The Value of a Tough Coach

It was the beginning of ninth grade and they made an announcement about basketball tryouts. I had played intramural sports all through middle school but had little experience with a basketball. The ninth grade coach lined us up. He had a clipboard, a list and a plan. He was handsome but grim. It was obvious he was serious about this. I liked that. The tough teachers in my past were my favorites. I knew that I only had a slim chance of making the team. I was lanky, goofy and all over the place. But I was tall.

I made the team (barely, he told me later. He also told me that it was because I was tall). Coach Buster Brown. He might as well have been Sergeant York, because he was military tough. We were sent out to run the cross-country course, throw medicine balls to each other, hike the bleachers, run suicides and do drills. All without a basketball. Weeks of it. He took us into the exercise room, threw the boys out and made us lift weights. Girls didn't do much of that back then. Just when I knew I was going to die or at least pass out, he'd send us for a water break. And then back at it. I began to notice that I was losing baby fat and that I could run faster than I did a few weeks before. Finally the day came when he let us use an actual basketball. Practices were full of drills and more drills. Shooting, dribbling, maneuvering, but very little playing. He prayed at every practice, taught us the Scriptures, and drove us mad with more running. By the time the season began, we had learned how to reach deep inside for more. He taught us Maravich drills and we warmed up to Sweet Georgia Brown.

He ended up being my coach for all four high school years. It seemed impossible to please him. He pushed us until we thought there was nothing left. There were some people that hated him, thought he was too hard for high schoolers and expected too much. But I loved him for it. The character that emanated from digging that deep was irreplaceable. It still affects me, because he proved that I am capable of much more than I think I am. I still carry that in my soul. He was emotionally aloof and never afraid to offend those he coached, in order to take them to the brink of selflessness. There's a courage in that. Teachers and coaches who shoved on that line are the ones that I respected and learned from. The soft ones didn't teach me that much, though I'm sure some people needed them. I was terribly sad when I graduated; it was difficult to leave my beloved McEachern High School, and especially Coach Brown. My college coach was too sweet. I ended up injured and back at home after a couple of years. I pined for our tough drill sergeant from high school.

When I had our four babies and time drifted on, I often thought of him and the many lessons he taught me. Sometimes I thought about how he'd probably fuss at me because I got fat and quit working out much. But I knew that he'd still be proud of my life and what the Lord had done in it. Many years went by and as the children grew up, our last two ended up at a small college in North Georgia. Jesse was playing basketball there and the ladies' coach had talked to us about Liz, who would be coming there Jesse's senior year. Alas, she quit coaching the spring before Liz was due to try out. But mid-summer, the athletic director called and asked if she was still interested in playing. He told us that they had hired a new coach. His name was Buster Brown. Yes. That Buster Brown.

Liz wound up playing for him her freshman year in college. He wasn't as mean or as tough as all those decades before, but he was good for her and she learned much from him. He decided that he was meant for high school coaching and went back to White County High School the next few years. But I will never forget the goodness of the Lord in letting Liz be on his team. It started her education and she was able to graduate with little debt because of the scholarships and opportunities that spun off from basketball. 

There's a place that I go back to...those blistering summers (and falls, winters and springs -- he never gave us much time off) days of Coach and his whistle, making us run and work, lift and push. When other athletes were taking time off, he was cracking the whip. Every day on this planet, there are coaches and teachers who get up, work, care, do the hard things... with little pay and little appreciation. They've changed our lives forever. Remember them. Thanks, Coach.

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