somewhere we could grill fish over a bed of coals. Somewhere we didn't have cell phone reception. I saw the church parking lot packed with people and figured it was a big wedding or something. The news of your passing didn't find me until Monday; the crowd at the church suddenly made sense and my heart was heavy with sorrow and relief. Cancer won that battle, but you won the war; a trite truth. I smiled later to think that you probably would have been more upset with me for showing up late to practice, than you would be to know I didn't even attend your funeral. You were practical like that. I imagine you would have held the sentiment that nobody ever won a championship by attending a wake.

I will forever owe you.

Thanks, Coach.