SINK OR SWIM

Last night I had the pleasure of visiting with some former students, and one of them referred to me as something I hadn't been called in twenty years--Coach. I wan't sure whether to laugh or cringe. You see, back in 1991 and '92 I was the lamest excuse for an assistant junior high volleyball coach that this town has ever seen.

I agreed to take on this position of athletic esteem because: 1. I was new to the school system and didn't know any better 2. the head coach was desperate for a helper and 3. I met the qualifications of having two legs and the ability to blow a whistle. Knowing how to play the game was immaterial.

Actually, I HAD played volleyball in Miss Mosby's jr. high gym class back in the mid-1960s. This was in the days when girls served underhanded and just pitty-patted the ball back and forth across the net. Nothing to it. Fast forward almost 30 years and, my, how the game had changed with interscholastic competition. Most of the girls wanted to serve the volleyball overhanded, like a rocket, and move the ball around with a bump, set, spike return that was guaranteed to intimidate the opponent into submission. I was way out of my league. About all I knew how to demonstrate was stretching and running warm-ups.

Fortunately, the former student I ran into last night seemed to have no recollection of what a lousy coach I was--or at least she didn't throw it up in my face.

"Remember the time when the zipper stuck in my skirt and you had to come to the locker room to rescue me?" she asked. We laughed. Oh, lord, do I remember that! I thought I'd have to call the Jaws of Life.

"And remember the game when I served the ball (underhanded) and it went up to the ceiling and back through the gym rafters?" Indeed, I do. The ball actually never touched a thing and landed on the opponent's side, remaining in play. Damnedest serve I'd ever seen.

I didn't tell her what I remember MOST about those two years of being the assistant VB minion, though: Coaching is hard work. After a day of teaching, I was ready to go home and relax before getting to the paper-grading grind. The last place I wanted to be was in a noisy gym with 30 girls for 90-minute practices, riding buses to games, and getting home late--since we always had to stay for the jr. high football games, of course. It was sensory overload for a 40+ year-old body that had never bumped and spiked a volleyball in her life.

After two years of this charade, and numerous chiropractic appointments, I left coaching to become the yearbook adviser. I had much more ability and confidence with this position since it didn't require wearing shorts, but it was just as challenging and dangerous--this time to my mental health. As far as I'm concerned, schools need to re-name those "extra-duty" jobs to "hazardous duty." If I had it to do all over again, I'd be wearing a life preserver.