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“The team has just been in a daze.” I shrugged, unsure how else I could best describe it. “We’re trying new moves, different strategies, but nothing’s been clicking. The lads held a players-only meeting the other night, only to come out and lose three-nothing the next day. Even the captain can’t seem to get through to them.”
Ira looked up in thought, assessing my words, until I saw his eyes suddenly light up. “You should promote Wilkinson instead,” he suggested. “I think he’d really be able to motivate the boys and give the team some positive encouragement. What do you think?”
“Wilkinson?” I repeated hesitantly. “Are you kidding? He’s fresh meat. He hasn’t even gotten his toes wet.”
Gary Wilkinson, or as we call him, “Wilks,” was our striker—only in his second season. A total goof at heart, a solid player on the field, and an even more solid friend off. The team trusted him, listened to him, and, without a doubt, respected him. It wasn’t a bad suggestion; truthfully, the only thing I disliked about it was that I hadn’t thought of it myself.
“Sounds a lot like you,” Ira smirked, gesturing towards one of the chairs strewn along the sidelines of the field. “Mind grabbing me a chair, my boy?”
Ira’s frame settled as I carried a chair over. He sat down in his seat, placing his walking stick off to the side and letting out a long sigh.
“You alright?” I asked, noticing a sense of exhaustion wash over his eyes. It worried me to see him get older by the day.
“I’m just old, Warren.” He sunk into his chair. “That’s all.”
“You’re not that old.” I tried to give him the benefit of the doubt with a small smile.
“Oh yeah?” he began. “Do you remember World War II?”
I shook my head.
“Exactly.” He let out a gruntled sigh. “Exactly.”
I pulled up a seat beside him. “Hey, you’re not too old to tell me how to coach this team, though, right?”
He chuckled at that. “Never…I am your boss, after all.”
We’d spent that entire night sitting under the open top-roof field, shooting the shit, laughing, joking, and bonding as if we were father and son because deep down, it felt that way.
Was Ira my father? No, definitely not. But did he take me on as a son? Yes. A million times, yes. He’d always called me his “problem child,” “my boy,” the person he trusted so much that he gave him—a young retired footballer with no experience—a chance to coach his team.
It was five years ago, just a few weeks after I’d found out that my ACL tear was a career-ending injury. At first, I rebutted the thought. Crawfield Football Club already wasn’t doing great, and frankly, they didn’t need some rookie coach coming along and making them any worse. But Ira had insisted, and I’d wanted nothing more than to be back on the field in any way possible.
So, Crawfield FC began their new season with an inexperienced, passionate, and very good-looking new coach, might I add.
As it turns out, that first season was one of the best the team had seen in years. We weren’t good, by any means—but were we the worst? Almost, but not quite.
I’ve grown more comfortable in my role as a coach than I’d expected. At first, I let the players call me by my name.
Warren.
Park.
Sometimes Parker.
But now, it’s Coach. It’s strictly Coach.
After all this time, I think I finally understand how Ira felt about me. He saw something in me, something that I now see in my team, in my boys. I want nothing more than for them to achieve everything they’ve hoped for. Everything that they work towards each day on that field and everything that I promised Ira that they would accomplish in those final few words we shared.
“You won’t let me down, right?”
“Have I so far?” I questioned, raising an eyebrow.
Ira smiled over at me. “Not once…not ever.”
I had no idea that that would be the last memory I’d make with him.
I’d spent the first 16 years of my life without Ira and the next 16 being completely inseparable from him. The latter years created a completely new version of myself—one that has since disappeared.
