The voice on the phone required no introduction. That voice is burned into my brain, still snapping me to attention all these years later.
High school coaches have that effect.
“Hello, Mr. Scoggins,” said the man who has seen me laugh, cry, scream, curse, succeed, fail and puke into a trash can.
Coach Z and I hadn’t spoken in years. As players, we shortened his last name to one letter out of convenience. And no matter how old I become, I could never, ever call him by his first name. He will forever be Coach.
Coach Z called recently to talk about something happening at our old basketball program. Both of us are long gone from the school, but like fabric in a quilt, that’s still our program. And I have a letter jacket to prove it.
Naturally, the conversation shifted to our time together. We talked about specific games, favorite memories and a possible reunion.
Time is undefeated in life, except when it is matched up against our recall of the glory years of high school sports. I can barely remember my age, but almost four decades later I still remember nicknames my teammates gave each other, our inside jokes, the special way we gave high fives, the song we sang in the locker room after we qualified for the state tournament on a buzzer-beating shot by a teammate we called Skeeter and the tears we shed together after the final loss, knowing our magical ride was over.
That is why we love high school sports. Relationships. Competition. School spirit. Community pride. Togetherness.