The opposing team had just arrived, their young coach leading the way. Tall and slender, he couldn’t have been much older than his early twenties. As I extended my hand in greeting, a sense of familiarity washed over me, mirrored by a surprised recognition in his eyes.
“Wait! Are you Mr. Butler?” he exclaimed, “Did you used to work at Cimarron?”
A smile spread across my face. “Joe? The two-time, no, wait, three-time Cimmarron Olympic chess champion himself!” I chuckled, genuinely impressed. “Wow, this is quite an honor, and certainly a surprise. I thought you’d be off by now, chasing down the ghost of Bobby Fischer somewhere.”
Joe laughed, a hint of nostalgia in his voice. “Actually, Mr. Butler, it’s three-time champion. And believe it or not, that’s still one of my favorite movies, even though I can still beat my entire family at chess.”
Catching up with a former student, now a young man in his twenties, made me acutely aware of the passage of time. But that feeling paled in comparison to the pang I felt when I recognized a player on their team – the son of a former student who was practically an adult now. Talk about feeling ancient!
“This is all so exciting,” Joe enthused. “I can’t wait to tell my mom about this!”
Joe was the coach of Valley Christian, a team currently residing at the bottom of the league standings. Their record, a bleak 0-3, reflected scores like 58-23, 47-23, and a disheartening 78-23 loss.
Before the tip-off, Joe approached me again, his voice laced with a hint of apprehension. “Quick question, Mr. Butler. Do you guys usually press?”
I couldn’t help but interpret his question as, “We’re not very good, are you planning on running up the score?” I chose honesty in my response.
“We’ve had games where our press wasn’t effective,” I explained, “so I’ll start with it, but we’ll definitely back off if we get a comfortable lead, say 10 points.”
There was another factor at play in my decision. Last year, my eighth-graders had barely scraped by against their team in overtime, in what was arguably our worst performance of the season. So, yeah, they weren’t exactly a powerhouse.
Unfortunately, “not exactly a powerhouse” was an understatement. They were downright struggling. We raced to a 10-0 lead off the full-court press, prompting me to immediately call off the pressure. By the end of the first quarter, the score was a staggering 23-0, and by halftime, it had ballooned to 38-5.
Seeing an opportunity to get everyone some playing time, I started subbing liberally throughout the second half. My entire bench saw significant playing time, and as the final buzzer blared, the score reflected a dominant 50-23 victory.
Joe, however, didn’t appear fazed by the lopsided score. In fact, he approached me after the game, a hint of appreciation in his eyes.
“Thanks, Mr. Butler,” he said genuinely. “I really appreciate you calling off the press and giving your bench so much playing time.”
His words sparked a wave of internal conflict. While I understood his gratitude, I couldn’t help but feel a pang of guilt. My players, usually relegated to the bench, were having a field day, reveling in the rare opportunity to shine. But at what cost?
The next game, the eighth-grade matchup, proved even more lopsided. Despite being held to a relatively close 14-7 in the first quarter, my team exploded in the second, outscoring them 20-3 to take a commanding 34-10 lead. The bench saw most of the action once again, even the seldom-used players getting a chance to showcase their skills. It was almost like watching an NBA team facing off against a high school junior varsity squad.
The final horn blared, and the scoreboard confirmed a humiliating 78-25 defeat for Valley Christian. As much as I tried to rationalize it, I couldn’t shake off the feeling of embarrassment. These were young athletes still developing their skills, and here we were, crushing them. But what was I supposed to do? My players, usually starved for playing time, were like kids in a candy store, savoring every moment on the court.
Would Joe be livid? Would he unleash a torrent of frustration at the lopsided score? My stomach churned with anticipation as we lined up for the customary post-game handshakes and “good games.” As coaches, we stood at the end of the line, our eyes meeting. I braced myself, expecting a tirade, but instead, I saw a reflection of the 12-year-old boy I once knew in my classroom – young, enthusiastic, and brimming with potential.
Shamefaced, I took the initiative to apologize. “Joe, I’m truly sorry,” I confessed, my voice heavy with regret. “I told my players to prioritize good sportsmanship and focus on making five passes before each shot. I even took off the press in the second quarter. But seeing them excel, I… well, I didn’t manage the game the way I intended. I feel awful.”
To my surprise, Joe simply shook his head, his expression kind and understanding. “No need to apologize, Mr. Butler,” he reassured me. “I understand. My team is young, and many of them are just starting to play. You were fair, and your players were respectful for the most part.”
He paused for a moment, then added, “Can I offer a suggestion?”
“Of course,” I replied, eager to hear his perspective.
“Most of your players displayed excellent sportsmanship,” Joe continued, “and it was clear how much you instilled that in them. But there was one player, number six, who was showing off and not playing with good sportsmanship. It was quite noticeable.”
A wave of disappointment washed over me. I recognized the player immediately. He was a talented athlete but often struggled with sportsmanship.
“I apologize for his behavior,” I said, acknowledging my responsibility. “I will definitely speak to him about it.”
“No worries,” Joe reassured me again. “Your other players were fantastic role models. Honestly, it was an honor to coach against you. It made my day.” He paused, a playful glint in his eyes. “And I can’t wait to tell my mom that I coached against you – she’s going to be so excited to hear all about it!”
A bittersweet smile touched my lips. “Tell your mom and brothers ‘hi’ from me,” I replied, shaking his hand firmly.
As Joe walked away, I couldn’t help but think back to that bright 12-year-old who could rattle off math facts at lightning speed and dominate chess tournaments. The young man before me, kind, gracious, and already a dedicated coach, filled me with immense pride.
“Oh, and one more thing,” Joe added with a playful wink, “we’ll be gunning for you next time!”
I chuckled, a sense of hope rekindled within me. While the lopsided victory wasn’t ideal, Joe’s maturity and sportsmanship offered a valuable lesson. My mind drifted back to the Hollywood ending I envisioned – a close game, a buzzer-beater, a win earned through hard work and respect.
But reality, as it often does, presented a different scenario. Nevertheless, Joe’s journey from student to coach, infused with sportsmanship and a genuine love for the game, was far more valuable than any lopsided victory. He had a bright future ahead, and I had no doubt he would succeed in whatever path he chose, be it coaching, chess, teaching, or beyond. Joe was simply that intelligent and determined.
As for me, I was left with a renewed commitment to fostering not just athletic talent in my players, but also good sportsmanship and a spirit of gracious winning. And while player number six would certainly be having a chat with me soon, the memory of Joe’s kindness and the lessons learned from this unexpected encounter would stay with me for a long time.
