A Coach at Heart

By James R. Riffel

A mysterious family secret torments George Steele as he embarks on a journey through an extraordinary period in college and professional football. Amid the social upheaval of the times, Steele pieces his personal life back together while taking part in some of the sport's greatest moments.

Surrounded by a quirky cast of teammates, friends and fami

• Language: English
• Publisher: James R. Riffel
• Release date: Sep 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9780990800316

Book preview

CHAPTER ONE

Dad always told me to study the quarterback when we watched football because I was growing taller and could run faster than the other kids in town. He promised that the ball would always be in my hands when it came down to winning or losing.

As I trudged along a path away from school after practice, I thought back as far as I could and realized it was a rare moment when I wasn’t playing with a ball of some sort. So often growing up, I would play catch with friends and, younger still, scamper around with Dad. Mom has pictures of us in front of the old house, grinning in our heavy jackets as Dad held me up. We went to games at the University of Oklahoma, where the Sooners always won, and the University of Northern California after we moved here to the Sierra foothills, and until recently the Goldrushers usually lost. And then we’d walk home and chase each other around the yard. It was our obsession.

Sometimes I felt like that’s where we should have left football, just throwing the ball around. No playbooks or statistics or stadiums. You didn’t even need blockers if you had three Mississippi’s. My high school coach, though, was an old-fashioned guy who yelled at his defenders to not spare the passer even now, in the middle of August two-a-days. And there was a full season ahead of us. As I reached the main road in the central village, the last thing I wanted to do was drag my legs up the hill and toward home in the newer section of town near the university. I was tired enough on this warm and humid night—imagine how the linemen felt after smacking into each other all day like battering rams, or the safeties who had to dash all over the field. I decided to stay close, go to Kathleen’s house and bum a ride home. Besides, I could use a dose of her cheerful nature. Just the sparkle in her eyes could pick me up.

I turned down her street and noticed stopped cars ahead. Some shadowy figures were around them as the sun dipped behind the nearby hills. The people ahead began taking shape as I approached and I could make out voices. A pickup was parked along the edge of the road, but they were gathered by a car in the middle of the street; wearing short blouses and cutoffs. Dorothy, a redhead who made my friend Mickey go all goofy and shit, stood by the driver’s door. Someone else was leaning through the open front passenger door. A third person rested against a fender, her head lowered and arms crossed—Kathleen.

My presence was so far unnoticed. Dorothy said something like, Come on, come on, while a muffled, I’m trying came from the girl leaning in the car. Scratchy radio music wafted from the vehicle as if from a too-distant source. It sounded like a Beatles song.

Damn! The Beatles! Tonight’s the night! I picked up my stride. Kathleen probably needed me more than I needed her.

Dorothy looked my way and put her hands on her hips. Well, if it isn’t George Steele.

The girl in the car backed out and turned my way, the radio playing a still-scratchy version of Love Me Do. Kathleen didn’t budge.

Hey, Kath, your hero has come to rescue you—from the depths of depression.

Oh, shut up, Dorothy! Kathleen leaned against me. I gathered her in my arms and squeezed her tight. I should be there.

I patted her back. I know. In an hour, the Beatles themselves were going to take the stage at Candlestick Park in San Francisco. An older cousin in the Bay Area offered her a ticket, making her a pop star in her own right here in Placerville. But…

She growled into my chest. Dad!

I rubbed gently between her shoulder blades. It’s okay.

She exhaled loudly against me as a distorted version of Please Please Me started up.

I can fix that, but not here, I said. Moments later, I drove off in a car owned by Dorothy’s parents with only Kathleen inside, leaning against me on the bench seat. We didn’t go far, just a little ways down the street and around a bend out of the neighborhood. Just before we reached the end of the road, I pulled over. Twist and Shout came over like we were sitting in the studio of the Sacramento radio station that was playing Beatles tunes all night.

Kathleen looked up and parted her lips. I bent down and accepted her offer, pulling her close in my arms as we made out. She must have sensed me blush at my obvious excitement. She pulled her face back, smiled and swept her hand across my lap. I grunted, thinking of her friends who would be walking up the road to join us any moment—it made me lean back and shift my hips away from her while, at the same time, I wished she would continue. Can’t Buy Me Love started on the radio and she straightened up and bounced around on the vinyl seat and waved her hands. Here was her passion. Mom was the one who pointed that out. She said we were the lead peas in different pods.

Okay, no more lip-locks! Dorothy yelled as she and the other girl approached on foot.

Kathleen rolled her dark eyes and we got out of the car. I left a door open so everyone could hear the music. We looked out toward a now-pitch black canyon carved out of the foothills toward the west, where we could imagine we were somewhere way far out there, where four guys were about to perform these same songs before tens of thousands of screaming fans. It would be like playing big-time football someday. Hmm.

Kathleen!

I shook. It wasn’t another friend coming to join us, but an older male voice.

She turned, her mouth opened wide. A figure carrying a flashlight neared us. Oh, no, she whispered.

A stocky man in an untucked shirt approached and flicked the light onto everyone’s face, settling on mine. I rose my forearm and turned my head away. You-a Henry Steele’sa boy? His Italian accent was something you heard around here every so often.

Yes, sir.

The man grunted and grabbed Kathleen’s arm. Time to go’a home.

Papa! She tried to pull away. I want to listen to the music.

Achh, the Beatles. He acted like he was about to spit on the ground. You listen atta home. He began to drag her.

But I can’t pick up the station.

I stepped towards them as they stumbled off. Her dad flashed the beam of light back at me and held it—just for a moment, but the message was clear. The man demanded silence from his daughter as he led her back home. Whatever the problem, it wasn’t the first time I’d learned that being Henry Steele’s boy wasn’t all it was cracked up to be.

My third straight completion went to the guy who just happened to double as our kicker. He was near the opposite sideline. There would be no game-winning field goal. It was a few months later, at the end of our season-finale, and we had no time outs remaining. The coach sent in a guy with the last play as we scrambled up to the new line of scrimmage around the seven-yard line, desperation in dark blue. No way were we going to lose to the new school down the hill. This fall had been tough enough already.

The kid, who relayed the play in from the sideline, said coach called a run.

Are you sure!?

He bounced his helmeted head up and down.

On two, hurry! We ran to set ourselves. The scoreboard said 20-19, and the clock wound under ten seconds. Mickey snapped me the ball. I handed it to our running back and, for good measure, raised my right arm like I might still have possession. It didn’t help. The white-jerseyed defenders swarmed over him before the goal line, glanced at the officials, checked the zeroes on the clock and ran off toward their own sideline shouting in delight, their fists raised in triumph. My hands braced me as I sank to the ground.

When Mickey peeled me off the damp grass a couple of moments later, I saw our coach in the distance shrug at one of my teammates and wander off. Mom, her arms folded while standing in the bleachers, was also staring at him. Dad wasn’t there, but that wasn’t unusual anymore. At least he didn’t have to see what happened when the ball wasn’t in my hands.

CHAPTER TWO

The coach I remember from my childhood looked like Superman or the captain of a great ship as he strode alongside his sweaty, mud-caked players after practice, giving them encouragement following an afternoon of hard work. My dreams, the morning after that disappointing high school game, carried me back to Oklahoma when I was just a squirt. Sometimes I would play on the grass outside Dad’s weather lab and the Sooners’ players would walk by after practice. They looked super-gigantic in their cherry red jerseys, but always beside them would be Coach Bud Wilkinson.

In those days, Oklahoma had something known as The Streak, which I later learned was 47 wins in a row. The Streak ended one day when I peered from the stands, through an opening between men in hats and gray overcoats, and saw the unusual sight of someone on the other team running into the end zone. Dad later told me that the coach was legendary for his preparation, but what always stuck with me was the sight of him walking alongside his players the week after that loss, shouting encouragement. He didn’t shrug or anything.

That’s when I woke up.

It was late in the morning when I rose to a sitting position and recalled what happened the previous night. We usually went to a pizza parlor and bowling alley after games, or sometimes to a dance. Instead, we cleaned out our lockers and went home, shocked at how the season ended.

I wiped my eyes and listened to the rain pelt my bedroom window. Only muted light passed through, and what there was fell on my green Goldrushers pennant. Earlier in the week, all the guys were hot to go to the UNC game that would conclude a nutty regular season in which they upset just about everyone—and now they were on the verge of their first-ever Rose Bowl appearance. Just beat Cal and Jan. 1, 1967, would be spent in Pasadena. But after our team lost, no one mentioned it. It was up to me to rally the troops and somehow get them to forget last night and focus on today.

The newspaper had a huge spread about the game on the front page, even above stories on the launch of Gemini 12 and an analysis of last week’s election of actor Ronald Reagan as governor.

After a bowl of cereal, I took a long shower while thinking about Kathleen and dressed for a cold outdoors day. When I reached for my wallet, it contained just three dollars. Mom! I went into the living room of our apartment, where she glanced over a handful of envelopes from the morning mail delivery. I’m two bucks short.

Mom, tall and fair like me, squinted at an envelope she held in the air. She turned my way. Aren’t we all, dear?

I rolled my eyes and glanced around. There’s gotta be some change lying around somewhere. I lifted up the cushions of a threadbare couch and found a penny. I slapped the armrest and straightened up.

Mom stared at me. I’m sorry, George.

Yeah, yeah. I went to the kitchen and rustled my hands through a catch-all drawer before I slammed it shut. A cardboard box on the counter contained S&H green stamps but no cash. The hands on the oven clock showed it was nearly noon. I winced.

She wiped her hands on the sides of her apron and scurried into her bedroom.

What!? I scampered after her but stopped in the open doorway. She rifled through pockets in her clothing. Good idea.

I ran to my bedroom, grabbed my letterman’s jacket and thrust my hand in for treasure. Got only lint. Damn! I returned to the kitchen. Mickey’s gonna be here in just a…

Mom stood there, waving three one-dollar bills in her outstretched hand. A sly smile crossed her face. Come and get them!

Right on! I laughed, crossed over to her and snatched the cash. Folded, crinkled and worn, they still felt good sliding between my thumb, index and middle fingers. I looked at Mom and grinned as I unwrapped the bundle and handed a dollar back to her. This is all I need. I got the rest and Mickey will buy hot dogs.

Lunch is fine. She put her hands on her hips. But you buy your own ticket. We have to draw the line somewhere.

Yes, Mom. I went to grab my rain jacket but stopped when she spoke again.

You know who will be there, don’t you?

Kathleen? I smiled.

Her frown froze me. Those hippie war protestors.

So.

Mom’s shoulders slumped. Some of the students decided to protest since they’re playing Cal. She shook her head and turned away. And your father.

I leaned forward. Huh? Then it dawned on me. I sat on the couch. Their separation was into day…holy crap…thirty-eight! And, sure, Dad wouldn’t miss this game. God, and here I am thinking only of football.

It’s alright. The damage is already done. She dropped in a chair and rubbed her eyebrows.

I’m sorry, Mom. I leaned closer to her with my hand outstretched just in time for Mickey’s horn to blare outside.

Some protest. Mickey and I and some of the guys from our team rounded a corner anticipating riot conditions. Instead, we joined thousands of other hopeful UNC fans converging on the entrance gates to James W. Marshall Stadium. Maybe the hippies were lost in the crowd. I scanned the throng as we walked, trying to pick out Dad or Kathleen among people in yellow rain slickers, green and gold UNC jackets, and others who carried umbrellas and picked their way around puddles.

Mickey pointed.

There, near an entrance, were around twenty-five mostly female students huddling against the cold, some of whom held drooping pieces of cardboard wilted by moisture. Each cardboard displayed a letter, and between them, they spelled: US OUT OF VIENTAM.

Mickey, in a green UNC sweatshirt, broke into a wide grin. I shook my head. One of the guys pointed and laughed. That’s when Dad, gaunt and hunched in a gray overcoat and hat, walked past the protestors with other members of the science faculty. I almost called out, but paused as he stopped and crushed the top of his fedora with his hand. A couple of the girls looked down at their floppy signs and switched the N and T.

Some of the guys in our group clapped and whistled, and we started walking again. Dad started back up, too, still unaware that I was nearby, but stopped suddenly and took a couple backwards steps. People approaching the entrance gates began to shout.

Uh, oh, Mickey said. A bunch of police officers in black uniforms—must have been more than five or six—no, eight!—marched toward the protestors, batons gripped by their sides.

Damn, they were wading through the crowd straight at Dad! The girls in front of the protest group began to backpedal.

Dad! He didn’t hear me. I lost him in the crowd. I cupped my mouth as I took off running. Dad!

A cop saw my approach and pointed his baton at me as they neared the retreating protestors. You boys just stay out of this!

But my Dad! I chased after them.

George, wait! Mickey yelled. A couple officers waded into the demonstrators with waving batons. The girls and a couple of guys held out their hands to ward off blows. Someone screamed.

One of the cops growled and turned on Dad. You! He raised his baton. I should…

Dad raised his arms, his eyes wide.

I lunged toward Dad. No! Wait! God only knew what a hard blow might do to him.

The rest of the cops went after the protestors, but the one stayed with Dad, pushed him back toward a chain-link fence and raised his baton again. Asshole!

Dad glanced at me just as I reached them. The cop whirled around and slammed his baton down.

At me.

CHAPTER THREE

The nurse placed a clean bandage on my left forearm when Mickey stepped into the medical tent. He glanced about before settling his gaze on me. The nurse grimaced at him. We’re a little busier than normal.

Stout, and with short and thick black hair, he looked around at the two girls and a long-haired guy who were holding bandages or ice bags on various body parts. An ambulance whisked a couple others away earlier. Six-three.

I heard the cheering. I shook my head as he stepped over toward me. My arm didn’t hurt at first, so after I left Dad I went inside the stadium to watch the game. Partway through the first quarter, a huge bruise formed, so I came down here. Now, people were filing out of the stands for halftime.

Mickey watched the nurse tape down the bandage. God knows what a nightstick would have done to your dad.

I nodded. After being sick all that time, for that to happen?

It seems like he’s recovered pretty well, man, the long-haired guy said.

I glared at him and turned back to the nurse.

Ice it down again as soon as you get home, she said. If you don’t feel better in a couple of days, go get an x-ray.

I stood and thanked her, and Mickey guided me outside. Let’s get some lunch, he said.

Fans stood in lines at concession stands. The stadium was situated against a pine-tree lined cliff that was just now turning green with the beginning of the rainy season, so the plaza areas were on either end. The lines were full of people in overcoats and rain slickers. Some bearded guys wore only flannel shirts and jeans in defiance of the conditions. Kids ran around the adults and stomped puddles.

Hey, George! A man in a faded blue letterman’s jacket stopped in front of me. Why’d coach call a run?

I rolled my eyes.

He frowned, pulled me close and pointed to the stands. Steele, you’re good enough to play in there someday. You hear? Losing to that new school is unacceptable.

What could I say? Don’t worry, we’ll get ‘em next year? That’s what Coach told us in the locker room last night. Another guy reached out and patted the back of my shoulder as he walked by. When I rose my right hand over my eyes to scan for Kathleen, an older woman passed me, pointed at my bandage, and said something like, So that’s why they tried a run.

Mickey and I were squirting ketchup and mustard on our hot dogs when I spotted Kathleen at the back of the line, wearing a blue jacket, her dark hair spilling out over the retracted hood.

She was close enough for me to see her grin but too far for conversation. I took a couple steps her way, but she jerked her head to my right. Her father was coming out of the men’s room. Just as I raised my hand to wave to him, she shook her head twice and looked away.

Strange. I ducked behind the condiment cart, where Mickey held the hot dogs in his hands. More grown-ups being weird?

We laughed, kinda, and headed back to the stands. When we sat, I stuck an end of a lukewarm hot dog into my mouth and tore off a bite with my teeth. Across the way under frigid gray skies, past the opposite grandstand and campus buildings, was a highway that carried gamblers between Sacramento and Lake Tahoe and, farther out, a cluster of buildings that included the modern apartment complex where Mom and I lived. It was there, several months ago, that I noticed my parents beginning to bicker. It was something I sensed more than heard while in bed with the lights out and my ear pressed to the wall. I picked up harsh tones but couldn’t make out words. It seemed to have something to do with being sick, then not being sick anymore and Mom having taken care of him. It wasn’t much to go on. My arm hurt.

There had to be more to what was happening. It seemed like all kinds of people knew things about us and I was the only one left out of the picture. People who used to help us when Dad was sick were now avoiding us. The other kids didn’t know anything either, really. They just said parents were strange as a general rule. Mom never shared details. Dad didn’t talk about it.

What he did tell me about was rain, and in the distance I spotted fresh squalls rolling in from the western lowlands. He taught me that showers were imminent when certain hills were veiled, so I elbowed Mickey and pointed so he could bundle up. A quarterback and his center found ways to help each other on the field and off.

A halftime sprinkle yielded to a solid downpour through much of the second half, forcing the Goldrushers and Bears to slog through mud. With the score unchanged in the fourth quarter and my attention firmly caught up in the action, fans exchanged worried glances and low mumbles. The rose-wearing UNC faithful desperately wanted to spend the first day of the new year in Pasadena, and with the Pacific-8 a Rose Bowl or no bowl league, we needed to hang onto our slim lead or we would stay home like always—an early win over USC would have meant nothing. One nearby fan, plagued by a flower dying in the hostile elements, bent over every few minutes to pick up fallen petals and tried to reattach them to the stem. I elbowed Mickey and nodded in the man’s direction. You couldn’t blame him for his excitement. Hell, if we won, maybe Dad could get Rose Bowl tickets through school! How about that!?

Cal tried like hell to spoil our dreams. In the fourth quarter, the Bears twice drove deep into UNC territory before giving up the ball on downs. On one play, a split end was wide open near the end zone, but dropped the slippery ball while my heart nearly stopped. The nearby fan thrust a fist in the air and bent down to pick up his rose petals.

As the clock ticked down, a last Cal throw was caught at the UNC six and the ball popped out of the receivers’ hands like a bar of soap and went into the air, to be grabbed by a player with a uniform so muddy no one could tell which team he was on. He was further soiled as guys from both sides slammed him into the muck and nearly drowned him. Mickey and I, and the 45,000 standing witnesses to the Goldrushers’ rare pursuit of glory, held our breaths and watched as the player with the ball slithered from beneath the pileup. When he sprinted to the home sideline, holding the ball aloft, the fans exploded in joy. Mickey and I slapped hands and screamed along with the crowd.

The UNC quarterback took the next snap and dropped a knee into a mud puddle to complete a championship season. From behind, someone threw dozens of frosty red roses over the heads of the crowd in my section. I grabbed one as it fell and stared at the petals, wondering if I could somehow get it to Kathleen.

She stood under a big oak tree just inside the gate when Mickey and I bounded out of the grandstand. Her rigid posture, hands in her jacket pockets, head thrown back, jarred me. Football glory buried the halftime incident with her father into the recesses of my mind, but her stance was a distressing reminder. I handed her the rose and scooped her up in my arms, but those eyes I loved so much were moist.

What’s wrong?

She sniffled. They won’t let me go out with you anymore.

What!? My stomach clenched. I took my hands off her and stepped back.

They called it the final straw or something. She sniffled again.

Oh, God, now what?

She fell against me. I’m not sure. I’m sorry—they’ve been dropping hints. I was scared to tell you.

Like?

She turned away and groaned. Like you might not be from the right kind of family.

My head bowed. My father?

She nodded and fell against me again. I think so.

There had to be a way to fix this. We actually didn’t formally date, but groups of friends got together at night and on weekends and we somehow always ended up together. Her parents must have realized that. You want me to talk to them?

She shook her head, rubbing it back and forth across my chest. We were kind of an odd couple, me tall and fair, her short and dark.

I shuddered. They aren’t watching you now, are they?

They’re already outside the gate. I told them I was going to see friends.

You shouldn’t lie, I said.

It’s true! She crossed her arms. Dorothy is driving me and a couple other kids home.

I stuck my hands in my pockets. A drip of water from the tree found its way down my neck, so my head and shoulder jammed together. She pulled me down and kissed me full on the lips. That olive-skinned face of the kind found among the Italian immigrants who settled around here, and their offspring, was mesmerizing She was blessed with a dab of sun-kissed freckles from her mother’s Irish side.

What do we do now? I asked.

She stepped back, jutted a hip and grinned. We can meet after school—behind the gym or something. She batted an eyelash.

My knees weakened as I nodded. That sounds swell. I just hate having to sneak around.

Shhh. She put an index finger across my lips. It will work out. You’ll be fine. She spotted Dorothy and her gang waiting. I better be going. She took a couple of steps away and turned back with those eyes that captivated me. I’m sorry.

It’s okay. I stepped forward and hugged her one more time, kissed the top of her head and let her go. We gave each other a lingering look before she turned and headed toward her friends.

Mickey stepped up beside me and stared at the girls. His gaze was solely at the chesty red-haired Dorothy until they walked out of the stadium gate.

Oh, um, come on, I, I’ll give you a ride home. His stammering usually made me laugh.

We remained silent as we drove past fans who danced through puddles and shouted as they paraded up the hill toward the main village to celebrate in restaurants and bars. My emotions were jumbled between elation and heartbreak. Still, Kathleen and I would see each other plenty. Her folks couldn’t keep us apart forever. By the time Mickey dropped me off in the parking lot of my apartment complex, I felt like we could make it work. I walked over black pavement with newly painted white lines washed clean by the storm and bounded up the stairs, ready to share the excitement of the game with Mom. She leaned forward as she sat in a living room chair, and looked up at me with moist, bloodshot eyes above fingers that covered her cheeks.

The sight of her stopped me. Were you rooting for Cal?

She straightened up quickly and gave me a blank expression. No, why? She shook her head and stood. And what happened to you?

Just a bruise. I closed the door behind me.

George…

Her reading glasses hung at the tip of her nose. Piles of envelopes and papers surrounded her feet.

Georgie…

That form of my name sent a chill up my spine.

She stepped closer to me. A damp handkerchief drooped from her hand. Your father stopped by just after you left. It’s over. We’re getting a divorce.

CHAPTER FOUR

The door to our next apartment was so rickety I always shut it gently for fear it might crash through the frame. I stepped outside to a crisp early-spring morning—but I stopped and jiggled the knob to make sure it latched. I wiped my nose with a handkerchief. The window of the adjoining unit was cracked and had been ever since Mom and I moved in a couple of months earlier. The blue-ish paint on the stucco walls was faded. This parking lot, instead of being freshly paved and full of cars like the one near the university, was a mix of dirt, weeds and leftover gravel. The only vehicles were a pickup truck and a powder blue 1950s Buick Roadmaster with a gray front left fender. The building was located all the way on the other end of town from where we previously lived. The thought of the long walk to work made me yawn as I went by the clunker and onto the street.

Scattered businesses and occasional houses were set back from the roadway as I headed to the world’s largest pear-packing plant. A lot of the kids on the football team got hours there for walking-around money—the ones who lived farther up in the hills took part-time jobs in the lumber mills. Earning money was now a necessity, so I went to the plant for a couple of hours after school and Saturdays. My stomach growled at the thought of snagging a pear or two.

Skirting Historic Placerville, about three blocks of brick mid-nineteenth century buildings that were mostly connected and painted white, I kept an eye out for Kathleen—yeah, I always watched for Kathleen. Having to work all the time blew our plans for after-school rendezvous to smithereens. While her parents didn’t find