They Call Me Coach

Free Preview-Chapter One

“Bob, you know there is nothing personal in this, but we feel we have to move in another direction.” With those words my mind faded into semi-consciousness. The reality was that this was the end. After hundreds of games, endless practices, dozens of arenas, buses, hotels, press conferences, this was it. This was how it was going to end. In the background I heard them say the words, “Proud of what you have accomplished,” and “Contributions to the university,” and then with a handshake and a pat on the back, the door of the athletic director's office closed behind me. I was sixty-two years old. The two most treasured titles I had ever been called were Dad and Coach. Now I would never be called Coach again. I had seen it coming to some degree. With a losing record for two seasons in a row and the letters from the Alumni Association, not to mention the disgruntled fans, the writing was on the wall. Then as I pulled out of the parking lot of Alumni Hall, my Coach Bob voice appeared in my head. I knew I would beat this rap.

Countless coaches before me had heard the “different direction” talk and many would hear it long after I was gone. “You've got to move on” the voice said. “make a plan. Life goes on.” As I left the borough of Queens and headed east on the Southern State Parkway to our comfortable suburban home, I thought about how Sarah and I would plan the rest of our lives. I didn't dread that conversation.

During our forty year marriage we have been a team. Team Jenkins had always dealt with each challenge life placed before us, supporting and encouraging each other. “Make a plan, work the plan, and have a plan “B” was our motto. At the end of the Vietnam War, there was much discussion about the shape of the conference table before the peace negotiations commenced. In the Jenkins home, we would forgo that formality and always convene at the kitchen table. We had been married for a substantial period of time, so we could just look at each other and automatically know, without speaking, that we needed to move to the “conference table.”

“So how did it go?” Of course this was a rhetorical question. Sarah could see by the expression on my face and the beer I had popped open at 1:00 pm exactly how it had gone.

“Okay, I guess,” I said, trying to soften the blow as best I could.

“Do you want to try that again?” Sarah asked.

“Okay, it's over. They thanked me for my service and showed me the door.”

Silence fell over the kitchen.

“So we need a plan.” she said. “Do you have any idea of what you want to do next?”

“Well I could probably coach at a high school. I might find a job as a PE teacher.”

“Are those things you might be interested in?” she asked.

“Sarah, I am a division-one head basketball coach. I have coached at Rupp Arena and Madison Square Garden. I refuse to be saddled with a bunch of pubescent knuckleheads eight hours a day!” I could tell the beer was kicking in as my emotions rose to the surface. “I'm sorry about that, hon, but it's been my life for thirty years.” For the next few hours, she allowed me to ramble and vent. Once again I realized how blessed I was to be going through life with such a remarkable woman. She gave me exactly what I needed at exactly the time I needed it.

“What do you say we pick this up in the morning?” she said. “We can drive out to Jones Beach, walk on the sand, and begin to figure this all out.”

Jones Beach or Jones Beach State Park had always been a special place for Sarah and me. As kids in high school, we would spend our summers there, enjoying the sun and surf. This is where we had fallen in love, and we continued to come back to this sanctuary to reflect in both good times and bad. We both remembered driving down Wantagh Parkway and crossing the bay bridge to the ocean as young children. We would walk through the tunnels that led to the beach, holding our parents hands as we screamed to hear the echoes of our voices. When we surfaced from the tunnels, we could smell the Atlantic Ocean and hear the sounds of waves crashing and children playing in the surf. Sarah and I both grew up in Levittown, New York. Levittown was a small hamlet on Long Island, designed and created by Abraham Levitt between the years 1947 and 1951. He was known as the “Father of Modern Suburbia,” mostly because he filled the demand for affordable family housing during the postwar era. My father worked for Grumman Aircraft Engineering Corporation, and after work the family could make the short drive down Wantagh Parkway to the beach. It was a magical time for me. Now we drove down the familiar parkway in relative silence.