The Coach

That room with the beer-cans on the wall smells of rubber-skinned basketballs and a bit of medicated oil.

Do you know how many times you healed my fingers twisted from a flying ball? Remember the time you healed my wrist? I sprained it breaking a roller-blade accident and lied it was from shooting hoops.

Thank you.

Sorry I hadn’t ever been in touch all 20 years.

Sorry I didn’t tell you that in a world that pretended to be perfect all the time, you were that one coach who taught the stuff you knew best, the way you knew it.

With the beer-breath and the rubberised track pants, in your own inexplicable ways, you instilled discipline; you had our respect. Can you imagine that? How? I think even in our young minds, we knew you cared and that you simply, wanted us to be good kids who did one thing better than anybody else. We played Basketball for AHS and we played good. Even when we didn’t, we gave it all we had.

Sorry I am only here – at your death. Sorry.

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