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Authors: Michele Weldon
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traveling soccer teams in grade school or middle school. They yelled too much, were dismissive, or didn’t seem to care personally about him. And the truth is they probably didn’t. They had their own kids, their own work, their own lives. You couldn’t expect anything beyond the game or the tournament. And a few said as much. They were speed fathers, like speed dates, who could provide for hours a week what an absent father could not. And nothing more.
Brendan liked a few of his baseball and basketball coaches and only one of his soccer coaches. He played his last year of baseball in sixth grade when his coach called him a derogatory name at practice. He played youth football from third to eighth grade, and one year he liked his football coach a lot, talked about him often, but when the season ended, the relationship ended.
Colin had devoted coaches for many league and traveling teams from baseball to soccer to basketball. For two years Colin had Tim Odell as a youth football coach, whom he adored. Colin told me once he decided he wanted Tim to be his father, partly because ofhow kind he was to Colin and partly because he had his own Super Bowl ring. I said we would need to ask his wife.
I never threatened the boys with a coach’s name the way I did when I said, “Stop, or I’ll call Powell.”
Powell arranged parent night every first Monday of the month in season at a local pub. Whoever could, showed up. We ordered sandwiches, burgers, beer, and salads and talked. It was a way for families to come together, a tradition Powell initiated. We had new T-shirts each year that read, H USKIES W RESTLING F AMILY . It was a way for all of us to take responsibility for each other’s sons.
“Our goal is to be a place where kids feel special, empowered, and loved,” Powell said. At the wrestling banquet during Brendan’s senior year and Colin’s freshman year, Powell talked about each wrestler on the team from freshmen to sophomores, junior varsity and varsity, with personal details and often some jokes.
He teased one wrestler. “Ninety-five percent of the time this kid drove me nuts,” Powell said. “But he worked hard and would do whatever the team needed.” Powell embraced him.
He told each wrestler how proud he was of him. Parents fought back tears.
“We believe 100 percent in what we do, this year the kids believed in what we do, and when you all believe in that, it’s a powerful thing,” Powell said.
The back table in the south cafeteria was laden with homemade dishes—the families of juniors and seniors brought the entrées, the parents of the freshmen brought appetizers and salads, the parents of sophomores, desserts. After the wrestlers and their parents heaped lasagna, fried chicken, casseroles, and vegetables onto paper plates, and plucked brownies and cookies from trays and platters onto separate plates, Powell spoke from the podium’s microphone.
“This is the hardest sport for a parent,” Powell said.
The parents nodded. It was hard to get up at 6 AM to drive them to weight lifting, make lunches before the tournaments, endure their weight-making moods, get them to the team bus every Saturday morning, and sit in the stands and watch for up to six hours at atime—fourteen hours if it was a regional, state, or national tournament. And when your son got to the mat, you might be watching him lose or get hurt. There was more work than glory, especially since you traded hours and hours of support for just a few minutes of watching him in competition.
Powell continued his talk from the podium. “The coaches work the hardest, but we get the most out of it. We call it a wrestling family because in a lot of ways it is a family. By no means do we intend to replace you as parents, but it’s nice to be loved.”
He added, “Thank you for giving your sons to us.”
5
Ear
----
December 2004
W eldon stood in front of the bathroom mirror one morning exclaiming, in what I identified as a tone of
Brendan liked a few of his baseball and basketball coaches and only one of his soccer coaches. He played his last year of baseball in sixth grade when his coach called him a derogatory name at practice. He played youth football from third to eighth grade, and one year he liked his football coach a lot, talked about him often, but when the season ended, the relationship ended.
Colin had devoted coaches for many league and traveling teams from baseball to soccer to basketball. For two years Colin had Tim Odell as a youth football coach, whom he adored. Colin told me once he decided he wanted Tim to be his father, partly because ofhow kind he was to Colin and partly because he had his own Super Bowl ring. I said we would need to ask his wife.
I never threatened the boys with a coach’s name the way I did when I said, “Stop, or I’ll call Powell.”
Powell arranged parent night every first Monday of the month in season at a local pub. Whoever could, showed up. We ordered sandwiches, burgers, beer, and salads and talked. It was a way for families to come together, a tradition Powell initiated. We had new T-shirts each year that read, H USKIES W RESTLING F AMILY . It was a way for all of us to take responsibility for each other’s sons.
“Our goal is to be a place where kids feel special, empowered, and loved,” Powell said. At the wrestling banquet during Brendan’s senior year and Colin’s freshman year, Powell talked about each wrestler on the team from freshmen to sophomores, junior varsity and varsity, with personal details and often some jokes.
He teased one wrestler. “Ninety-five percent of the time this kid drove me nuts,” Powell said. “But he worked hard and would do whatever the team needed.” Powell embraced him.
He told each wrestler how proud he was of him. Parents fought back tears.
“We believe 100 percent in what we do, this year the kids believed in what we do, and when you all believe in that, it’s a powerful thing,” Powell said.
The back table in the south cafeteria was laden with homemade dishes—the families of juniors and seniors brought the entrées, the parents of the freshmen brought appetizers and salads, the parents of sophomores, desserts. After the wrestlers and their parents heaped lasagna, fried chicken, casseroles, and vegetables onto paper plates, and plucked brownies and cookies from trays and platters onto separate plates, Powell spoke from the podium’s microphone.
“This is the hardest sport for a parent,” Powell said.
The parents nodded. It was hard to get up at 6 AM to drive them to weight lifting, make lunches before the tournaments, endure their weight-making moods, get them to the team bus every Saturday morning, and sit in the stands and watch for up to six hours at atime—fourteen hours if it was a regional, state, or national tournament. And when your son got to the mat, you might be watching him lose or get hurt. There was more work than glory, especially since you traded hours and hours of support for just a few minutes of watching him in competition.
Powell continued his talk from the podium. “The coaches work the hardest, but we get the most out of it. We call it a wrestling family because in a lot of ways it is a family. By no means do we intend to replace you as parents, but it’s nice to be loved.”
He added, “Thank you for giving your sons to us.”
5
Ear
----
December 2004
W eldon stood in front of the bathroom mirror one morning exclaiming, in what I identified as a tone of
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