Mambo by Liz Claiborne fills the air after each calculated step he takes. A cigarette seems to rest at the corner of his mouth at all times. Life Saver mints rustle in his poly-cotton sweatpants. A cold cup of joe sits on his unoccupied part of the bench. This man has been around the game.
You could find him at this very spot 45 years ago, running sprints before and after practice. He may not have been a starter, but no one questioned his work ethic. What they did question, though, was why he continued to put himself through such torture. He typically responds to such questions by stating, "The game might not have loved me much, but she knew I cared, and she knew I was going to commit myself to her no matter what." Fast forward to today and the game is still unsuccessful in keeping him away.
"These kids just don't know the value of hard work anymore. I never left a game without blood under my fingernails. That's why I'm here - to teach them how to dig and claw and hustle their tails off. I don't care if they win a single game. I just want to see them get bloody and parched. When that happens, I'll be right here at the end of the game with some dirt for the blood and a cooler full of nice, crisp water to quench their thirst. That's why they call me coach."
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