We stepped onto the field at 6:45, just as the lights kicked on. It was one of the first truly cool days of fall, and I pulled on my sweatshirt as the kids got in line for their drills. The mood was light, as the coed group of 12 and 13 yr-olds seemed more interested in chatting and flirting than listening to their coaches.
After a mild lecture about taking practice seriously, I sent the kids on a lap as I stepped back and took in the beauty of the soccer complex at dusk. Against the auburn relief of the sunset, the upper fields appeared to me as a military training ground, as if the kids weren't just preparing for Saturday's game.
The regimentation, the discipline, and the team-building suddenly felt as if they were being taught for a deeper purpose. I recalled the bit of English wisdom that World War II was won on the playing fields of Eaton, and for a moment I lost myself in the fantasy that we were preparing these children for a similarly noble cause.
As my elder son Nathan ran past, leading his team to conclude their lap, I envisioned him going off to war in a few years. The romanticism of the notion evaporated.
Turning around toward the parking lot, I saw Coach Michael finally arrive. Michael was a few years younger than me, a mortgage banker with two boys of his own. Suffering from a bone condition in his feet, he hobbled across the field as he outlined the practice agenda for me. Today we would focus on through balls and crossing.
As the kids went through their stretching routine, Michael and I had time to catch up.
"How it's going?" I inquired.
"Just another day in paradise," Michael lied as he grimaced again. He never complained about his feet, but it was obvious when he was hurting.
"What's new with you?"
"I'm going to be a first responder chaplain." (I had decided earlier that day to accept Frank's offer.)
"Is that like a pastor for cops and firemen?"
"Yep. I'm excited about it. I've never done anything like this before."
"My dad was a fireman. Growing up, all my friends thought he was really awesome, but it was weird for me. He never talked about it. Just came home and was really quiet sometimes."
"Yeah, I've heard that's often the case."
"And he drank a lot. And not in the fun way, if you know what I mean."
"That must have been tough on your mom."
"Yeah it was. Especially when he was killed in a fire. I was 14 at the time."
Before I could respond, Michael stepped away to set up the next drill. I made a mental note to finish that conversation sometime.
The rest of the practice went well. The kids got focused, and I got energized, running back and forth down the sideline showing each one how to run the "give-and-go" and set up a cross. When time was up, the kids went home tired, but better soccer players.
As I walked off the field, Coach Michael sat on the bleachers. He was trying to joke with some parents, but my pastoral instinct told me was struggling with something internal. I wondered if the conversation about his father was affecting him.
I waited around for a few minutes, but he kept on with his comedy routine, and I had to go. As I was getting in my van, he yelled at me, "I think it's great what you're doing with the first responders. Takes a lot of courage."
The remark puzzled me. The ones actually risking their lives have the courage. I was just going to be a sympathetic ear.
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