89. You May Not Know It To Look At Me Now...

I was once an athlete. I surprised my parents when I turned out for JV soccer as a freshman at Morris Knolls High School. I had no previous experience in team sports. Except for one summer winning a couple of ribbons for events in the town’s field day, I had not shown any athletic skill. All I had was a fascination with this cool sport that I had seen played in Europe. Putting on shin guards, cleats, and Golden Eagles jerseys, we came onto the field and tried to understand the positions and rules of soccer. You would have laughed at us, two dozen boys chasing a ball around in a frantically kicking scrum. Usually we missed the ball and kicked each other instead. Few of us had any idea what we were doing.

In the mid-60’s where I grew up, soccer was a fairly new game in public schools. My school was brand new, so we didn't even have a history as a team, and our uneven and sometimes soggy field was as much an opponent for us as any visiting team. There weren’t a lot of guys among us who knew the game— there were no youth teams, and certainly not many kids who grew up with it or had parents who'd even heard of it. There was no soccer on TV where you could learn and copy the moves of capable players. Some coaches hadn’t even played soccer before.

Today, the average 8-year-old suburban child knows more than most of us did in our early days of practice. My grandchildren have followed pro soccer all their lives. They have their favorite teams and heroes, and their supportive parents have been with them through try-outs for club teams and skills camps. None of that existed in my day.

Maybe because Mom started me in K at age 6, I was ahead of my classmates by a year and I was just a little bigger and more coordinated—and it was paying off. The JV coach gave me nods of approval, so I enjoyed trying harder. I felt like I was really getting the game—and I wish I had stayed right there at that level, with that young team.

In my sophomore year, I strained my ankle badly when I was attempting to be the hero of the day. I swung my leg to drive the ball into the goal, but my toe snagged the ground and I went down and almost passed out. In a short while, I watched my ankle swell up like a grapefruit! This was right before my coach recommended that I be moved up to the Varsity team to help fill their roster. 

My injury wasn’t at all healed, but I showed up for Varsity practice anyway because I really wanted to make the right impression. In our first scrimmage of the season with our sister school, Morris Hills, I botched a defensive tackle, landing on my back. Our goalkeeper had lunged way outside and I was the only man left between incoming ball and goal net; my instinct was to reach out and stop the ball with my hand. Of course that allowed the other team to score on the penalty shot. But from my angle, a hand ball penalty was a justified risk, since the ball was heading straight in anyway. From the dusty ground where I lay dazed, I saw coach throw his clipboard to the ground and bellow for all to hear, "SICKLES, YOU STINK!"

My bad ankle, the more intense pace of the Varsity game, and the furious reaction of our coach… all of this contributed to my shocking humiliation on the field, and resulted in my permanent residence on the second-string squad. No matter how hard I worked, I couldn’t seem to earn the Varsity coach’s respect. 

At the Varsity level of the game, I clearly didn’t show up with the right stuff. I accepted that I was not going to be a starter, but for the rest of my school years, I stuck it out. Everyday practice was a grueling but worthwhile workout. In heat, rain, or frost, we ran miles of laps around the campus to build stamina, and I was in my top condition then. I considered my best contribution to the team was in daily scrimmages when we divided into two sides, skins and shirts. I played a left back position. As a defender, I did my part to challenge our front-line starters on the opposing squad. But on game days, I wore my thick sweatpants so I wouldn’t get slivers from the bench I warmed!

Coach laid down a good foundation for us to become good sportsmen: to follow the rules and to be respectful on the field, especially to the referee, whom we were to address as “Mr. Official.” not "Hey Ref!" By the way some of our opponents played, and how their coaches behaved, it was not a universally applied set of rules. And if we got tripped or shoved a little and hit the ground, no one dramatized their pain, clutching their wound and grimacing like modern players do… coach would probably have marched onto the field to pull us up by the ear!

Our guys who performed well got pet names, smiles and pats on the back. For others of us the coach's love was a bit conditional.  From my viewpoint as a very thin-skinned kid, he was another one of those men who believed he needed to scold and criticize boys as part of his leadership.  The proverbial tough coach, I guess. He could be both inspiring and bullying.

Why didn't I walk away? Well, one of coach's teachings was that the only thing worse than weak effort was quitting, and I was determined to stay on! As I said earlier, my JV experience had been considerably more constructive—of course the stakes were lower down there, less competitive, and it was fun.

Coach wanted his boys to win, and he was successful with that. Our season ended with an impressive record, but a disappointing outcome at the State Tournament. In the many years after our stint, the Golden Eagles earned a lot of recognition and awards. At retirement, our coach was honored for his fine career of coaching boys’ soccer and basketball as well.

Looking back, I appreciate the benefits of being on the team. Any grievance I’ve held and written about here should be evaporating by the time I finish writing this story. Thank you, Linda, I keep needing to be reminded that my purpose is to let it go!

I know that a few of my former teammates will be reading this, and I imagine that some would have no recollection of our coach as having been anything but wonderful.  Better men that I.  I'm fully aware that my dimly-lit soccer career was not all because of unsupportive coaching. 

When I watch a pro team soccer game now, I think back and wonder if we had any of that ball-handling skill, that kind of agility, or such an intuitive sense of teamwork. We were the Neanderthals of soccer. In subsequent generations, players have come along who were apparently interbred with some species of insect, born with 360° vision, lightning reflexes and the ability to grab a speeding ball with magical sticky feet.

Morris Knolls High School Varsity Soccer, 1967.  If you're wondering, I'm fourth from the right in the back row, with the blond mop on my head!