A Preview of My Upcoming Book, "Not Some Random Clown: A Youth Football Coaching Legend’s Rise to Glory”

Our first practice was at Dodge Field on a blazing Tuesday afternoon during the first week of August. I spent most of the practice walking around and observing each position group to get a better sense of what we had to work with. 

As I walked past our wide receivers, I overheard one of them say he was “keen to start catching some balls.” I watched wide receiver drills for a few minutes and saw the same player drop a few passes in a row and say he was having a “jolly tough time.” I marched over and yanked him out of line.

“What did I just hear you say?”

“Oh, sorry. I was just telling the other chaps that it’s a little tough trying to catch real passes!” And with that, my worst fears were confirmed. This kid was speaking in a goddamn British accent. 

“Take your helmet off right now,” I snapped, and the kid complied. He had an expensive haircut and looked clean and hygienic—never a good sign. 

“Son, I think you’ve wandered onto the wrong practice field. And probably into the wrong country. What’s your name?”

“Ian Simpson.”

“You’ve gotta be fuckin’ kidding me. So you’re the new kid who can supposedly run fast? Are you British or somethin’?”

“Yes, sir. I’m from London.”

“Then what in god’s name are you doing here?”

“I’m an exchange student. I’m lodging with the Johnson family this semester. Marshall and Jeanie Johnson. They thought it’d be good for me to experience some real American football.” He smiled earnestly, making me angrier. 

“First off, Liam, if I hear you say the word ‘lodging’ again, I’ll call the police and have you deported. This is America. We stopped saying shit like that in 1776. Second, have you ever played football before?”

“Mr. Johnson has tossed the football with me in the back yard a few times.”

“Super,” I said with no enthusiasm. I’d known Marshall and Jeanie Johnson for years. They were local do-gooders who graduated from Berry College, lived in Atlanta for a time, and then moved back here to “give back” to the community where they grew up. They owned a “sustainable, locally-sourced” coffee shop, The Ethical Brew, that employed every sour, lip-ringed teenager in a twenty-mile radius. Marshall and Jeanie spent their free time volunteering at the humane society. Marshall and I played high school football together. He was a slow-footed defensive back who only got pity snaps on special teams as a senior. I had no respect for him as player or a person. The same went for Jeanie, who was a bassoonist in the high school marching band and a National Honor Society member. Just a really pathetic pair all around. 

“Well, Liam,” I said, “it’s obvious from the drills so far that you couldn’t catch tea if you fell into Boston Harbor, so we won’t be calling you by your real name. From now on, you’re Lord Stonehands on this field. Is that understood?”

“Yes, Coach.”

“Now get the hell out of my sight.”

I walked to the opposite side of the field, where the defense was practicing. His combover whipping in the wind, Dale looked positively resplendent in his trademark practice attire: ’70s style bike shorts, knee high socks, ten-year-old Adidas sneakers, and a red polo shirt with “Coach Dale” stitched in cursive on the left chest pocket. The shirt was a good two sizes too small and strained under the weight of Dale’s generous stomach. His face reddened as he alternated between blowing his whistle and screaming at a puny defensive back he was making do up-downs.

“Chop those feet!” Dale shouted as the kid ran in place. When Dale blew his whistle, the player dropped to the ground and then sprang back up to begin running in place again. At the beginning of practice, we’d placed tape on the forehead of each player’s helmet and wrote their name on the tape with a black sharpie so we could identify them. As I got closer, I was finally able to read the name tape on the player’s helmet: “Polo Playar” it said in Dale’s unmissable, first-grade handwriting. There he was. Pierre the Piccolo Player, in the flesh.

“This isn’t the damn New York harmonica, son,” Dale shouted as the kid struggled to stay upright. “Go faster!”

“It’s philharmonic, sir,” Pierre replied in a squeaky voice that was difficult to hear as he struggled to catch his breath. 

Dale blew his whistle twice, and Pierre stopped chopping his feet. “What the hell did you just say to me?” Dale asked.

“I said it’s the New York Philharmonic, sir. A harmonica is an instrument. A philharmonic is a symphony orchestra. Leonard Bernstein used to conduct the one in New York.”

“Well this may surprise you to learn, Mr. Polio Player, but I tried to read those dumbass bear books when I was in school. I didn’t like them then, and I sure as hell don’t want to hear about them in the middle of football practice! Now give me twenty-five gassers to midfield and back, and you better sing scales while you run since you want to talk about music so goddamn much!!!”

My joy in watching the piccolo player run gassers while tearfully singing scales was soon interrupted by commotion coming from the south end of the field. A heated argument had erupted between Leon and my offensive line coach, Lloyd Watson. Lloyd’s grandson, Steven, was one of our offensive tackles, and Lloyd had volunteered to coach the offensive line the previous fall. I was struggling to find people willing to coach on my staff at that time. Lloyd had just retired after spending thirty years working as a bible distributor. He wanted to coach football to “spend more quality time” with his grandson and “spread the word of Jesus” to the players. I didn’t give a hoot in hell about any of that, but Lloyd was an all-region guard back in his high school playing days, so I thought maybe he could help shape up the offensive line.

Our first season together was rocky. The offensive line grossly underperformed under Lloyd’s watch, and his nurturing, easy-going demeanor toward the players was like nails on a chalkboard. He also got upset when I grabbed one of his bibles off the bench during a game and started drawing an offensive play on the inside cover. After the season, though, we’d shaken hands and agreed to give it another try in 2015. 

But now, barely an hour in, Lloyd was disrupting our first practice with exactly the kind of sanctimonious rant I’d hoped he’d left behind. As I walked closer, I could hear Lloyd shouting indignantly at Leon: “They’re just children! Would you say that in front of Jesus?!” 

I pulled Lloyd to the side.

“What’s going on, Lloyd?”

“Who on earth is this guy?” he said.

“Leon?”

“Yes. What’s he doing here? Does he have a son on the team or something?”

I looked back over at Leon, who was standing on the blocking sled, drinking a Mountain Dew with one hand and eating a Mounds candy bar with the other. He was yelling at the offensive linemen to hit the sled and push it to midfield. The players were struggling to move the sled, which was weighed down by Leon’s substantial frame. “Filth!” Leon shouted, spewing yellow soda and flecks of chocolate and coconut onto the helmets of three players. “We’ll stay out here all night and ever one of y’all will skip school tomorrow if we need to!”

“No, Leon doesn’t have kids,” I said to Lloyd. “He played in high school with me and Dale. I asked him to be my primary offensive assistant coach this year, so you’ll be answering to him. He’s a pretty impressive guy, isn’t he?” 

“Well I don’t think that’s a good idea,” Lloyd said. “He’s a bad influence on the kids.”

“What’d he do?”

“You see that smaller kid over there? Number 24.” I recognized the player immediately. It was Andy, the kid who was a magician and ventriloquist. He was attempting to move the blocking sled, but kept slipping and falling down. Andy was the smallest player on the field, but Leon had put him on the offensive line. A brilliant move, I realized, because nothing makes an undersized player want to quit more than getting steamrolled on every play by much larger defensive linemen. I was impressed with Leon’s foresight.  

“Oh yeah. That’s Andy the Ventriloquist. Wow, he really looks every bit as pathetic as I’ve been told.”

“Well Leon told Andy, and I quote, ‘For your next magic act, why don’t you make your own ACL disappear?’”

“Okay. And?” 

“And what?!” Lloyd shouted. “That’s absurd. You can’t tell a kid you hope he tears a knee ligament. What kind of example is that setting?”

“I’ve gotta disagree with you there, Lloyd. I’ll concede the ACL comment was borderline. I’ll give you that. But I want my coaches to err on the side of going too far. Okay? You know, you could learn a lot from Leon about motivating players. I hate to be the one to tell you this, but none of the offensive linemen are afraid of you.”

“I don’t want them to be afraid of me. This is a youth football team, not the Marines. We’re supposed to be building them up to be great men of God and great community members. I really don’t think it’s a good idea to have the boys taking instructions from some felon wearing an ankle bracelet.”

“Leon is an alleged felon, Lloyd. Have you never read the Constitution?”

“He was convicted of selling counterfeit goods and conspiracy to run a chop shop! What does the Constitution have to do with this?” Lloyd shook his head. “This is ridiculous. Letterman,” he said in a defeated tone, “I was really hoping you might grow up a little bit during the off-season, but I guess that didn’t happen. There are more important things in life than winning, you know.” 

Lloyd had crossed the line, and I was shaking—literally shaking—with rage. I blew my whistle as loud as possible in Lloyd’s left ear. It served the dual purpose of causing his hearing aid to whistle and getting the offensive line’s attention. “O-Linemen!” I shouted. “Please stop what you are doing for just a second and listen up! I have a quick announcement to make about the coaching staff. Coach Lloyd is fired, effective immediately. From now on, Coach Leon will be in charge of the offensive line.” 

Leon beamed with pride atop the blocking sled as sweat poured down his bald, pink head. The offensive linemen burst into applause and began chanting, “Coach Leon! Coach Leon! Coach Leon!”

I turned back to Lloyd. “Now Lloyd, kindly gather up your hotel bibles and get the hell off my field. You’re done here. And take your useless grandson with you.” Lloyd grabbed Steven, left the field in a huff, got into his Honda Civic, and puttered away. So disturbed was Lloyd by the experience that he left the country the next day to do mission work in Guatemala, claiming I’d caused him “to give up any hope for this country.” As far as I know, he’s never returned to America.