Hey, Coach

Every man remains strongly influenced by the athletic coaches of his youth. For me, they were Coach Marty and Coach Randall. The former was my high-school football assistant coach, a nice, decent guy. All of my classmates liked him---the girls because of his young-Tony Curtis looks and the guys because of his beautiful, model-like blonde wife who would visit his classroom now and then. Marty didn't know much about the French and the history he tried to teach us; it didn't matter. The latter, Coach Randall, was my Little League baseball head coach, a six-foot-four lanky guy, fair to all, always encouraging in his remarks, and as smart as a whip. A few years ago, the little woman and I drove to my home town to visit my two mentors. Marty we found in his nice home, cheerful with that twinkle in his eye he always had, and his wife still a looker. Randall we found having had to sell his spacious house, and having moved back into the very old, deteriorated, original family house. Coach answered the door looking morose and unkept; his wife was unwilling to talk to visitors; the house was dark. Their beloved adult daughter, Randall told us, had committed suicide just a couple of months before. And so it is with life in general---it comes with joys and sorrows, and we can't foresee which ones the future will bring. Meanwhile, all we can do is prepare our children or our students or the kids on our sports teams for the big game of life itself. Take care, Coaches.

-Old Doc