Most of you read this blog because it is about track and field and cross country mainly from a historical perspective. Today we go off track a bit, but not too far. This blog began because my colleague and co-founder, and most of all friend Roy Mason sent me the following article discovered while he was clearing out old files. It was written in 1986 and sent to a mutual friend Steve Price, now deceased. I cannot remember ever having seen this piece even though Steve and Roy and I exchanged many, many letters and tapes over the years. It was in fact Roy's incredible writing and analysis of old Track and Field News issues that got Once Upon a Time in the Vest started. I had gotten a little experience with blogging and decided this would be great material and got started. And we are eternally grateful that TF&N never chose to sue us. The blog has since evolved after Roy went through his collection of the magazine. He has since given away all of his old issues to our friend Darryl Taylor whom neither of us have ever met, although I di run a relay against Darryl about 1964 in Albuquerque. If you have ever coached high school kids and remember those moments of the heat of battle, the pre-game, and the post, the agony of defeat, etc. I think you will enjoy this. In a later issue I will show you what AI can do to turn it into a track and field article, but I will not pollute this wonderful work by making a comparison. Ths article I think could have made it into the New Yorker or and old version of Sports Illustrated. It does not have a title; it doesn't need a title. It was written in 1986. Roy knew Arnie Koch, the subject of the work back in their days of teaching and coaching in Southern California. It speaks for all of you.
Long before I reach the city limits of Mt. Angel, Oregon (pop. 240) my destination is made clear by the lights on the Kennedy High School athletic field.
I park, grab a windbreaker from my duffle bag and head for the field. Before I reach the ticket booth, I hear the introduction of players, then “and the head coach, Arnie Koch.” Yep, I'm in the right place.
Scio High (say SIGH-oh), as the visiting team, is relegated to the opposite side of the field. The stands on this side are only five rows high making it nearly impossible for the handful of fans, mostly parents mixed with a small cadre of students, to see over the players standing on the sidelines.
Aside from the fact that they use black instead of brown, the Scio Loggers are miniature Cleveland Browns, right down to the stripeless orange helmets. Kennedy is resplendent in red, white and blue. Their jerseys are out of one of those glossy catalogs that lay around every athletic department office. Leaf through one of these, come to a smiling model wearing a jersey like this and wonder who would buy something this gaudy. Kennedy High School, that's who. They look like softball uniforms with the shoulders and sleeves red, the front and back blue and the numbers white.
I am able to approach Arnie unnoticed. I come up behind him and whisper in his ear, I've driven 580 miles to see this game. You better Goddam well win”.
Arnie turns, stares unrecognizingly, reaches down, grabs my wrist and shouts, “Security, we have an unauthorized person on the field. Please remove him”. A moment's pause, then we embrace. I have so much respect for this man, hugging him fills me with strength.
The national anthem – Arnie is the only one on the sidelines singing the words – and then it is showtime. Scio is to receive the kickoff. Arnie grabs my shoulder enthusiastically, “Watch this. We're going to bust this one up the middle”.
They nearly do. The last Kennedy defender makes the saving tackle at the Scio 40. Arnie is excited. “One man, one man away from a touchdown!” No disappointment in his voice, only hope. “Next time it will go.”
This drive is the Scio quarterback's moment to shine. It was to be his last. He completes three or four passes and the Loggers are first and ten on the Kennedy 13. A sack is the death knell of the drive and Kennedy takes over on downs.
Kennedy moves the ball consistently as the tailback, number 10, rips through the Scio defense. Arnie screams, exhorts his troops, calls defenses to no avail. Quickly it is 7-0.
Arnie is excited. The kickoff return is certain to go this time. Even though the kick is short and an upman has to field it, once again it is one man short of going all the way. It is evident that Scio has been working on this return. As it turns out, they will have ample opportunity to practice this play during the course of the evening.
Scio moves the ball once again, a penalty gives them a first down on the two. At this point I got the feeling that Murphy's Law was in effect. Sure enough, third down sees a fumble into the end zone. The quarter ends.
Kennedy moves the ball with ease. With the ball near midfield, Arnie calls a defense to counter the option play. Yes, indeed, here comes the option. The linebacker blitzes at the wrong angle and misses intercepting the pitch by inches with an open field before him.
Arnie screams at the kid, “That one's on you”. The linebacker is ashen. Arnie turns to me, “See how I've mellowed.” Later Arnie takes the kid aside and explains what he should have done.
Kennedy, with #10 eating up the yards in huge chunks, scores making it 14-0. Bill, the offensive coordinator, turns to Arnie. “Coach, we've got to get some points.” Hearing that, I get the feeling that coaching football isn't that complex.
Football coaches love to call each other “coach”. It is a generic term like daddy. If I hear a child cry “daddy” in a grocery store, I still turn around. Stand in the back of the room at a football clinic and yell “Hey, coach!”. Every head would pivot.
An obvious penalty is missed. Arnie yells at the nearest official, “Hey ref, you have the flag. We can't throw it for you. How about it?”
Things go from dark to dismal – 21-0, 28-0. Scio's best back, a tough little sophomore named Tex, breaks one for a 65 yard touchdown. Oops, scratch that. The offensive captain, #76, clips a defender who had no chance of making the tackle.
Arnie is beside himself with rage. He screams at #76. Hey, come on Arnie, the guy made a mistake but he was trying. Arnie, his neck a mass of cords, explains that this is the fourth touchdown in 4½ games that has been called back because this guy clipped. I suppress a desire to scream at the kid.
With seconds remaining before the half, a Scio drive fails deep in Kennedy territory. Arnie screams at the secondary to play deeper. A pass brings the ball out to the 31 with ten seconds left. Again Arnie directs his guys to play deeper.
It was at this point that I began to get the eerie feeling that there was a force greater than any visible on the field that was determining the outcome of the game. Number ten swings out of the backfield down the sideline, gathers in a pass without breaking stride at the Scio 45 and makes a mockery of the footrace with the defensive backs for a 69 yard touchdown. The bleachers across the field erupt. Arnie seethes.
Scio blocks the extra point. The cheerleaders bubble. At this point you accept any triumph, no matter how hollow. The subtle between trailing 34-0 instead of 35-0 is lost on Arnie. He is in a black mood as he walks to the locker room.
The kids are sitting silently on the floor of the girls' locker room which is serving the visiting team tonight. They know there will be hell to pay. This is somewhat akin to “Boy, will you be in trouble when your father gets home”, only on a larger scale.
Arnie walks to the blackboard and writes “LOVE” in large letters. “I could write 'kill' or 'maim' but that's not what this game is about. You have to LOVE your teammates. You have to LOVE football. You have to LOVE to hit.” Evangelists work years to to perfect this sort of emotion.
A little more of this and he is into X's and O's. He becomes very animated while explaining to the defensive ends, for what is apparently the umpteenth time, what he wants them to do in a particular defense. “Two steps and hold! Two steps and hold! Not five steps and watch the guy run by you.”
After five minutes he turns the blackboard over to Bill to clarify what needs to happen on offense. Bill, the basketball coach, speaks so softly that the room has to strain to hear.
Two other coaches, Brad and Dean, are listening in the doorway. They have been in the press box on the opposite side. Their curiosity finally gets the better of them. Obviously I'm well connected with the head coach. Individually they introduce themselves. Brad is 19 or 20 and the school record holder for rushing yards in a season. Dean is a local businessman about 40.
I tell them that Arnie and I used to coach together in Southern California. Doesn't seem worth explaining that we coached different sports. Besides I'm enjoying the mystique of being a football coach.
As the team takes the field, Dean wants to engage me in further conversation. “You know Arnie is in a difficult situation here.” Sorry, I'm not biting. “Yes, I know.” If Arnie is in a difficult situation, I'll here it from him.
The dampness of the night is getting to me. I go out to the car, put on an extra pair of socks and a thermal undershirt and get my clipboard so I can make notes. I miss 2-3 minutes. As I reach the field, Kennedy is kicking a field goal, 37-0.
During the first half I had been just another guy standing around. Now, furiously scribbling on my clipboard, I have become a subject of interest among the parents and some of the subs. Just as a large collection of keys affixed to one's belt loop, a clipboard is a symbol of authority. You don't carry a clipboard unless you are someone important. It is a coach's tool. My stock has risen.
Finally, late in the third quarter, a couple of good old boy – parent – farmer types sidle over. “Sir, who are you scouting?” “Oh, I'm not scouting, just taking notes.” I see this exercise in semantics is lost on them and, as such, this is not a satisfactory answer. I try, “Coach Koch and I used to coach together in Southern California.” Their eyes brighten. This has worked again. I'm home free.
At 43-0 Arnie has accepted his fate. He is relaxed, talking to his younger players about what they will do when they go in. Now he is working for next year.
I'm fighting the urge to ask Arnie to let me play. At 17 I would have been humiliated by these kids, but, at 47, I'm in the best condition of my life. Just let me go in for a couple series at linebacker. Come on, Arnie, indulge my middle-aged fantasy. Let me carry the ball just once. I pick up a ball on the sidelines and make a couple throwing motions. Maybe someone will believe I used to play college ball.
Number 83 comes off the field. “Coach, I'm open and he won't throw it to me.” Arnie is easy. “Okay, go in and tell him I said to throw it to you no matter what.” Sure enough, with the ball on the Kennedy 20, #83 cuts across the middle into the end zone. He could be standing in the adjacent wheat field and not be more open than he is at this moment. Guys play entire careers and have never been this open.
The quarterback lofts a soft arching, immanently catchable ball. At its' apex I know this is not to be. The fates are toying with Arnie again. Time is suspended as the ball descends in a series of freeze frames. It strikes #83 in both hands, bounces off his facemask and falls harmlessly at his feet. The English language is woefully inadequate to describe #83's emotional state. Crestfallen is to weak a word. He circles behind the bench. Were the ground to open up and swallow him, he would welcome it.
Arnie gruffly commands him to his side, puts his arm around his shoulders, smiles and tells him that tomorrow he'll laugh about this. Neither of them believe it but it takes some of the sting out of the situation.
My constant scribbling still attracts attention. I must have some insight that enables me to see things everyone else does not. A couple mothers, standing at my elbow, feign enthusiasm, screaming encouragement not warranted by a 43 point deficit. They glance to see if I've noticed. I enjoy the moment.
Once again Scio is battling to score and save a modicum of respectability. First and goal at the eight. This time determination and hard work will be rewarded. On the first play the quarterback finds a red white and blue jersey in the end zone and hits him right between the numbers. I know the Lord must have some great plan for Arnie. Otherwise why would he be testing him like this?
That's it for the varsity. With ten minutes remaining, Arnie is going with the JVs. The coaches are lining them up. “Okay, two guards, two tackles, two ends....Okay, okay, a running back. I need a running back!” A running back is found and the JVs, some of whom have seen spot duty already, take the field.
Up by 43 points, the Kennedy coach still has #10 in the game. The kid has had a career night – over 200 yards running and that 69 yard pass. Bill, a dignified, professional coach in his late thirties, is moved to yell across the field, “Coach, coach, what's the score?” Number 10 carries for 26 yards on the next play.
Arnie's moods have been intensity, anger and bemused acceptance. Now, with the JVs in the game, he is once again intense. In his mind it is 0-0. The JVs hold their own until, with 2:13 left, Kennedy scores again. The indignity of having half a hundred points scored against them is spared the Scio kids when the conversion is muffed; 49-0.
The JVs have shown Arnie some heart. They want to play. They are the future. Whenever one comes off the field, Arnie grabs him and tells him what a great job he's doing.
Dean, highly volatile, is screaming for all to hear, “Look at that. Two minutes to play and he still has his varsity in.” Yes, #10 is still in the game.
Number 83 limps off after the kickoff. “Coach, something happened to my hip.” Arnie assesses the situation and with a poker face replies, “Well, I can't kiss it and make it well right here in front of everybody.” The kid smiles. The coach loves him.
The game ends. The teams line up, file past each other and slap hands. It is my chance to see those multicolored monsters up close. They don't look much different than the Scio kids, a little more mature perhaps, but, with the exception of the 6'2” 270 pound nose guard and the 6'4” 205 pound tackle, the disparity isn't really noticeable. Even #10 looks like the neighbor kid who mows your lawn for five dollars.
I'm scribbling notes as I walk slowly across the field. By the time I reach the locker room, all the players are there, sitting on the floor or standing against the wall. The stench of sweaty bodies fills the room. The odor causes memories of other locker rooms thirty years ago to come rushing back. It is a bittersweet moment, good times remembered but gone forever.
A couple of the linemen are pretty well developed but the rest of the squad looks like a PE class – skinny arms, chests and legs. Many could pass for cross country runners who have wandered into the wrong locker room.
Arnie is holding forth. “It's just a game. We can't go back and play it over. It's history. All we can do is learn from it.”
Music from the dance in the cafeteria wafts into the room.....”Good Golly, Miss Molly, you sure like to ball.” I close my eyes, breathe deeply and it's 1957. I wait to hear Rod Serling's voice.
Arnie raises his voice. He is preaching the value of weight training. “Let's see the hands of those who did squats Wednesday.” Four or five hands go up. Five times that number of heads go down. “You can't be winners if you don't want to pay the price. I'd better see everyone in the weight room Monday.” A dialogue ensues about the JV game Monday, next week's varsity game, next year's team and the great job the JVs did in the fourth quarter.
Arnie mingles with the kids, answering questions, giving encouragement and advice. Slowly the kids make the transition from warriors to high school students. Helmets, pads and jerseys are exchanged for tee shirts, jeans and work boots or surfer shorts and garish unlaced high top sneakers. One kid has a skate board under his arm as he heads for the bus. A pudgy lineman is wearing a tee shirt proclaiming “The Four Stages of Tequila: 1) I'm rich 2) I'm good looking 3) I'm bullet proof 4) I'm invisible. It's true. I know. I've been there.
I use the urinal and am struck by the inconsistency of a tampon dispenser on the wall. I point this out to Arnie who assumes a half catcher's squat in front of a urinal and says, “The girls who go to this school are really tough.”
Arnie is picking up equipment and encouraging the laggardly to hurry when the Kennedy athletic director walks in. The two speak in muffled tones. I hear Arnie say “I have 11 JVs in the game and he keeps his varsity line in there.” More quiet conversation then Arnie's voice, “You'll have a letter of apology Monday. As the teams were leaving the field, it seems Dean had put both hands on the Kennedy coach's chest and shoved him.
Arnie finds Dean outside the locker room. “Yes, I did it. I was wrong.” Arnie tells him he wants a copy of his letter of apology at Sunday's coaches' meeting. Dean assures him he will have it. They agree that the Kennedy coach deserved worse.
Arnie and I walk across the dimly lit parking lot towards the team bus. Suddenly emotion floods his voice. “These guys will NOT beat us next year.” You know, I'd bet the house and car on that. Well...maybe just the car, but I know one thing for certain. I'll be there to see that game.
God loves you, Arnie Koch.
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