Wednesday, October 24, 2018

Coach.



The kitchen was a mess.

We had brought the lady of the house home, several bike bags and duffle bags and travel bags were exploded over the semi-clean tile floor, and no one cared because Mama was home. I had not cleaned the bathroom. I had not vacuumed upstairs. I had not even gotten a fraction of the dishes done. Mama was home.

Between my trips up and down the (vacuumed!) stairs to put things away and clear my own accoutrements from the kitchen clutter, she called out to me. She told me she had gotten me an early birthday present, that it was seasonal, that I should have it now.

She reached into one of her bags.

And, like so many times before, her long fingers and immaculate nails produced a casually rolled up bundle of luxurious fabric. There was a rabbit sewn onto the chest of it. The garment was navy blue with gold buttons and a pronounced fold-over collar. It looked like the windbreaker my grandfather wore every day of his life that I knew him. It was a coach's jacket.

She gave it to me, and smiled, and said that it was important because it shows that she believes in what I am trying to do with my Cross Country kids. It always chokes me up when she says she believes in me.

I spend much of my time talking about believing in people and things and actions and movements and hope. I spend much of my time working to make things happen for people who do things and make action through movement to pursue hope. I spend much of my time wondering if anyone else believes.

When my cousin died, I packed my girls and my sister into our tiny car, and we drove south to attend the funeral. I stood there, in the church, crying a waterfall, soaking the lapels of my pin-striped suit somewhere in Pennsylvania. I was useless. Someone told me, though, later on, that sometimes the most useful thing we can do is to be present, and to feel. Maybe even remember. But as long as we are there to do these uniquely human things, to feel, to remember, we are being useful. Presence is important.

So I wore my coach's jacket all day yesterday. I put it on over top of my coach's shirt and underneath one winter jacket. I wore it with my rain pants and my boots and my toque and my gloves and my camera and my course maps and my envelope of chips and safety pins and bibs. And then I stood there, next to the team tent, at the start line, along the course, at the top of the hill, at the start of the finish chute. I stood there, present, hoping, feeling, cheering. I believed in every step my runners took next, remembered every one they took before. I believed.

It was a long day, out in the blustery fall weather. I came home with a headache from so much cheering, so much shouting into the wind, so much bad coffee in non-recyclable paper cups. After the evening was done, with my head pulsing and nothing feeling right after a day on the sidelines, I decided to get myself some medicine. I laced up my shoes, and went for a run, and everything was better after that.