I'm Not... Busy

... for roughly the next 8 months...

Well that's not entirely true, but in any circumstance, I'm substantially less pressed for time than I was 24 hours ago, which was right about the time my team's basketball season was ending on a last gasp attempt at a runner in the paint.

So here I sit, only instead of sitting on a hard bench, I'm sitting on a lovely, soft, mocha microfiber couch. Instead of scouting a game or watching film, I'm waiting on a pudgy version of Jay Mohr to take up the television screen. Instead of barking orders at players, I'm getting growled at by Mya, my Siberian Husky who apparently needs more attention than a Kardashian girl on shooting hiatus.

Isn't this the life?

Let me tell you one of the most challenging moments of being not famous, J-Socks style. It came last night about 10:30PM in an enormous green football locker room at Westlake High School. It came after 32 minutes of hard fought competition on the adjacent basketball court. It came when all but 6 young athletes had gone home, moving on to other things; baseball, maybe.

For me, it came in the form of a flashback to the last four years of my coaching life; when the remaining 6 young men were Freshmen in high school. When, on the bus headed to their last game of the season, I told them that the next four years would be gone in the blink of an eye, and how I pleaded with them through anything to just keep pushing forward and never take any moment for granted. I quoted one of my coaching heroes, Jimmy V, in imploring them, "Don't Ever Give Up." I remembered their Sophomore year when they struggled to find themselves as they moved up the program and their Junior year seeing such progress and finding the will to become leaders. And I thought back vividly on this past season, their Senior year, as they persevered through injuries, quitting teammates, no luck, no support from the school community and a tough schedule to steadily improve and give a team all they could handle in the tournament.

And just like that, reality snapped me back to the present moment. A moment filled with red eyes, faces buried in hands to keep the whole world out, sopping jerseys pulled over weary faces and two blank stares wondering aloud how it could be done. Mercifully, gravity took over, my head fell and my vision became focused on the floor. I didn't want them to see as my head throbbed and I fought hard to keep tears at bay.

Four years I was the faceless rock sitting with these young men, the guy at the end of the bench telling them it would be ok, don't give up, things will get better. But now, there is nothing to say. And so I didn't, I just sat with them. Choked up and silent, quite the opposite of all our previous time together.

And I listened as finally they started to talk and pick each other's spirits up. And as a group they all began the process of gaining closure on the situation. And I got some closure, too, because I realized they didn't need me anymore; they'd all become the rock for each other.

As the Assistant Coach, you just kind of sit there and help out as needed. You are invisible to spectators, officials and, most of the time, the players. But as I sat there and they slowly filed out, one by one, they all said, "thank you," and I realized what being not famous meant for me. It meant that painful moment of empathy, as these young men dealt with losing one of the things they cherished most. But seeing that they were more a team now than they'd ever been. I guess you don't have to have a face to make an impression.

I'm incredibly proud of those 6 and I can't believe that my experience with them has come to a close. I'm unbelievably blessed to have gotten an opportunity to coach that group, and I am certain that I'm a better coach because of it, even if I'm still just sitting there, faceless, on the bench. And I hope they have no regrets, because I sure don't.

Well, maybe just one, from that damn Freshman year... I wish I would have told them not to blink.

Be well.