by Lynn Cunningham

As each drop of water hits my naked body the insults sting my memory.

“You don’t talk to the girls enough!”
“You are not committed.”
“You don’t know how to coach the runners.”

I wash my hair hoping to rid myself of the hatred that consumes me.

“I lose my voice at every game because I encourage your daughters. They are having fun and that is what is important! We are learning.”

I am learning. The suds are gone but my disbelief continues to bubble. As I pour on the conditioner I am reminded of my father’s warm embrace. The tears begin to roll down my face. I continue to question what happened. I was there but I still don’t understand.

“Why aren’t there more practices?”
“The girls aren’t having fun because they know going into the game that they are going to lose!”

I coached the remaining inning and the game was over. My mother, the assistant coach, needed to leave early, so she could not join our team huddle. Mrs. Callahan said that we, the rest of the parents and I, need to find a place to talk. A group of parents assembled under the shelter; I stood in front of a picnic table.

“I don’t think you have held enough practices for the girls,” Mrs. Callahan said.
“My mother and I have been preparing for my graduation. She has a job in Osceola [a town thirty minutes away], so she is not able to get home any time before six o’clock in the evening. After next weekend, graduation will be over and I will be able to have after school practices.”
“If you don’t have enough time to coach why do you bother?” Mrs. Callahan spouted off.
“We enjoy spending time with the children. We don’t believe that we should over exert the girls and have practices everyday for two hours. Remember they are only 10, 11, and 12 years old; let them have fun.”

That seemed to satisfy her appetite, but then the other parents came up to bat. First a parent asked if he could hold a practice. I told the group that I had reservations about that because there are specific skills that I teach that other people may not understand or follow. He seemed to understand and then he asked if it would be all right if a couple parents got together and hit groundballs to the girls. I said I would not have a problem with that as long as they do not go against my teachings.

“You tell Anna not to cover second base!” Mrs. Thompson yelled.
“I tell Anna to wait for the ball to be hit before she goes over to second base. The short stop player and second base player both cover the base. There are different ways to cover the bag depending on the hit.” I calmly explain.
“You have no right teaching her that position. I am going to continue to tell her not to listen to you and cover the base every time.” Mrs. Thompson snapped.

The intimidation was burning through my skin; I could not handle it any longer. I turned my head; the tears streamed down my face as I tried to muffle my gasps for air. My father had been standing behind me and heard everything they said. He took me into his arms. He was afraid to let go; he was holding me together. When he let go, he talked to the parents.

“How dare you criticize them as if they don’t try? My wife and daughter care more about those children then any other coach I’ve seen. They put their heart and soul into everything they do. They always encourage those girls to do better and grow as a team.”

I threw my towel around my body as if it might shield me from the ignorance.

There was a message from the softball board president on our answering machine the day I graduated. We were being petitioned by the parents to be removed as the team’s head coaches. Along with the other lies, the parents told the president that we cursed at the children.

We were not a winning team but that was not a part of our philosophy. Mom and I wanted the girls to learn how to play better and how to be “team players.” As the games went on the girls developed a better relationship with each other. The umpires complimented Mom and me for their great sportsmanship.

After several meetings with the softball board we stepped down from the coach position in order to keep the team from breaking up. “It is better for the girls,” Mom said. I guess I believed her, but we didn’t do anything wrong.

......

There stands Mrs. Thompson. Clutching on to my towel, I wait for her to speak. Sure enough I had been assigned to teach her younger daughter and another little one how to swim.

“My daughter, the one you had in swimming lessons,” she let her voice linger in the wet air. I shivered. “She learned so much coming to your lessons.”

It wasn’t much, but maybe…maybe she finally realized that I am not a bad person. I loosen the hold on my towel. It drops to my waist and I am warmed by the heat of the sun reflecting off the waves in the pool.