More Important Than the Game

Late August, first football game of the regular season. We’re at Carvers Bay, a district rival and a team out for blood. It was my first year as an offensive coordinator here at this lovely school, and this game had a lot of emotional weight on it. My kids were ready, pumped, and the last thing I could show was any sign of doubt. As the opposing coaches stared daggers through us, I looked up and down my sideline at my players’ faces, all lined up, arms locked together, watching the captains slowly march to midfield for the coin toss.

Shortly after I was promoted to Offensive Coordinator, my head coach asked me how I wanted to construct my offensive staff. I had been the offensive line coach for the last two years, and I while I was looking forward to moving up to quarterbacks and backs, the most important coach on any offensive staff has to be who runs the fat boys.

The fat boys get the job done. That was the most important job to fill.

We went all spring and all summer without finding “the guy.” Thankfully, Coach Lep appeared. Lep was coming from up north, trying to get a job down south with he and his partner, trying to make a new life down here. He coached football up north, played football in college, and was young,energetic, and intense. It didn’t take long in his interview for us to know that he was our guy, and he could start the first week of August camp.

First quarter of the Carvers Bay game, we got the ball first and we slowly, methodically, play-by-play, marched down the field. My backs were breaking off big chunk yardage, but it was down in the trenches where the real fight was happening. The offensive line was dominating. We were executing double teams, down blocks, reach steps, and firing on all cylinders. I looked down the line and saw Lep’s face, excited, pleased, proud of how his position group attacked the opponent. I was doing my part to call a balanced, focused game, and Lep beamed with pride, knowing the impact that he and his players were having on our success. We scored again, going up 21-0. We weren’t just winning; we were dominating this team, and the sideline roared.

In my classroom, first week of August, Lep wove himself around all the boxes in my classroom that I’d yet to unpack from the summer. We were on my whiteboard, reviewing blocking assignments and play installs for the practice scheduled for that afternoon.

“How are you settling in, Lep?” I asked.

“Good. Just trying to play catch-up. You’ve been practicing all summer, and I’m still trying to learn all the plays.”

“How’re your schools?” I asked. Lep was teaching special education at an elementary school in the district, and his partner, Chelsea, worked guidance at a different local high school.

“Chelsea is,” Lep sighed, still staring at the whiteboard, “And I’m trying as best I can. They’re working me in everywhere. They’re just happy to have a male in the department.”

“I bet,” I nodded. “What about outside of work? You settling in at home?”

Lep took a second to respond. “Yeah.”

“Not your most confident ‘yeah’ I’ve ever heard…,” I smiled.

“It’s just new, you know…,” he sighed, “New apartment, new city, new job, new everything…”

“Homesick?” I asked.

“Yeah, a little,” he smiled softly, “I love being down here, but it’s starting over. Nothing easy about that.”

“Well, we’re happy to have you,” I said, hoping to reassure him.

“Happy to be here. It’ll just take some time. This’ll feel like home soon enough.”

Halftime in the Carvers Bay game. We’re up 28-0. Every bounce went our way. The coaches on the other sideline are scrambling, trying to fix the sinking ship. We’re all huddled together in the back of the endzone furthest from the scoreboard. The head coach stood, circled by the coaching staff, forming all his thoughts for the second half adjustments.

The coaching staff huddled together. The head coach rained down on us with praises and instructions. We then split up, moved into offensive and defensive groups. When we came together, my coaches were all smiles: “Okay, guys. Um… no adjustments? Just keep doing what we’re doing. Kill the clock. Don’t get anyone injured.”

I noticed Lep was off in another world.

“Lep: you good?” I asked.

“What? Yeah… yeah. Just, uh… yeah, I’m good. Anything you want me to tell the line?”

“No man. Just ‘good job’ and ‘finish strong’.”

Lep nodded his understanding and went right back to staring down our sideline, to the crowd. We broke up, talked to the kids, and got ourselves ready for the second half.

The start of the second half was rough, with Carvers Bay having a great return and then a solid drive, but once they crossed midfield, our defense was able to punch it out and jump on it. I cheered loudly and looked for my offense to take the field, and I noticed Lep kept looking back to the stands behind us. We took the field, drove it down in chunks with big-time iso runs and a few well-timed counters, and punched it in, going up 36-0.

I start collecting the offensive coaches, organizing the switch to the second-stringers when I noticed Lep staring concernedly back at the fans in the stands behind our team.

“Dude, what’s going on with you? You’re not typically the distracted type.”

Lep looked at me, frustrated with himself, ‘No, man, I’m sorry. I’m worried about Chelsea.”

“What about her?”

“She drove out here by herself, she doesn’t know anyone, and some creep from the home stands keeps following her around, hitting on her. I know that look she has when she’s worried, scared… I just don’t know what to do about it. I’m trying to do my job, but I also feel like I need to protect her.”

I stopped, the game forgotten. I walked to the fence separating the fans from the field. My eyes scanned the fans in the stands and found, in the center, a familiar face. Justin, a father to one of our linebackers, sat with his beautiful family, cheering hard for our players. “JUSTIN!” I called out, repeatedly. I finally got his attention and waved him over to the fence.

“What’s going on?” Lep asked.

“Just get Chelsea over here,” I told him. He didn’t ask any more questions; he flagged her down and motioned her over.

She and Justin got to the fence at about the same time. “Hey, Chelsea, I’m Coach Buffkin,” I shook her hand over the chain link fence. I’d only known Lep for about a month at this point, and I hadn’t yet met Chelsea.

“Hey, Coach Buffkin; Chelsea,” she politely shook my hand, a hint of a question in her voice.

“I hear some creep is following you around here,” I smiled comfortingly.

“It’s not a big deal. You guys have bigger things to worry about.”

“No ma’am,” I shook my head and made a face, “no ma’am, you come first.” I motioned to Justin, and his smile beamed through his thick, woodland beard. “This is my good friend Justin,” I said, “Justin, this is our new coach Lep’s partner, Chelsea.” I turned back to Chelsea as they nodded to each other, “His wife teaches Bible lessons to my kids. His kid plays on our team. He sits next to me in Sunday School and church. I trust him with my kids, my wife… my life. He and his beautiful family are sitting right up there in the stands. As long as you’re with him, you’re safe. And he would love for you to join his family up there.”

“Absolutely,” Justin shook her hand gently, “As long as you’re with us, you’re part of us.”

Chelsea looked at Lep, who smiled reassuringly. She then looked at Justin, “Thank you. I would love that.”

“Thank you, Justin,” I clapped him on the shoulder.

“No problem, Buff,” Justin patted my hand and escorted Chelsea back up to his family. Lep and I watched as Justin introduced her to each family member, each hugging her with that expected southern charm.

“Buff, buddy…” Lep started.

“No worries,” I said, “let’s go finish strong.”

The game finished 36-0; we put in our back-ups and they got solid playing time, driving the ball down the field and killing the clock. We took a knee, marched to the fifty, and walked in a straight line, clapping hands with the opponent in as sportsman-like a way as we could having just dragged them up and down the field. Some of their coaches refused to shake our hand, which was not unexpected. We finished with a post-game speech by our head coach, passionate and proud. When we were finished, we prayed, broke it down, and released them to fly to their families in the stands.

Chelsea stood with Justin’s family, laughing and joking and feeling surrounded by comfort. Lep came to her, and she was all smiles. They hugged, kissed softly, smiled into each other's eyes, and they regaled each other with well-deserved praise. Myself and the head coach thanked each of the families, hugging people we’ve known and loved for many years, and we finished our celebration as we collected our things and returned to the buses to return home.

The bus ride home was unbearable. Lots of cheering. Lots of singing. After losses, you can hear a pin drop on the ride home, but after a victory against a district rival to this extent? Yeah; the bus was uproarious, and the coaches on the bus simply smiled and bit our tongues. When we returned to the home field house, we took up laundry, packed up our gear, and watched as our players marched off merrily to their cars and off into the weekend. Outside the field house, Lep and I watched the last car pull away.

“Hey, Buff. I wanted to say…,” Lep started.

“You did great tonight, brother. Your lineman did an exceptional job. Hurts me to say it, but they’re doing better under you than they did under me.”

“Thanks, but about Chelsea…”

“What about her?”

“I can’t say thanks enough for helping her out.”

“No problem, man. Least I could do.”

“No, it’s not. I was being unprofessional, but you could’ve yelled at me, but you didn’t. You helped me fix the problem. I won’t forget this, man. You took care of me, and that’s how you get someone’s loyalty. Thank you,” Lep shook my hand, as sincerely and respectfully as he could.

“Brother,” I smiled, pulled his handshake closer, and closed my other hand over his forearm, “I prayed for you. I prayed for a good coworker, a good coach, and a good friend. And here you are. And if I prayed for you, I promise you, I prayed for her, too. You’re part of our family, now.”

He gripped my hand firmly and patted my shoulder, “Thank you sir,” he said, and he strode his way to his car.

Our season ended as one of the most successful seasons we’ve had in recent history, rivaling any in the history of the school. Lep was no small part of that success. He has consistently told me that so long as I stay at this school, he will be here, and I feel the same way about him. He left his home, his family, for a chance to make a name for himself and a life for he and Chelsea. That’s difficult; I’ve done it a number of times. But it isn’t always about the family you leave behind or the family you create anew.

Sometimes it’s about the family you find, the one that needed you as much as you needed it.