I normally do not write on Sundays. Whether in deference to
some unwritten personal blue law, the need for a break or out of love and
appreciation for a God I do not understand nor care to converse with at the moment;
is in effect immaterial to the fact. I
generally do not write on Sundays. Then
Thursday happened, then Friday and finally yesterday; and when I ultimately lay
my head to pillow at 3:30 this morning it was too late to write.
In this kaleidoscope of events of the past days, it is Friday
that will have the most lasting memory for most readers. Friday was Sandy Hook Elementary. A school name not unlike Columbine, Virginia
Tech or The University of Texas. 20
children and 6 adults perished in that awful event, and 18 hours earlier 22
children and one adult were slashed by a knife wielding man at an elementary
school in China. No matter the moral
outrage, no matter the misguided attempts at fixing a ‘broken’ society, what
commonalities are present in the two men who half a world away take out their
personal insanities upon children.
I do not have the answer, but I would like to point a finger
like the hundreds and thousands of people who have vented into this debate
using the shock and disgust of this situation to forward their own personal
agendas to improve society. I do not
point fingers at legislators, the NRA, gun manufacturers, the Supreme Court or
any other authority or person of authority in this matter. In an era of blame shifting and finger
pointing recriminations, let us look in the mirror. Let us legislate a minimum of 1 hour
conversation with neighbors a day, never the same neighbor, you can only talk to
the same person as part of this mandate once per month.
The details beyond this would be reasonable, enforcement
would not be funded nor demanded, except that once a year on the date of
anniversary, at 9a, noon, 3p and 6p and 9p; if you owned a transmission source
(radio, TV – of any kind, satellite) you would have read off the location and
names of the victims of any mass killing in the country. Perhaps then we would not lose sight that a
sound bite world and isolation of individuals behind electronic camouflage is
not a society but a haven for the insane among us.
As devastating as Friday was to us all, and for the lifelong
hauntings of those parents and children in the vicinity of Sandy Hook
elementary; for the rest of us life will continue forward with nary a look back
on this event in the coming weeks and months.
While this tragedy was developing in Connecticut, I was preparing for an
indoor soccer (actually futsal) tournament at the college where I work. A position of some envy for some, if not
many, but a position I would not have if it were not for the 4 Little Maids
from school.
NB. For the sake of
information, my parents thrust upon me as a child a love for the low theatre of
Gilbert and Sullivan who wrote a wonderful piece of music for their comic opera
The Mikado entitled Three Little Maids from School. Here is a link to a great performance from
Australia http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=VyEJZ9yODB8
It was winter 1999 or 2000 when I was approached by Kim Munro
nee Murphy, Megan Lyons nee Karchon, Kristiana Dixon and Sarah Barbu . Now to put this in perspective. I had coached Kim and Sarah for a couple of
years and Kim’s dad was my assistant. I
had also coached against Kristi for 2 years before coaching her for a year and
had coached her older brother. Megan had
been a family friend for years going back to the times I had coached her
brother in High School, and in the highest honor a coach could receive she had
attended the high school where I coached just to have had the experience before
she began attending the school that would be better for her long term
education.
A that time they were all attending Notre Dame Preparatory
High School in Pontiac, Michigan and were deeply concerned that they were not
getting the best preseason prep work from their coaches. I was not coaching at the time, having suffered
a major head injury in 1998 and walking away from the sport in the spring of
1999 after Evan was born. I will never
know if they were really concerned about what was coming in the Spring or if
they were throwing me a lifeline; but they would not be denied.
At a time when I did not believe in myself, they believed in
me; after the countless lessons on the soccer field about picking yourself up
and getting on with the job, they taught me to take my own medicine. While I
struggled with the techniques, afraid of the ball hitting my head, and having
less than adequate balance with my left leg; I came to realize that the knowledge
of the game and the psychology of the player were not dependent on whether I
could continue to play but whether I was willing to risk engaging myself with players.
I have never forgotten those sessions in the racquet ball
courts, the renewed laughter and life enjoyed with players and friends. I have remained in touch with 3 of the four
girls, who are now grown women living vibrant lives of their own. I know of 2 marriages and four children to
date; and my heart sings for joy with each interaction and announcement. Each Christmas we exchange cards, and over
the long journey with Evan they reached out to share a hug or a note of
encouragement to him so many times that I lost count.
And this year has been different and yet the same. Thursday evening after I had spent the
afternoon at the college, then spent three hours on a floodlit practice field
at an Air Force Base then driven an hour home, there was a package on the
kitchen table. There is nothing unusual
about getting home at 11 pm and finding packages, letters, cards and bills
strewn over the central location for distribution (as Fedex has the Memphis
sorting Hub, we enjoy the kitchen table)
But this package was from Kim Munro.
I have on the shelves in my office a picture of a 15 year
old Kim holding a trophy after the last season I coached her, the season I
suffered my head injury. She looks so
young, and her smile just lights up the picture. I as usual do not look like a soccer coach but
more like a lumberjack. And that picture
sits there to remind me of the influence and impact that coaching can have on a
young life.
Inside the package was an assortment of thoughtful gifts of
no appreciable value to anyone but us.
This is the gold bullion of friendship love and respect. To begin with or end with the dozen plus homemade
chocolate chip cookies that is the question? Or Lil’ Duck’s twin brother rescued
from a market in the days after Evan’s death,
or the ‘e’ necklace for Morgan, the candle of light and love for us all
or the cranberry hand soap.
This package was not about the stuff but about the real
values in the strength of relationships and positive influences upon one another. If I influenced Kim’s confidence by changing
her position from defender to forward; then she and her cohorts most definitely
influenced my belief and confidence that I could coach, and that coaching was
so much more than kicking a ball about.
The package was a touch of nostalgia, a hug of comfort and patterned
after the depth of love that true friendships hold.
Kim will undoubtedly read this blushing like the young
school girl she was, amazing wife and daughter she is, and the strongest mom a
child could ever have, don’t you forget this Mason Munro (When your able to
read this). But as she will relate to the
memories I pointed to, so too will Megan and Kristi.
While I document Kim in the above paragraphs, please do not
think that the love we have experienced from anyone else is any less meaningful
or sincere but at a time when the nation looks at the broken relationships that
lead to the pain and anguish so readily reported on the news; I wanted to
detail how the relationships of some are powerfully infused with love and
respect.
Kristi is deep into her graduate level work in Criminal
Justice at San Diego State; and she sent us music to comfort our souls as she
had received comfort at a time of need in her own life. And Megan is in the throes of joy and agony
of being a wife to a wonderful man, while running a farm while raising 3
children, including a new born in Up State New York. And through it all there
is almost weekly a kind word of love, support and remembrance.
Their love is more precious than the Crown Jewels of
England; their friendship more valuable than all the tea in China. Their influence and impact on my life is simple
– Without it, I would not be coaching today.
I would have shriveled up and given up on life as I felt life had given
up on me. So in retrospect I am not sure
if they are the mischievous Three Little Maids or the Archangels of Note Dame.
Saturday was soccer, soccer, soccer; and as much as I love
it, I was very happy to put my head to pillow this morning.
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