Tough-Loved

I can still vividly recall one of the most instrumental moments of motivation in my life. This epiphany occurred in May, 1984, just after the end of spring football practice at East Carolina University, in Greenville, NC, where I was attending school and trying to be a student athlete.

I began practice listed as a 3rd team offensive tackle, both left and right side, on the big depth chart that hung in the locker room. However, as pads began to crack that first week, guys started dropping like flies from various injuries. Suddenly, four practices in to spring ball, I was running first team tackle. I wasn’t ready for that, and I spent the rest of spring practice getting my ass kicked up and down the field. The situation seemed dismal. Shortly after the spring game the semester ended, and we were required to have an “exit” meeting with Coach Emory before we left Greenville for the summer.

I parked my 77 Dodge Aspen, packed to the gills with stuff, in front of the field house. Grades were in, the semester was in the books; I was heading home to Pa. for a week, and then down to Sea Isle City, N.J. to work as a bouncer at the La Costa Lounge. The only thing standing between me and the start of one of the greatest summers of my life was that final meeting with Coach Emory. I walked into his office for my 10:00 a.m. appointment. He sat behind his large desk, beefy paws folded in front of him, and I knew he was waiting to tear into me. I remember like it was yesterday.

“Ahhh, Alexander”, said Coach E., “Son, we brought ya’ down here from Penn-za-vein-ya to play some football, and, ahhh… all you’ve done for three years is play with yourself.”

Conversation with Coach E was always an adventure. He had a deep South Carolina low country drawl, and he also had a speech impediment; you had to listen really hard to make out what you knew were English words. I could see he was just getting warmed up, and the flush of anger rising from his neck to his face and head was turning his tan skin beet red. Veins began to bulge and throb. He continued.

“Three hots and a cot! That’s all you want from East Carolina University, son, three hots and a cot! Ahhh…you know what, son? There’s only one thing worse thana damn Yankee. You know what that is, son?
“No sir,” I squeaked.
Coach popped up from his chair, like one of those fake snakes springing from a can—a quick and deft move for a man of his size and stature, and pounded his fist repeatedly on the desk.
“Ahhh goddamn Yankee! A goddamn Yankee! That’s the only thing worse than a damn Yankee! Son, you’re playin’ football like a goddamn Yankee!”
He sat back down and glared at me for a moment, breathing heavily. Then, slowly and deliberately, still eying me, Coach reached into his right desk drawer, obviously a ritual repeated thousands of times in his life, and without looking, pulled out a yellow legal pad and a red maker, and slammed them both on the desk. Casting a final scowl in my general direction, his eyes turned downward to the blank page.

Coach began writing and speaking at the same time, in his deep South Carolina drawl, as he scribbled words across the page.
“Iaah… will…take Ahh-lex-zan-der’s skaa-laa-ship ahhh-way…” His eyes shot up at me for a split second, beady blue bulges boring burning holes through my skull—letting me know, with no room for doubt, he wasn’t joking around…and then he continued.
“…ahhh, if he doz-ent com-peat! Sigh-nd, ahhh, Ed H. Em-o-ry.”
He finished with a flourish, and threw the pen down on the desk. Then, Coach ripped off the yellow sheet, jagged at the top edge, shoved it across the desk at me, and spoke his final words.
“Ahhh, son, you have a nice summer. See you in August.”

That was vintage Coach E. He was unpretentious, honest, and passionate about football, life, and “his boys”. You could always count on Coach to let you know exactly where he stood, and…. where you stood as well. He was a player’s coach.
In my work, both at the North Carolina Department of Public Instruction (NCDPI), and as a member of the Paideia National Faculty, I find myself spending large chunks of time thinking about, writing about, identifying, and discussing the nature and concept of “Coaching” in the classroom. This includes coaching not only in English Language Arts classrooms, but also in all curricular areas, K-12.

Honestly, the concept of “coaching” students rather than simply talking at them, or to them, did not click with me until the second year of my classroom-teaching career. Early in the second semester, spring 1989, I began learning more about the Paideia style of teaching and learning. In this model of instruction, coaching students accounts for 60-70% of what happens in the classroom. While there is room for lecture and didactic instruction, it cannot dominate because it deprives of the opportunity to build relationships with students. Therefore, with that pedagogical revelation, I have since tried to transfer and apply what I have learned on the athletic fields as a filter to shape my work as a teacher, learner, and consultant. After all, coaching is what got me here.

Obviously, the word “coach” conjures up different images and ideas for each individual, but I would guess that largely, the first thing folks envision or imagine would be the archetypal athletic coach. Perhaps the picture is of one who coached them long ago, maybe the P.E. teacher, whistle round the neck, clipboard in hand, the list goes on, but you get the point. Somewhere, along the line, coaches, both good and bad, have influenced us while we hustle our way through life. The good ones become icons for us, and sometimes, we just prefer to forget the bad coaches.
So, what makes a good coach? We all have our own ideas based on our life experiences, but we can probably agree that good coaches do not do just one thing well. Rather, they perform multiple operations simultaneously and successfully. Think about this short list: Coaches motivate, demonstrate, critique, cajole, implore, rouse, and they communicate frequently and consistently with feedback for improvement. The really good coaches know exactly when to pat you on the back, and they seem to know exactly when you need a high-quality, swift kick in the ass. A truly great coach inherently knows how and when to balance tough love, all the time maintaining benevolent drill sergeant status, part-psychological mastermind, and for me, an inspiring and motivating father figure.

My Dad died in 1970 from wounds he received in Vietnam. I was only six; my parents had been divorced for three years, but I knew I had a dad, though I couldn’t tell you what that meant, nor can I ever really remember physically being in his presence. Later, when I was seven, my mom remarried. From that point on, I could tell you what a stepfather was, yet I inherently knew it wasn’t the same as a dad, and truth be told, my stepdad was not very comfortable with me, nor did he like the idea of being called “Dad.” We even tried it once for a day when I was around eight years old, and I vividly remember him pronouncing, by about two or three in the afternoon of day one, that “This Dad stuff is for the birds.” So much for that…

Now, as I look back at those days in life, it is easy to see that the relationships I pursued and forged with many of my athletic coaches from the age of eight or so on, really were quests to connect in some way, form, or fashion with men and father figures, and ultimately, my own father. My coaches were really the first teachers instructing me in “manly arts”, things of importance to a little kid without a father, and thus, that makes them really, my first teachers. However, I had to deal with my mother first. She was the real hurdle to me playing sports, and we had legendary arguments over the topic.

I was born to hit people on the gridiron, not baseballs on the diamond, but my over protective mom would never let me play football in my younger days. It wasn’t for a lack of opportunity. Football, in the Coal Regions of Pa., is still king. Even in a small town like Frackville, you could start playing full contact football around the 3rd grade in the Pee Wee League. We would argue about this topic incessantly. Her reasons, to me, were meaningless.
“Robert, you’ll break your braces…”
“But Ma, they have special mouth pieces for braces! Bill D has braces and he plays!”
“Robert, you’ll break your glasses…”
“But Ma, they have special glasses, plus there’s a facemask on the helmets! They’re not leather like they were in your day.”
“Robert, you’ll break your leg…”
“But Ma, …”

However, and God only knows why, she did let me play baseball, but I was awful at that sport. And so it would go, year after year, from 3rd through 8th grade…me a big, gangly, poindexter-looking geek, with Buddy Holly specs and braces, sitting on my green Schwinn Stingray, watching all my pals practicing and playing football half a block from my house.

Finally, as my mom realized that she couldn’t hold me back any longer, I cut the cord, and began to play football in eighth grade. That was the key to letting me discover what I could do with myself, and I was lucky enough to have a successful athletic career that extended beyond high school and into college. Most importantly, during those days of my life, I was lucky enough to be mentored by some monumental men who taught me about toughness, not just physical toughness, but mental toughness and the value of discipline. The best of them were master motivators; something that I believe is a key ingredient in coaching, both on the fields and in the classrooms. Of these masters, there was one man who ranks at the top of my hierarchy, Ed H. Emory, my head coach at East Carolina University, from 1982-1984.

To make a long story short, I returned to East Carolina for the 1984 season, and I did compete. In fact, I made the traveling team and played in all eleven games that fall. Sadly, because Coach E. had a habit of doing things “my way or Trailways” style at ECU, it cost him his job at the end of that season. However, I will never forget his motivation, drive, and determination, and most importantly, the way he coached me. I still have that jagged edged leaf of yellow legal paper with scrawled red writing.

The reach, influence, and lessons of a good coach can survive far beyond the time you put in on the practice and playing fields; it has the potential to last a lifetime. We all have a coach inside us, and we should always be willing to take the time to help people practice for success, no matter what our profession or office in life. These relationships are not always rainbows and butterflies; sometime coaching means being honest and tough. However, when it comes to the classroom, great things can happen when a teacher coaches rather than just “delivers” a lesson.

Unbelievably, one other thing I learned from Coach Emory was how to let myself be loved. . I have to admit, I loved this man. He would often say, “Ahhh, if I can’t put my hands on ya, I can’t coach ya. I’m jus’ showing ya I love ya.” Knowing that he was showing me “love” helped ease the pain I experienced each time he jerked my by the face mask when I missed a block in practice. It felt good to be loved. Tough-loved.

Full Circle

Not too very long ago, I found myself at home, that is, the place where I grew up, north of the Broad Mountain in Schuylkill Co., Pa. I left after work on a Wednesday afternoon and drove the 450 miles from Raleigh, NC to my mom’s house in Cresswell Gardens, down in the valley, on the road between Frackville and Ashland.

Family was the motivation for my visit. My mom was having cataract surgery that Friday, and my stepfather had a cardiac arrest scheduled for the following Sunday morning, though we didn’t know it at the time, but that’s another story.

On Friday, after the cataract surgery, but before the cardiac arrest on Sunday, I was browsing the local paper, The Republican-Herald. Buried in the first section, I noticed an article highlighting an art exhibit that evening from 6:00 - 9:00 at “Uptown Ashland” featuring several local artists. Two things about this piece of news drew my attention. One, I got a chuckle at the image and idea of “Uptown Ashland”— 95% of the town is built on a hill. I guess the “uptown” idea gave some weight and class to both Ashland and group sponsoring the exhibit. Either way, it was funny to me.

The other striking thing in the article was the name of one of the local featured artists, Robert McCormick. Yes, ole Mr. Bob McCormick, my 11^th grade English teacher; this is the cat that, whether either of us realized it at the time or not—let alone admitted it, had a huge impact on the direction my life would take over the next 25 years.

Bob was an interesting character, and in many ways very much an anomaly in our small Catholic high school. He was a male, and he wasn’t a priest. That, in and of itself was unusual. Next, he was an English teacher. We didn’t know men, let alone ones who weren’t priests, could be English teachers at Catholic schools. Finally, he was cool. He was groovy; he was hip and he was bohemian. Bob was tuned-in and rumored to have turned-on and dropped out during his younger days. Yes, he definitely had a hint of hippy about him dwelling just beneath the surface of his thin frame. Yet another rumor hinted that he’d been at Woodstock—the real one, and there was another story circulating that he’d been held captive across three western states by fleeing bank robbers. Apparently, while in the midst of hitch hiking across America, a thing a hippie was reputedly disposed to in the days of peace and love, these bandits picked up Bob and a companion. I know there were a few other rumors floating around back then; they elude me now, but the bottom line was this: Bob had myth. He had an established Odyssey, and that mythology made him legit in my book.

Me, I was a large, sixteen-year old, hormone driven, Warrior Poet—though I really didn’t understand that last part at the time. I was in medias res with an internal struggle that would define a large portion of my life…trying to find my place, trying to figure out who I was, and trying to make sense of it all. In between that and drinking beer, I wanted to play football and basketball, I wanted to kiss girls, I wanted to write poetry and play the guitar, I wanted to act and dance and sing, and I wanted to learn to play the sax. I was able to do some of those, but others I left behind. Oh well. Back then, north of Broad Mountain, you made your choices early and rolled with them. Things were black and white, but mostly black, and there was no room for blurrin’ lines.

Until my junior year in high school, English class was a rather insignificant event in my academic life. That’s really a shame because I loved to read and write, and along with running and hitting, these were things I could do easily. Here’s a snapshot: Our freshman English “B” class was reading—aloud and in sequence, person by person, row by row, word by word, To Kill A Mockingbird, starting from page one. The good thing was that I felt myself getting hooked two pages in, the bad was that after the painful readings of the first few students in the first row, I couldn’t be held back. I looked across the room and did my calculations; there were three rows and 14 students ahead of me. I vividly remember thinking “I’ll just read the first chapter,” and off I went. The ugly would follow shortly.

Well thanks a bunch Harper Lee for writing a classic. I don’t remember how far I had melted into the text, but once my over-active imagination kicked into overdrive, I lost all sense of time and space. I wasn’t reading the book; I was the book.

Nothing kills a good book-buzz quicker than the sting of Sister Earnest Borgnine's ( or whichever nun she was) ruler smashing into my hands and knocking the book out of my hands. Apparently, much to the amusement of the students, I had not responded to several prompts by Sister EB to read. Much in the furtive fashion of ladies and gents of the cloth, she had hushed the class and moved in on me, just like a cat stalking a mouse. She delivered the deathblow with surgeon-like precision, the shiny metal edge implanted in the heavy old wooden ruler ripped into the flesh of my fingers, and the book leaped out of my hands like a fly fleeing the swatter.

She barked. “Pay attention! What’s wrong with you? You’re always day dreaming Robert! Get with the class, it is your turn to read.” I could swear she was cursing me under her breath as she returned to her perch at the front of the class. “Now read! We are on page 5, paragraph two…”

I don’t even remember anything about my sophomore English teacher, the curriculum, or anything earth-shattering that plugged me into learning. Nothing. No books, no short stories. Nada, nill, zip, zilch... zero.

Academic life for me changed on the first day of my junior year, first period. There he was, Mr. McCormik, Bob Mac, standing at the door of room 103, intoxicated waves of dark hair spinning about his head, a slightly mad and wild look in his eyes, wearing the dark blue v-neck regulation school sweater, with a silhouetting blue shirt and dark blue tie.

The bell rang to start class, and he began, in a soft voice, his introduction. “Hello, I’m Mr. Bob McCormick, and…”

15 minutes in, and I was addicted. I don’t think I’d ever had a teacher that was talking to me, rather than at me. It was weird. I mean, it was really weird. It was mesmerizing. I had a “mind-buzz” and it felt good and different. .

I wish I could say that I remember specific things that Bob Mac did in class to pull me in; I must confess, it has been a long time. However, I do remember some of the literature and authors I encountered: The Red Badge of Courage, The Tell-Tale Heart, The Great Gatsby, The Crucible, Emily Dickenson, Robert Frost, and Earnest Hemmingway. It was all good. I decided I was going to see Bob Mac and his artwork. It had been at least 25 years.

At 8:30 that Friday evening, I crept up the stairs of the “Uptown Ashland” building. Typical of a coal region home, there was a steep and narrow staircase rising above me, and I could hear voices and see light as I climbed higher. Finally, out of breath and at the top, I tried to slip into the room unnoticed…not an easy feat for a man of my girth. The room was brightly lit; paintings filled the walls, and about twenty people were milling about, drinking wine and coffee, and talking about art. It was somewhat surreal.

I put my back to the crowd and began to study the artwork, slowly working my way around the room until I saw Mr. Mac. He looked …well, he looked exactly like a cat of his stature should look. Still cool and hip. He wore a red and white Hawaiian shirt, loose khakis, and sandals. His hair was a little long and a little gray, as was the beard and moustache he was sporting. However, he seemed cool and casual, sipping wine and chatting with guests.

I pulled out one of my business cards and moved in on him quickly. Handing him the card with one hand, and shaking his hand with the other, I presented myself professionally. “Sir, I represent a very wealthy individual client. He is interested in purchasing all of the Robert McCormick work that is on sale here this evening.” He furrowed his brow, and glanced down at the card for a fraction of a second, then up at me. “Bobby Alexander! Bobby Alexander! I thought that was you!” His arms flailing about, he hugged me. “It is so good to see you! How are you? You look fabulous!”

I didn’t want to monopolize his time, so I excused myself and went over to look at his prints while he continued to work the crowd. His artwork was striking, colorful, and filled with representations I recognized. The main muse was the hard surroundings of Ashland, and Schuylkill Co. However, he seemed to have found a knack for bringing out, even in this drab and dreary little corner of the world, some brightness and beauty. I was really blown away by the images.

Eventually, he worked his way back over to me, and we chatted about life and what we were up to, about his work, and we shared a few chuckles over some high school moments when we both took ourselves way too seriously.

“I tell my students all the time about how I assaulted you during Pippin, do you remember that?” An appreciation of drama was also one of the gifts Bob imparted to me. He directed plays during my junior and seniors years, and when I was a senior, we staged a production of Pippin.

In Pippin, I played the role of Charlemagne, King of the Holy Roman Empire. Very early in the third act, I am slain by my son, Pippin. I die, and my corpse remained on stage for the rest of the scene. On, I think, the third night of the play, as I lay there dead on stage, I found myself completely and totally relaxed, almost asleep. I was so relaxed that I didn’t even notice the mighty fart I emitted in my corpse like state until it was too late. I am sure that the force fluttered my cape up in the air. It was loud. This, in turn, caused many of the other actors on stage to break character, and I can remember seeing shoulders shaking and the muffled laughter as the players tried hard to keep it together. When the scene ended, Bob was waiting for me, worked up to a froth with fury.

“You’ve ruined the show! You’ve ruined the show! You’ve ruined the show!” He kept repeating it, flailing his arms wildly in the air, the whole time following me back stage, down the stairs, into the locker room. “You’ve ruined the show! You’ve ruined the show…”

We both laughed out loud. It really was an unforgettable moment. “I’m sorry Robert, I thought it was Broadway back then. Did you ever forgive me?” I smiled. “The question is Bob, did you ever forgive me?” We laughed again.

As I thumbed through the stack of his prints, he asked which one I liked the most. I pulled out two, both Ashland landscapes. He said, in a low whisper, “Here Robert, take them. I’ve got enough money anyway.” And he smiled. “So, why did you come here tonight?”

In my twenty-year teaching career as a high school English teacher, I have been lucky enough to cross paths with many former students out and about in the world. Each time, almost with out fail, they tell me how much my class and my teaching meant to them. It really didn’t matter to me if they felt that way because of the content or because I was likable, and therefore, their favorite teacher, or just that they were sorry for acting up a million years ago. The thing is I did something to make teaching and learning memorable for them. Validation, even if it is delayed, is important to our human existence. It was time to bring it full circle.

“Thank you, Mr. McCormick. I just wanted to say thank you for doing what you did. I don’t know what it was, and it really doesn’t matter now, but the point is, you did it. You helped create a memorable experience, and you had an impact on my life. I never have forgotten you, and I will never forget you. Your influence and encouragement helped light a spark in me, and I’m still fueling the fire today.”

Bob Mac smiled, gave me a hug, and whispered, “Thank you, Robert. Thank you.”