OLD DIRT

by Craig Foster (a Griffin), Los Alamitos High School Class of '74

NO ONE MAKES A SOUND for the entire return trip. Not a whisper. Not even a cough inside the yellow bus packed with players and coaches. Forty or fifty flesh-and-blood statues facing dead-ahead, steeped in the kind of quiet that asks: Did somebody die?

Every helmet remains strapped on crew-cut heads, as if the game has yet to start, or is still in progress–not over. Win or lose, players aren’t permitted to remove helmets from the moment we step on the bus, until after we step off. On this night, no one dares break a rule.

 

My head features a choppy butch cut–another team rule–buzzed by my dad, a veteran. I fancy myself a surfer boy with longish sun bleached hair, so shaving my head during the Hippie fashion heyday is teenage culture shock. But I shave it anyway.

 

Tonight, instead of a helmet I wear a cast on my left arm, shattered after falling from atop a climbing pole on a PE field. Naturally I stick with the team, though I won’t heal in time to play any more games.

   

This is five decades ago, and the Los Alamitos football program is only four years old. The Fountain Valley Barons have just embarrassed our sophomore team, 36-0. It feels like somebody died. It feels like every time they touched the ball, some massive back rambled to the end zone, swatting would-be tacklers like pests. Fountain Valley is billed as “the largest high school west of the Mississippi,” with some 5000 kids. Big boys. Fast. But on a mission to build a football tradition, our coaches tolerate no excuses.

Well after dark, the yellow bus hisses to a stop, a giant beast exhaling pent-up pressure. In the dark, we hear the hand-cranked mechanical door fold open, and Coach Fitzpatrick is first off. We follow, single-filing onto the parking lot next to our home field. Fitz blocks our way to the locker room, instead directing us to the field with a rigid straight arm and stiff index finger. 

 

A 440-yard red dirt track circles the dark football field. An assistant coach herds us to the nearest goal line, passive lambs to slaughter. Not even a bleat. 

 

Fitz is pissed and fixing to prove it. About to send a simple message: This is not acceptable. Not here. His direct, brutal tirade lasts less than a minute, every word true. The same rant and subsequent punishment fifty years later might cost a coach his job. But this is 1971. 

 

It’s time for the actual lesson, the good part, something to make sure all the lambs get the message. Fitz follows his diatribe with about a million whistle blasts. The first whistle screeches GO! and we bolt off the line. The remaining however many blasts, 10 or 12, or 20 per hundred yards, mean hit your stomach, bounce up, keep running. We call them up-downs, or suicides, but they feel like murder. Whatever, they suck, especially in full pads.

 

Up and down the field we go. Down and up, down and up, down and up, we go. Repeat, to infinity. Soon, the silence of the lambs is ruined by groans and gasps and guttural desperation. Someone hyperventilates. Another goes down hard between whistles. The cacophony includes all the frantic sounds you might expect from tortured boys facing eternity. Even the captains quit leading, switching to survival mode. But no one quits the work. Corny as it sounds in 2021, in 1971, punishment will actually kill you before you quit. 

 

No coach tells me to skip the up-downs. No one says, you’re injured kid and you didn’t play anyway, so carry equipment to the locker room. No coach lets me off because we are one team. All in this together. No one expects special treatment, and no one gets it. Not even the kid in a cast. 

 

So, I run with my teammates up and down the field, dropping, scrambling up, stumbling forward, quads on fire. A wounded animal, life fading with each length of field. 

 

I slam my cast into the ground on every whistle. The quick whistles, say within five yards, are the worst. My semi-healed wrist throbs inside its disintegrating armor. After the season when I have it removed, the doc tells me he’s never seen plaster so thrashed. Says it looks like tired tube sock and smells worse. Says he can see my skin through the mesh.

 

Fitz is laying hard on the whistle, to be heard over the din of suffering. By the end of it, maybe 10 or 12 field lengths, or an hour, or however you measure agony, we can barely climb to our feet. Not even the best of us. At least I’m not wearing pads, something maybe resented by a few teammates. The tortured can hold a grudge.

 

1970’s football pads must be what you wear in hell. Heavy, bulky, restricting, chaffing, and hot. We never have a day-off from pads. No helmet-and-shorts walk-throughs. No hiding knee pads in your locker. It’s full pads and full contact every day. Even on blistering August two-a-days. Even the days you can reach up and scoop a handful of Orange County smog.

 

A football helmet is a weapon. Our coaches expect us to use the crown to strike a blow, always barking, Use your hat! They explain that it doesn’t hurt when you’re the one dishing, so dish it hard. I find this to be mostly true. This is before concussions and spinal cords really join the conversation. It’s decades before such technique draws a yellow penalty flag, or lawsuit.

 

We don’t get water until after practice, so the hot pads of hell team-up with dehydration. A dry two-hour practice feels like six. When coach finally cuts us loose, we bolt for the locker room and race to the coldest water fountain, or the one with actual pressure. The backs and receivers fly, so we linemen lose the race. But we don’t care. We elbow our way to sinks and showers. We’re animals.

 

An older buddy on varsity, he explains a special varsity perk. About halfway through practice, players are told to remove helmets, flip them over and form a line. A coach walks the line, spraying hose water into steaming helmets. Personalized, mini oil-slicks. Heated dudes slurp at the salty water, guzzling down any frothy blend that doesn’t escape through helmet holes. It’s good to know we have perks ahead.

 

Following practice, after wide open group showers, we stop by the equipment room. Our equipment man, Archie–think Popeye–peddles five cent lemon popsicles through the top half of a Dutch door. Those of us with a nickel suck them down to the stick, lickety-split. A tiny piece of heaven to a soggy-headed, zit-faced teenager, fresh up from hell.  

 

At Los Alamitos High School there is no car parade of parents collecting sophomores after games or practice. Most of us, even after dark, we’re on our own to make it home however we can. On Stingrays or skateboards. Or hitchhiking thumbs. Or legs. It’s the ‘70s, a decade when Southern California is lousy with serial killers. Still, helicopter parents don’t come hovering for years. We’re just expected to survive, without backup.

 

I make it home the night of the Fountain Valley game and recount the abuse inflicted by our coaches. I know better, but I naively hope for a speck of sympathy. My folks, both of them WWII army vets, shrug. It’s years before parents make a beeline to the Superintendent of Schools.

 

There’s this enduring battle. Old men compare old school to present day. Young men roll their eyes. It probably started when man first walked the earth. When I was your age, we didn’t have fire!  

 

Some old school ways have disappeared for the better, replaced by sensible ideas, like, hydration. Like, a helmet is protection, not a weapon. Or like, a parent fighting a kid’s battle is sometimes necessary.

 

But plenty of good can be excavated from an old football field. Toughness and discipline are mixed in that old dirt. So is respect–for coaches, for expectations, for each other. If you dig a little, you’ll see the value of hard truth over sugar-coating. You’ll find that consequences get a boy’s attention. That suffering is a path forward, and punishment is an effective motivator. Look deeper and you’ll recognize that a kid fighting his own battle adds bark. And you may even find independence and courage in a kid dodging serial killers.     

 

 

FLOOKER

by Craig Foster, Cypress Charger, 1975-1976

NO ONE SEEMS TO KNOW when Mike Flook became Flooker. Coach Ray Haas may have nicknamed him, in the same way he took to calling me Craiger. Or, Flooker may have always made sense, felt natural, like the kid was born with that handle. Either way, unless you're a serial killer, a nickname is mostly a sign of affection, or respect. Flooker–it's hard to imagine anyone more loved, or respected.

In the narrow wrestling pipeline between Los Alamitos High School and Cypress College, Flooker came first. He competed for Los Al at a time when the new wrestling program stunk. In fact, the Griffin mat team was one of the lowest in all of Southern California. Flooker stood out as the best of the worst, but never really landed on anyone’s recruiting radar. He lived in Cypress, an easy jog from another fledgling program at Cypress College. The Chargers were led by Pennsylvania native Haas, and the coach was busy putting his program on the wrestling map. He collected the best kids in Orange County, guys like Jim Shields, but he also welcomed anyone who loved wrestling and wanted an opportunity. Flooker loved wrestling, so he got snared in Haas’s wide net. 

Had a wrestling prospect ever been labeled a future Hall-of-Famer at Cypress College, it would not have been Mike Flook. He was a good competitor for Los Al, but unpolished scrappers rarely made college All-Americans. Flooker's lack of solid high school training showed itself early at Cypress. When he arrived on campus in the fall of 1970, he was little more than chum for a pair of rugged workout partners in All-Americans Bob Leininger and Barry Malony. Raw, bloody meat for sharks. The tenacious Griffin struggled to survive practices as the pair of hammers pounded on him. But under the eye of his ever-demanding head coach, Flooker simply would not quit. He survived that season and earned the coach's respect.

A year later, Mike was one of only three returning starters–along with Malony (142) and Bill Postmus (177)–on a team heavy with freshmen. This imbalance landed him a role he never expected: team leader.

 

Ted Wilton, a freshman and future All-American at Cypress, describes sophomore Mike this way: "I remember when I first met Flooker. He came up to me and introduced himself in the wrestling room. We both had long curly hair. We were wild and we constantly made each other laugh. It was an instant bond that lasted many years. I was more muscular than Mike, but he was a much more dangerous wrestler than me. He taught me the secrets to his fireman's carry. During his time on the mat, no one executed a better FC than Mike Flook. He taught me how to dance with my feet. He showed me his set-up. Outside tie, tap and distract the head, the shoulder, constantly dancing and changing sides. It was the first time I ever saw multiple set-ups for one takedown. The dude was a genius . . . Jimi Hendrix type genius."

 

As a high schooler, I spent some time at Cypress CC open mats. One night I watched Ted and Mike scrap, long floppy hair flying, pounding each other, stalking, chasing, attacking. Neither ever scored, and I thought, they're trying to kill each other. As they scrambled across the room, the mat cleared around them. There wasn't enough space to contain them, and anyway, everyone had to watch. It was my first encounter with true, violent intensity on a mat.

  

Flooker's leadership role grew even more prominent midway through the season, thanks to an unusual situation. When Malony returned in the fall of '71, he'd already completed three semesters, and had just one remaining. The Charger co-captain decided to use his final year of community college eligibility during the first semester, and then transfer to the University of Nebraska to join his former Western High and Cypress teammate, John Bell. Malony cruised through the first semester, racking up 28 dominant wins against 0 losses, with four tournament titles. The Nebraska coaches could hardly wait to welcome their prized recruit.

 

But something happened on the road to Cornhusker country. In early January, Cypress competed at the annual Cal Poly Junior College Invitational, Malony's last competition as a Charger. The Mustangs were the NCAA Division II powerhouse of the time, and their legendary coach Vaughn Hitchcock spent the weekend enticing Malony to the scenic shores of San Luis Obispo. A week later, Malony suddenly switched his commitment, signed with Cal Poly, and became a Mustang.

 

Ironically, Mike Flook may have benefited most from Malony's exit. No longer the "other guy" in the lineup, Flooker matured and embraced his inflated leadership role, as the Chargers began their stretch run. "Mike's improvement was noticeable," recalled former teammate Mike Henry. “He projected an air of confidence on the mat during the final few weeks of the '72 season, and just seemed more at ease."

 

With each match, Flooker gained confidence. In the post-season, he captured the Southern California Conference championship. A week later he placed 2^nd at the Regional tournament, earning a spot on the state bracket. He capped his sophomore year with a runner-up finish at the state meet, becoming the fifth wrestling All-American in the brief history of Cypress College.

The 70s were a golden era for college wrestling in California, with over 90 community colleges fielding teams. Many of those squads featured phenomenal wrestlers, like Joe Gonzales (East LA CC; future NCAA DI Champ for Bakersfield, and Olympian), and a couple dozen other future NCAA All-Americans, including Cypress product Shields, who placed 3^rd in the nation for the Oklahoma State Cowboys. The tough competition made the California CC state meet fertile ground for university coaches seeking seasoned college athletes. Flooker's late season success didn't go unnoticed, and several schools recruited him to join their programs. He signed with the University of Utah.

• • •

 

IN THE TINY Los Alamitos High School to Cypress College wrestling pipeline, I came next. Mike’s little brother, Randy Flook–a kid with his own nickname, Frog–and I were teammates and best friends at Los Al. We spent most of our free time together, and it was through Frog that I met Flooker. Frog worshipped his big brother, and before long, I did too.

 

Mike was a lightweight wrestler (134 pounds) but larger than life, especially to a young kid like me. Along with being a stud on the mat, Flooker was colorful, creative, wild, hilarious, good looking, and had a never-ending stream of beautiful ladies pursuing him. He was the most charismatic person I’ve ever known. Legendary, really, and what all us teenagers aspired to be. I grew to love him, just like I loved his brother, Frog. It was even better that we were Griffins.

 

Los Alamitos wrestling was slightly improved by the time I competed there, but like Flooker, I came out rough around the edges. Much of what I learned in wrestling prior to Cypress came courtesy of Flooker during impromptu clinics where he would torture us in someone's living room or backyard. The torture sessions often occurred along with a little 1970s style shenanigans. Those who knew him, know Flooker was a multitasker.

 

Once, while watching one of our high school duals in Long Beach, Flooker pulled me aside and showed me a set-up for his signature fireman's carry. He'd shown me his fireman's another time, but this particular set-up was new, an open shot with no initial tie-up. It was a slick combination of fake-drag, rake-the-head and penetrate, and left the opponent reacting directly into the carry. I stepped onto the mat and promptly fake-dragged, raked, and carried my opponent to his back, first try, without ever having practiced the set-up. This wasn’t a testament to talent or skill on my part. Instead, it was the direct result of Flooker's ability to communicate technique, to really sell it, and motivate you to go for it. It was also about a kid's unconditional belief in his hero, and wanting to make him proud.

 

This kid went on to use his hero's set-up and carry throughout the remainder of his career, including a win in the state CC championship finals. Back at the hotel, Frog, who had come along to support me, insisted we call Flooker to give him the good news. After we told him, Flooker yelled into the phone, "NOT that old set-up!" I shouted back, "TWICE!" Today, I'm a little embarrassed to say that in 36 years of successful coaching, no matter how hard I tried, I was never able to get a wrestler to hit that set-up. Clearly, Flooker had a little magic in him.

• • • 

 

MIKE FLOOK SPANNED THE LIFETIME of Cypress College wrestling, competing there in the early days, and coaching there until its end. The program began in 1968 with Ray Haas, and Mike competed for the Chargers from 1970-1972. He began coaching there as an assistant to Haas in 1985, became the head coach five years later, and remained until the program was axed in 2003. It's an unusual sidebar that a program lasting 35 years had only two coaches during its tenure. Even more unexpected, to my delight–one was a Griffin.

 

Flooker's story can't be told without hearing from those who knew him, those who wrestled for him, those who loved him. A few Flooker-trained wrestlers and relatives shared comments that scratch the surface of his life, on and off the mat.

 

Ernesto Vargas shared, "The Flooker once challenged every wrestler in the room to shoot on his drinking leg. Not a single takedown was scored that day."

 

Aaron Cross gave his perspective: "The Flooker was the greatest storyteller I ever heard. He could take some mundane thing and make it a memorable yarn. I still quote his story about him training to beat his nemesis Arballo from Fresno City and yelling, 'Arballllooo, you asshole!!' while he was running."

 

Gerardo Rodriguez related a favorite story. "Anyone who ever wrestled for Mike worked the fireworks stand. If he trusted you, you got to sleep in that sketchy parking lot and guard the fireworks stand at night. While the stand was running, Mike was in the Town Tavern. If you know Mike, you know he had a heart of gold and would do anything for kids. Frequently the kids from the middle school where he taught would come by, clear out the trash and run errands for free fireworks. One day one of our helpers needed to use the bathroom, so Mike, in his infinite wisdom, took the 12-year-old into the Town Tavern to use the restroom. The owner, who must have been 74 at the time, started giving Mike grief about bringing a 12-year-old into the bar. Mike proceeded to tell the guy that after all the money he had spent over the years in his establishment, he could at least let him bring a kid in to use the bathroom. After a back and forth, Mike says, and I quote: 'Look dude, you're not too old to get your ass kicked.' And that's how the Flooker was banned from the Town Tavern. The place went out of business shortly after. Coincidence? We will never know."

 

Rodriguez added, "We stayed close in the years after I was done wrestling. I loved Mike and I miss him . . . he was family."

 

Frog's son, Cypress wrestler Chad Flook, and Mike’s daughter Elke shared a cryptic exchange that dances around a harrowing but typical Flooker adventure. Chad: "The story about Uncle Mike making it to my wedding is epic. Gotta love Flooker." Elke: "Chad omg. The death-defying road trip with Jake to UT. What an animal." Chad: "Only your dad could do that. 'What an animal' is the only way to describe him." Takeaway? Daughter and nephew agree on ‘animal.’

 

It's been said that Elke was the love of Mike's life. She had this to say about her father: "Mike Flook LOVED his team. Year in and year out, he lived for coaching, teaching, mentoring, and storytelling. He LOVED music, especially greats like Van Morrison and The Eagles. But it had to be louder than hell, and there had to be dancing. Entertaining was something he took great pride in. Playing pool, BBQing, Jacuzzi going, lots of food and laughter. That was the norm in my house."

• • • 

 

ALUMNI OF ANY TEAM, college, or group enjoy a similar past. Charger wrestling alumni are no different. Together we make up the 35-year history of Cypress CC wrestling, having competed at the same college for one of two coaches who formed the backbone of our shared experience. Most of us logged our two years and moved on, but we'll never forget our time at Cypress. 

 

Throughout the history of Charger wrestling, from the near-beginning to the very end–Mike Flook, the wrestler, the assistant coach, the head coach, the legend–was the single most persistent thread. The glue, as they say, fastening us all together. I'm an alumni of Charger wrestling. But like many of you, I'm also a grateful Flooker alumni, part of that fortunate set of folks he touched through the years.

 

Mike Flook passed away in 2015. Frog says with pride that his big brother "lived life his way, on his terms, all the way until the end." Yes, by all accounts, Flooker lived fully, unapologetically, without political correctness. Through good times, and during hard times, he maintained a creative, fun-loving spirit that infected the rest of us with happy memories.

In 2018, Flooker was posthumously inducted into the Orange County Wrestling Association's Hall of Fame. Elke, his light, was there to accept his award.

  

In an enduring show of respect and true to the Flooker brand, Aaron Cross shared a simple legacy: "I still yell, 'The FLOOKER!' when I hit blackjack on tables in Vegas."   

 

PRIVATE THOUGHTS

by Craig Foster

I MOW A LOT.  I own five acres and I cut them with my little John Deere garden tractor.  It takes hours and hours, and when I finally finish, my field of weeds looks like an expansive lawn.  An estate.  Not exactly a major league baseball outfield, but when it’s green and mowed, it feels something like that.

    When I mow a lot, I think just as much.  I put on my ear protection with no music, with just the muffled hum of the machine beneath me, and I get lost in my own head.  I mow squares or rows or circles, and sometimes I cut random freestyle patterns.  Automatic pilot, with nothing but thinking.  Nothing but private thoughts, secure inside my ear protection, safe inside my head.

    Today, from the distance of a few acres, I see our Victorian-style country house, the place we raised our kids.  I see the wrap-around porch my wife loves so much.  I spot her colorful hanging baskets, wrapping around the porch that wraps around our home.

    Anymore, I always do this.  When I mow, I gaze at my house across the fresh cut field, and I'm overcome with love.  Not young love, with its promise and hope.  Old, deep love.  Content love.  Near-the-end love, with a dash of heartache.

    What comes after the wave of love, what always comes next is I think about the big block of life I’ve used up, and the small chunk that’s left.  Bittersweet isn't exactly the right word, but it’ll do. 

    Inside my ear protection, inside my head, I travel back many years to a day I turn forty-something.  Like no other birthday, this particular age hits me–it rocks me–and I say, to my buddy who’s there, I blurt, “Wow, that’s half my life already.”  My cynical friend, the guy with a plain, direct way of talking, he contributes, “The best half.”

    I chuckle like it’s a joke, in that odd way you do when something suddenly makes you uneasy.  But it’s not a joke.  What it is, is the first time I really grasp that life isn’t forever.

    Today, sitting on my humming John Deere, I’m in my 50s.  Technically, I am.  OK, I’m 59 and I’ll turn 60 in a month.  But the point is, no matter how you try, you can never convey to people how quickly time passes.  It’s like trying to explain to someone without children, the joy they bring.  What that love is like.  It can’t be described so some childless someone really gets it.  Not truly.  For truly, we all have to travel these roads–time flying, and kids–for ourselves.

    My thoughts mow a pattern back to now, back to my field and house, and the smell of fresh cut grass.  I’m wearing my favorite navy blue sweatshirt, an old-school crewneck, extra heavy and warm on this cold fall day.  The fabric is soft from workouts and yard work, and maybe a thousand washings.  It’s distressed from actual age and use, not from that fashion kind of fade.  This bad boy features real wear and tear, with frayed cuffs, grease stains, and discoloring from being abandoned in the rain for a winter. 

    It seems I haven’t owned my sweatshirt all that long, but I do the math, and suddenly it's twenty-five years old.  Long past its prime, past the time for donation to the Goodwill.  Past the time, even, to throw it away.  When your sweatshirt survives this 

long . . . it will outlive me.  I examine the thought as I stare down at my frayed sleeve, as I gaze and reflect, feeling tired and faded.  

    Now, my old sweatshirt stirs even deeper thoughts, the kind you don’t talk about.  Thoughts of my kids finding my favorite sweatshirt in some box.  Of them looking out from our wrap-around porch, out across our overgrown field–my field of dreams gone to seed.  Them imagining me, humming along.  Them realizing they'll never see me again, feeling that stark reality.  My sweatshirt triggers all this, these thoughts of death, all mixed up with my children.

    I continue cutting automatic patterns with my little John Deere.  My private thoughts surge ahead.  There's my kids, the three of them, all grown up with their own lives.  All gathered in the living room of their dead father's house, the living room in the Victorian over there, a few mowed acres away.  They rummage through boxes, deciding what to keep, and what to toss.

    The rummaging sends my thoughts backward in time, to my dad, and the things that outlived him.  The stuff you sort through, deciding.  When you lose your dad, every piece requires a solemn decision.

    Some of the items you keep are just because they were his.  Like an old electric razor you’ll never use.  One that doesn’t work.  Like a late sixties hippie belt with colorful flowers stamped in, hand crafted from stiff leather. 

    Some of his things, you hold on to them because they represent him so well.  Like the red, white, and blue hockey glove, curled and molded permanently in the shape of Dad’s fingers.  He played hockey until he was 80, and I don’t brag much, but I’m damn proud of that.  Sometimes I slip my hand into his glove, and those are the times I feel him, and miss my father the most.

    Some extraordinary things you keep, and those things, even if you tried, you couldn't convey the meaning.  Like the American flag, folded in the shape of a tri-cornered colonial hat, handed to my mother at Dad’s military funeral.  In my head, I see Mom holding the flag gently on her lap.  A tear runs down her cheek, out from under her oversized, garage-sale sunglasses.

    The singular things, unimaginable things, you tuck them safely away, someplace special.  Like the buttons that survived the fire, buttons from Dad's US Army dress blues, the uniform he wore in cremation.  Charred brass buttons, sifted from the ashes of my father’s body.  Like time flying and loving your kids, you can't really explain these things, but you get the idea. 

    Today, when I think about dying, it doesn’t bother me.  I've lived a good life, with some hard times mixed in. It's the hard that makes the good, special.  And it's love that makes a life, good.  I've had good, and I've lived hard, and I've felt my share of love, but the point is, I'm content.  Death happens to all of us, so when it’s my turn, I’ll go.  

    But all this thinking about dying makes me wonder about my kids.  Makes me worry about them.  I can live with my death, but can they?  Will they be OK?  I can't say, but I take comfort from my own experience–losing my dad, living through it, eventually being OK. 

    Gazing at my house from my bright yellow seat, in my head, like on a little video screen there, I see my kids sifting through my stuff when I’m gone.  Lost in their own heads with their own memories, respectfully sorting things to keep, or toss.  There is no talk, and no rush.  It's tranquil, this scene on my little video screen.   

    My Air Force oldest fishes out a second place Little League baseball trophy from 1967.  The first award I ever won.  The ballplayer on top is floppy loose, and my first-born twists him, trying to tighten the fifty-year-old relic.  Trying to make the chrome-colored hitter presentable, maybe for a place in his own house.

    My sweet girl, my daddy's girl, she discovers a piece of notebook paper with something I wrote to her when she was born.  My handwritten words tell her that I'm so happy to finally have a little girl, that I promise to love her forever, that I will always be there for her.  That last promise makes my princess cry softly.  On my mower a few acres away, I do the same.      

    My blue-collar son, my middle child, the hard worker, he pulls out my worn out sweatshirt, the one I wear now, the one that outlives me.  He holds it wide by the shoulders and stares, looks right through it, reflecting on private things in his head.  After a moment, he gently pulls on one sleeve, and then the other.  He ducks his head through the collar hole.  He adjusts the rest of it around his waist, and sits there.  Sits still, in my sweatshirt, in the quiet.

    On my mower, the job is finished now, the last little patch of weeds knocked down to look like lawn.  I sit there, mid field, and think about all these things I can never explain.  How time pretends to last forever, but doesn't. How loving your children is everything that matters.  How brass buttons, and hockey gloves, and sweatshirts, are much more than dusty old things stuffed in some box, waiting to be tossed.

    Today, one last time, I gaze across my freshly cut field.  I look at my house and imagine all three of my children, my two sons and my sweet girl, smiling through tears as they resist tossing anything of mine.  I realize that this story, these private thoughts, are about death, only happier.  Happier, because I'm not dead yet.  Happier, because I have some fleeting time left.  Time still, to love.

    Not ready to call it a day, I drop the mower deck another inch.  I steer away from the house my wife loves, the childhood place of my children, and start again.  Start over, mowing patterns. 

 

CHLOE'S GRADUATION BALLOONS

ANOTHER LAST Monday morning.

I head out to work for the almost-final day of the school year. Summer is looming in the northwest corner of Washington, but the skies are typical gray, swollen and threatening to burst.

In three days I’ll be set free on summer break. In my mind, Alice Cooper belts out the chorus of a song from my youth — "School’s Out For Summer!" Even as a teacher and wrestling coach for more than three decades, I still get as giddy as the kids when school lets out. Today, on cue, that familiar excitement surfaces, but this year is different. I could call it bittersweet, but I’ve decided not to go there.

In the gym last Friday night, the teachers all sat scrunched together in a tight section of basketball bleachers, those with a kid graduating getting the front row. As usual, a few of us felt silly, decked out in our flamboyant academic regalia, with our flat, pointy caps. I had to cheat off my neighbor to remember which edge to dangle my tassel over.

Chloe graduated that night, where she delivered a powerful valedictory speech. As her father, I sat transfixed in the bleachers, stunned by the vision of this beautiful, insightful adult, and wondering what she did with my little girl.

As the ceremony crept on, my eyes watered now and then, but I chased the tears away, instead deciding to feel the moments, and appreciate the bright future ahead. Thankfully, these days I’m learning that I can literally decide how to see things, how to react, even how to feel.

As a teacher, in one of those remarkable life moments you can't really describe, I got to present Chloe's diploma. Precious, fleeting instants like these, you can't keep them. You can’t grip them too tightly. You can only feel them deeply, before they vanish.

Yesterday we hosted Chloe’s graduation party, after months of planning and honey-do chores. The experts on my device naturally predicted rain for Sunday, but somehow during our special four-hour window, we were blessed with sunshine and comfortable temperatures. People came in waves — kids, adults, and in-betweens. Some settled in for the long haul, munching chips and chunky fresh salsa, passing volleyballs, or staking out a comfortable spot. Others with busy lives and plenty of day-off options still made brief appearances to pay respects.

Of course, family dotted the grounds. Nephews surprised from Oregon and Montana.  My wife's mother and sister rolled in from southwest Washington, offering love and support and elbow grease. My son and his beautiful girlfriend — who haunts our family these days with her playful disruption — made it. Chloe's mother and my wife, Jeri, planned everything and presided gracefully over the day.

Many friends attended, some of them new, some old, some best. Chloe’s pals from our school and elsewhere trickled in. Family friends came, and we each attracted our own personal amigos to our Mexican-themed, taco fiesta. As expected, the wrestling folks materialized. Managers and wrestlers and parents, current and from the past, checked in. Less expected, an opposing coach, my fiercest rival and loyal friend, showed up. Following the coach came an old, bald referee, escorting his lovely wife — the living embodiment of “better half.”

Among this diverse mix of people, many unfamiliar with one another, a happy chorus of babies and toddlers and puppies emerged, cooing and squealing and yipping. Our yard soon filled with a delightful mix of people and pets, replacing the expected rain with a shower of kindness and love, allowing me — famously socially awkward — to not only survive the party, but to love it.

Today, this last Monday of the school year, Mother Nature is up to her old tricks, conjuring dark clouds and cool June temperatures, dealing the kind of day that invites melancholy. I roll slowly down our long country driveway, focused on the movement of the orange balloons attached to our entry gate, the last remnants of Chloe’s party.

Like the balloons, my emotions are unsteady as I stop near the entrance. From up close, I watch the balloons dance weakly in the breeze, exhausted from their work of announcing the party, and dissipating helium. I pause for an extended moment to gaze at these final remains of Chloe’s high school experience. Getting to work on time becomes unimportant. I step out of my truck, and snap a photo.

I’ve shared my own children with my school district for twenty years. Chloe, my last wrestling manager, is also my last child to graduate. There is something magical about experiencing school with your own children. Their friends, other people’s kids, become your kids. Girls seek you out to share the latest gossip or lay out the day’s drama. A boy asks for your help in navigating a tough class; another begs you to broker a date with his crush. Your nervous freshman son pops in to spend lunch with you because school is a jungle, and he has nowhere else to hide.

When things go badly in your work, there is always someone — your own children — to comfort and inspire you, and to love you, no matter what. Not many professions offer that in the benefit package. I regret now all of the times I was too busy, too stressed, or too annoyed to enjoy every second of these past twenty years with my kids. But still, I’m grateful for all the special moments I was blessed to share with them. When I consider how most people live most of their lives away from their children during the school years, I understand that sharing my work life with my own might be the single best perk of this career.

Precious, fleeting instants like these, you can't keep them. You can’t grip them too tightly. You can only feel them deeply, before they vanish.

I’m an emotional guy, increasingly so as I age. If ever there was an opportunity to get sappy, now is the time. I’ve retired from a long coaching career, and my kids are all finished with public school. I’m facing the two biggest transitions of my life — leaving the sport I've loved for a lifetime, while the last of those I love the most is leaving me. These transitions could naturally dictate a slowing down, an uneventful and sorry descent toward the end of my life. I could let the sap flow, and cry my way through it. I could give up and get old, letting age and circumstances overcome me.

Or, I could choose another way.

I refuse to be put out to pasture. At my desk before school, it hits me that the seniors are finished now. It hits me that today is the first day in twenty years of work without my kids. I sit still, take a deep breath, and it hits me that today marks either an end, or a beginning.  After taking all these hits, I boldly proclaim, out loud with no one to hear, "Today is a beginning."

I begin by appreciating the past. Today, I choose to be grateful for all of the time I’ve shared with my children. Today, I decide to reflect on the thousands of special moments and people gracing my career as a coach. Today, I choose to be more excited than ever about this moment, and those still to come.

After school, I head for home.  I turn on the radio just as Tim McGraw gently launches into "My Little Girl." The DJ of the universe has a way with these things. I think, uh-oh, as Tim reaches the chorus:

You're beautiful baby from the outside in.
Chase your dreams but always know the road that'll lead you home again.
Go on, take on this whole world.
But to me you know you'll always be my little girl.

Tears well up. I pull over, and soon, embarrassingly, I’m sobbing and grinning at the same time. Despite my bold assertions about appreciating the past and embracing the future, and deciding how I'm going to feel, yes, I’ve gone there. For just a moment, it hurts.

 

Craig Foster has worked as a teacher in public education for over thirty years. Along with teaching, he coached wrestling for 36 years at both the high school and college levels and was selected as a distinguished member of the Washington State Wrestling Coaches Association Hall of Fame in 2014.

ARMY BRAT

Fort Bragg
 
THE UNITED STATES ARMY put the Captain in North Carolina. They sent his wife, an Army nurse, along with him. All I remember is what I've been told, and I'm told we didn't stick around long after they had me. After eighteen months in the Tar Heel state, the Captain, the Army nurse, and the rest of us, we got shipped overseas.
 
Kitzingen Army Airfield

THE TEACHER–stronger than she looked with her wispy white hair and sagging skin–she caught me from behind. Hooked me at the elbows. Trapped me in some kind of wrestler’s double chicken-wing. I strained for the door handle, brushed it with my fingertips, lost ground. I fought harder, a five-year-old's version of all-out, but the wicked witch jerked me back into the classroom.

Two dozen kids I didn't know sat frozen in their tiny desks, eyes wide like dolls, watching the new kid flail and shriek, tears and snot flying. All those kids watching me finally limp an arm free, spin, and unleash a high-top Chuck Taylor All-Star. Forty-eight focused eyeballs watching my black sneaker connect with the teacher’s hard shin. Watching the teacher’s turn to shriek, and I don’t remember much from those days, but the morning they expelled me from kindergarten, I do recall.

These days, naughty little boys remain in school. Disrupt education. Suck up all the attention. But fifty-some years ago on an overseas American army base, they weren’t issuing second chances. Not even for a little kid. You got what you earned, and when you got home, you got some more.

Maybe a year later in the same country, that's when I first went to jail. Somehow, I latched on to a pack of older kids, geniuses who decided to yank a farmer’s crops from his fertile ground. Decided it was smart to wind-up and launch crop missles–guided by heavy root clods–high in the air, arcing gracefully like mortar shells. Little Einstein, I went right along, launching junior mortars, adding whistling and explosions.

Good times, for everyone but the old farmer, who discovered the artillery battle in his field, and came running. I guess you had to call it running because it was the old man's best effort, but he looked like a cartoon jalopy rambling toward us on kitty-corner flat tires.

All the geniuses, we could have outrun the old man, except for his fleet-footed companion–a grim German Shepherd at the man's heel–more deputy than pet. The farmer barked something in German, spat one sharp word, and the beast corralled us POWs like sheep.

Our captors, the cartoon jalopy and the mouth full of fangs, they marched our little brainy platoon along the edge of the field, toward town. I lagged ten big-kid strides behind, bawling like a six-year-old. Stumbling along, earnestly trying to catch up, yet falling further and further back. Neither captor seemed to notice the bleating runt in the rear.

My big sister, Cat, she crept up on the scene, stalking, darting behind trees and bushes, matching my pace. She saw me trailing behind, caught-on that the farmer and the dog didn't care, and frantically waved me over. I shook my head in that dramatic, pouty way little kids do when a request is not negotiable. On a mission, I marched on, eyes forward, tears washing my cheeks. Cat tried again, hissing, “Come on, run over here, you idiot!” I shook my head again, harder, and the littlest idiot trailed the parade of geniuses all the way to the clink.

When the Army Captain came to claim me, I got some more of what I’d earned. The Captain was the kindest, gentlest man I ever knew, but he also understood discipline.

Looking back, of all the wondrous sights–tilting my head to match the angle of the Tower of Pisa, or gazing at the castings of dead kids in Pompeii–after four years in Europe, expulsion and jail and discipline are what I remember best. Some things, a kid doesn’t forget.

After Germany, the Captain made Major. He and the Army nurse got transferred again, so we all became Texans.

Fort Hood

IN TEXAS WE HAD A GRAINY BLACK AND WHITE TV with three channels and rabbit ears. Complete with tinfoil. I spent my days outside doing boy things–things boys used to do: fishing with a bamboo pole, hunting sparrows with my Daisy BB gun, fighting, playing ball, and generally running wild until the streetlights came on.  Sometimes, even later.

Naturally, my base friends and me, we played Army. We used gear handed down from our dads–helmets, canteens, olive green cartridge belts, and boots that didn't fit. We put together random pieces of oversized fatigues to create our own Mad Max-style uniforms. For sure, not regulation 670-1.

On weekends, we'd fill our canteens and pack sandwiches of Wonder Bread and peanut butter. Simple, sticky rations, but so delicious at the end of a long march.

We'd gear up and set out early for the water tower or Castle Mountain, whichever we picked. The gray-painted water tower was just a goal you had to conquer, several miles away. We'd conquer the tower, flop down in its shadow, and unpack our rations.

Castle Mountain looked like a flat-topped mesa, covered with sagebrush, cactus and horned toads, and abundant artifacts of war from Army maneuvers there. For nine-year-old-boys, brass shells, empty ammo boxes, and C-rations are priceless finds. Boy-Heaven.

Getting beat by a girl is something else I remember, but don't mention much. Cat and me, we went through that ugly phase of siblings tormenting each other. Of hating each other. Of constant bickering, and eventually the Major got fed up. He marched us outside, squared us off, and forced us to fight.

Eager to inflict damage, we clashed like mountain rams and wrestled each other to the ground. She was bigger and stronger, and maybe tougher. After a scramble, she locked body scissors across my lower ribs, and squeezed like hell. Squeezed as hard as she could for as long as she could, and I screamed loud enough to draw neighbors. Still, the Major let it play out. I'd hoped someone would step in to save me, but the spectators seemed to understand the deal, even if I didn't.
 
The torture went on and on. Cat squeezing, me bellowing and crying and blowing snot. Her getting tired and letting up. Both of us gasping, and recovering. Repeat-repeat-repeat, the suffering continued for half-an-hour, and I'm not sure exactly what the Major had in mind, but it taught me that I never wanted to be controlled like that again. I never lost another fight.

But I wasn't the toughest member of our family. One Christmas morning, us four kids gathered at the tree, poised to rip open presents. A tiny Toy Poodle puppy scampered into the room, bouncing from kid to kid, squirting willy-nilly in excitement. At the time, he weighed maybe four pounds, so naturally we named him Tiger.

I'm not making this next part up, the toughest member of the family part, Tiger's medical history. On the Army nurse's grave, I swear it's true. I hate to even write it down because it might make you question the rest of my story, but I owe it to history. I owe it to the dog.

Etched in my memory, in no particular order: I hit Tiger in the head with the tail-end of a full swing of a wooden baseball bat. Knocked him cold. A snake bit him above an eye and left a scar. A car ran over him, and I remember Tiger squealing and scrambling out from between two rolling tires. A cow kicked him and knocked out a tooth. A motorcycle hit him, leaving him bloodied. A horse trampled him and broke his leg. An eagle snatched him up and carried him to a nest full of . . . OK, the eagle is fiction, but at Tiger's rate, it could have happened next.

Years later, under her bed, the retired Army nurse found the best dog I ever had. Found Tiger. Dead, of natural causes.

California

MY SIMPLE CHILDHOOD ENDED when the Major retired as a Lieutenant-Colonel and moved us to California's Bay Area. The innocence of youth and the strong lessons of military life had passed. The plain journey of an Army Brat, the things you recall, they gave way to civilian memories. Junior high dances, and high school sports. Drinking, and socializing, and solving the opposite sex. College, and the explosion of technology. The onset of responsibility. Starting a family, and raising little civilians in a complicated world. Growing older. And, of course, another good dog or two.

IT MAKES YOU FEEL

I stalled for a couple of months, waiting for a sign that maybe the time wasn't right.  A sign never came.  So, after 36 seasons–every single one blessed with special kids–it's clear to me that now, is right.

The right timing doesn't make it any easier to retire as a wrestling coach.  There is so much to leave behind.  The daily grind.  The competition.  The pursuit of dreams.  The kids. 

When I finally found the courage, I sent a letter home to wrestlers and their parents.  I told them I was done.  I explained a few things.  I thanked a lot of people.  I did my best to answer the questions, why now, and why us?

Why?  There are many good reasons.  Age.  Energy.  Health.  Family.  Different dreams.  A host of other reasons, none of which include a declining love for wrestling.  That's why it's so damn hard.  In the face of the many absolute reasons to quit, I love wrestling, and coaching wrestling, more than ever.  

So when I found the guts, I made a leap into the unknown, an abyss without wrestling for the first time in over 40 years.  I sent a letter bomb to deliver my message, which took all my strength to drop in the mail.  Cowardly?  Maybe so, I won't argue.  I was afraid of calling a meeting with kids I've been to battle with, kids I love, to tell them I would no longer be their coach.  I wasn't sure I could have managed it.  But, I also wanted the word out–directly from me–to parents and kids at the same time.  I didn't want rumors or questions to persist, or my verbal story filtered through 20 teenaged brains, and dispersed to everyone seeking answers.  So, I dropped my bomb in their boxes.

My letter reached mailboxes yesterday afternoon.  I know, because my wife Jeri is a rural mail carrier.  I texted her relentlessly.  Have you seen any letters?  Have you delivered any?  Who did you deliver to?  How do you think they will handle it?  Should I be worried?  She's busy and had reason to be annoyed, but she wasn't.  She patiently answered my questions.  She loves me, and knows I'm twisted up, inside.

I knew today at school–my first day seeing wrestlers without a coach–would hurt.  I didn't know how much.  I entered the locker room before classes, unsure of what to expect.  I found myself being stealthy and quick, head down, traveling directly from A to B.  One of my guys spotted me, and came to my PE office. 

"Coach, I heard a nasty rumor," he said.  He looked at me, then cast worried eyes downward, waiting for me to tell him it wasn't true, to make it all better.  I couldn't.  We hugged, said we loved each other, and he shuffled back to his locker.  I bolted from the locker room.  One, was enough for now.

I went to a classroom and began writing greeting cards to each kid I was leaving.  Therapy.  A last chance to tell them how I felt.  One last thing, something, to leave them with. 

Before 4th period I handed a card to a young state medalist, a little boy in a man's body.  The kid is a beast with a heart of gold, who benches and squats a million pounds.  The gold-hearted beast quietly took my card, and no words were exchanged.  Later, after 5th hour, he appeared in my office.  Again, he said nothing.  It looked like he wanted to speak, but couldn't find the words.  I told him I was still here, and would always be here for him.  Just not on the corner of his mat.  We fought tears, as men try to do, and hugged.

Later during my weight training class, another wrestler and I kept our distance, avoiding eye contact and proximity.  We both knew this was going to be tough.  Eventually he passed near me, and I asked, "How ya doin'?"  He flashed an awkward smile, a mask, then answered, "How you doin'?" I returned the same smile-mask, mine with quivering lips.  Then, he asked, "Written any letters lately?"  After a pause, I countered with, "Got any letters lately?"  He said, "No, but I heard about one." 

Our little word-dance quickly dissolved into a strong, tearful hug between a young warrior–a two-time state medalist–and his old coach, in the center of the weight room, while other students watched, and wondered.  He quietly whispered something that included the word "father," and we both sobbed harder.  Eventually we let go, tried to compose ourselves, and moved in opposite directions, disappearing through different doors of the weight room.

Later, I saw him in the locker room.  I told him something I've re-discovered many times, something that always feels fresh and new, and absolutely true: The greatest thing about wrestling, is that it makes you feel.  Sometimes it hurts beyond description, and other times it's amazingly good–even beautiful.  Real life, at it's finest.  The highs don't happen without the lows, and both occur because there has been work, and commitment, and pain, and love involved.

If the retirement of an old coach didn't hurt this bad, it would mean that everything along the way didn't really matter.  But it does hurt.  It matters.  In its own painful way, it's beautiful.

Wrestling always offers new discoveries.  Today, I found there is something I will miss far more than the competition, the winning, the practice, the grind.  I discovered a thing  I intuitively knew all along.  I will miss the kids most of all.