Coach

I live in a small town where legends are rare. We went to church this morning and heard that one of the legends in my husband’s life died early this morning.
Stav Canakas was Fred’s football coach in high school. Fred grew up in the small town next to the one in which we currently live. The town that made every town around it feel like an underdog. The town where all the homes were big, beautiful and well appointed, all the teeth were straight and white, all the husbands well employed and all the wives gorgeous and thin. 40+ years have passed since my husband’s high school football team won the state championship for the umpteenth time, and not much has changed.
Fred’s alma mater has always had a habit of creating dynasties in athletics. Their teams have always been rated in the state and contenders for championships. Even their marching band is remarkable. But playing football in the 1960s was a unique experience, a character builder and yes, something that defined young lives. To a man, playing for Stav Canakas changed forever the way they looked at life, approached challenges and dealt with failure.
When I first met Fred and he’d share with me his high school football stories, he’d talk about winning games, but more often he’d talk about the killer practices and August two-a-days, the exhaustive drills, the running of laps until you’d vomit. Stav’s berating of players was historic, but, as Fred says, he’d only berate those whom he thought could take it. Getting yelled at by Stav was a badge of honor. If he ignored you, it meant you’d probably be riding the bench.
I used to think that Fred exaggerated Stav’s treatment of his players, that even in 1965, that kind of “win at any cost” abuse would have been reported by someone to higher authorities. But then I met several of Fred’s team mates, guys who went on to great success in their adult lives and gave Stav much of the credit. They all agreed that his coaching bordered on torture, but they loved him for it and wouldn’t have had it any other way. Their reminiscing is always loving and thoughtful, and mixed with laughter and admiration.
After years of hearing Canakas stories, Fred and I joined our church in that dynasty-building town next door to our small town. One of the first weeks we attended, Fred nudged me and pointed as a tired, bent over, white haired man in a striped Munsingwear shirt and rumpled Dockers shuffled down the aisle to take his seat in the pews. “Canakas!” he whispered excitedly in my ear. I looked at the frail old man, and in amazement, whispered back, “That’s the man who tortured you guys and called it coaching?” Fred chuckled quietly and replied, “Yep, that’s him.”
When church let out, Fred waited in back until Stav finished shaking hands with the pastor at the exit. He tapped him on the shoulder and when Stav turned around, Fred said warmly, “How are you doing, Coach?” Canakas looked up into Fred’s face and after a moment of confusion, smiled broadly, straightened up as tall as he could, looked him in the eye and slapped him on the shoulder. “Shepherd! It’s you!!” They talked for a while, and upon leaving, Stav pulled Fred toward him at the end of the hand shake and said softly into his ear, “It’s really good to see you, Freddy.”
We’d see Stav every now and then at church, and Fred always made a point of going up to him to say “Hi, Coach.” As his health deteriorated in the last few months, we’d hear about and be asked to pray for him, but I think Fred thought Canakas would live forever. Hearing that Stav died today hit him hard. He didn’t see the weak old man I saw in the pews. He saw the same vibrant, strong, tough, demanding man that brought out the best in a bunch of young boys forty years ago.
I live in a small town.