They Call Me Coach

By Bernard Cullen Ritchen

For over thirty years, Bob Jenkins had been defined by wins and losses in college basketball. As a highly successful Division I head basketball coach, he had reached the pinnacle of his profession. Then one day, without warning, he finds himself being dismissed from coaching by the athletic director of the university. He is angry and confused about how to navigate this turn of events and what to do with the rest of his life. His wife, Sarah, feels that God is moving in his life and leading him in another direction. Bob feels to the contrary that God has forsaken him. Against his better judgment and with pressure from Sarah and their twin daughters, he retires and moves to Florida to begin again. Then one day while working out at the local YMCA he happens upon a Special Olympics basketball team practicing. The thought of God leading him in another direction resurfaces. He will coach again.

• Language: English
• Publisher: WestBow Press
• Release date: Mar 7, 2016
• ISBN: 9781512729559

Bernard Cullen Ritchen

Bernard Cullen Ritchen grew up on Long Island, New York. He holds a master’s degree in education from Long Island University and a master’s degree in business management from Stony Brook University. He has worked as an administrator at Stony Brook University Medical Center and as a guidance counselor at South Lake High School in Groveland, Florida. After retiring he has worked with individuals with special needs and coaches Special Olympics athletes. He lives with his wife, Aleta, in Leesburg, Florida. They have one daughter and son-in-law and four wonderful grandchildren who reside in Nanuet, New York.

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Copyright © 2016 Bernard Cullen Ritchen.

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ISBN: 978-1-5127-2954-2 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-2956-6 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-5127-2955-9 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016901887

WestBow Press rev. date: 3/7/2016

Contents

FIRST QUARTER

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

SECOND QUARTER

Chapter 3

THIRD QUARTER

Chapter 4

FOURTH QUARTER

Chapter 5

OVERTIME

Chapter 6

To all those heroes who dedicate their time to enrich the lives of individuals with special needs. To my wife, Aleta, my daughter, Kristie, and her husband, Mike. And to our four wonderful grandchildren, Brendan, Katie, Caroline, and Michael, who bless my life each day.

FIRST QUARTER

Chapter 1

Bob, you know there is nothing personal in this, but we feel we have to move in another direction. With those words my mind faded into semi-consciousness. The reality was that this was the end. After hundreds of games, endless practices, dozens of arenas, buses, hotels, press conferences, this was it. This was how it was going to end. In the background I heard them say the words, Proud of what you have accomplished, and Contributions to the university, and then with a handshake and a pat on the back, the door of the athletic director’s office closed behind me. I was sixty-two years old. The two most treasured titles I had ever been called were Dad and Coach. Now I would never be called Coach again. I had seen it coming to some degree. With a losing record for two seasons in a row and the letters from the Alumni Association, not to mention the disgruntled fans, the writing was on the wall. Then as I pulled out of the parking lot of Alumni Hall, my Coach Bob voice appeared in my head. I knew I would beat this rap.

Countless coaches before me heard the different direction talk and many would hear it long after I was gone. You’ve got to move on, the voice said. Make a plan. Life goes on. As I left the borough of Queens and headed east on the Southern State Parkway to our comfortable suburban home, I thought about how Sarah and I would plan the rest of our lives. I didn’t dread that conversation.

During our forty-year marriage we have been a team. Team Jenkins had always dealt with each challenge life placed before us, supporting and encouraging each other. Make a plan, work the plan, and have a plan B was our motto. At the end of the Vietnam War, there was much discussion about the shape of the conference table before the peace negotiations commenced. In the Jenkins home, we would forgo that formality and always convene at the kitchen table. We had been married for a substantial period of time, so we could just look at each other and automatically know, without speaking, that we needed to move to the conference table.

So how did it go? Of course, this was a rhetorical question. Sarah could see by the expression on my face and the beer I had popped open at 1:00 pm exactly how it went.

Okay, I guess, I said, trying to soften the blow as best I could.

Do you want to try that again? Sarah asked.

Okay, it’s over. They thanked me for my service and showed me the door. Silence fell over the kitchen.

So we need a plan, she said. Do you have any idea of what you want to do next?

Well, I could probably coach at a high school. I might find a job as a PE teacher.

Are those things you might be interested in? she asked.

Sarah, I am a division-one head basketball coach. I have coached at Rupp Arena and Madison Square Garden. I refuse to be saddled with a bunch of pubescent knuckleheads eight hours a day! I could tell the beer was kicking in as my emotions rose to the surface. I’m sorry about that, hon, but it’s been my life for thirty years. For the next few hours, she allowed me to ramble and vent. Once again I realized how blessed I was to be going through life with such a remarkable woman. She gave me exactly what I needed at exactly the time I needed it.

What do you say we pick this up in the morning? she said. We can drive out to Jones Beach, walk on the sand, and begin to figure all this out.

Jones Beach or Jones Beach State Park had always been a special place for Sarah and me. As kids in high school, we would spend our summers there, enjoying the sun and surf. This is where we had fallen in love, and we continued to come back to this sanctuary to reflect in both good times and bad. We both remembered driving down Wantagh Parkway and crossing the bay bridge to the ocean as young children. We would walk through the tunnels that led to the beach, holding our parents hands as we screamed to hear the echoes of our voices. When we surfaced from the tunnels, we could smell the Atlantic Ocean and hear the sounds of waves crashing and children playing in the surf. Sarah and I both grew up in Levittown, New York. Levittown was a small hamlet on Long Island, designed and created by Abraham Levitt between the years 1947 and 1951. He was known as the Father of Modern Suburbia, mostly because he filled the demand for affordable family housing during the postwar era. My father worked at Grumman Aircraft Engineering Corporation, and after work the family could make the short drive down Wantagh Parkway to the beach. It was a magical time for me. Now we drove down the familiar parkway in relative silence.

Sarah and I walked hand in hand through the tunnel where our lives began. Simultaneously we instinctively yelled, Hello, and waited for the echoes to come. Laughing like schoolchildren, we stepped into the sand. However, unlike schoolchildren, we had packed some fried chicken and a nice vintage of Chardonnay to assist us in planning our future. Sarah spread the blanket as I unfolded the beach chairs and set our lunch down.

To the future, Sarah said, as she raised her plastic cup.

To the future, I responded and tapped my cup to hers. We took two deep breaths and released two heavy sighs, and then there was silence as we stared at the Atlantic Ocean.

Okay, who wants to start? asked Sarah.

You start, I said with less than a cooperative tone.

All right, the way I see it there are three generic options. You could look for another head-coaching job at a major university, change careers altogether, or—now don’t get angry—retire.

Retire! I screamed. And do what? Golf? Play cards and shuffleboard? Sarah tried to interrupt me, but I would have none of it. So let’s go on down to Del Boca Vista and sing in the community barbershop quartet. Retire? No way!

Are you quite finished? asked Sarah.

I was not quite finished, so I went on and on, trying to keep my voice at a decibel level acceptable for our surroundings. During my diatribe I finished the first bottle of Chardonnay and proceeded to open the second.

Sarah, I don’t know. I’m still angry. You know my story and why I always wanted to be a coach. Sarah heard this many times, but I felt the need to express it once more. I was a freshman in high school. It was a time when I could be swayed by the people I hung out with. The influence of my parents went only so far. My friends seemed to have a much larger hold on my decision-making process. It was nothing big. A little shoplifting here and there, and then it all stopped because of one individual who intervened in my life.

Paul Albert was well known in our high school. He was a science teacher but also the head coach of our varsity basketball team. He had a temper that would frighten a gorilla, the kids used to say. I was in the locker room, and he came up behind me. He swung me around and pushed me into my locker. He held me there for quite some