When Love Listens

When Love Listens

My fourth year as choir teacher at Ramay Junior High, in Fayetteville, Arkansas, was, in a musical sense, one of the best of my career; a year of educational and musical accomplishments. Along with several concerts and festivals in both fall and spring, our choral music department recorded an album. It was a year of meaningful activities, but those I cherish most are my experiences with individual students, such as Tim.

Tim’s Hispanic descent was evident in his brown skin, black hair, and deep, but sparkling black eyes. He was a very likable and care-free ninth grade student, but I could tell his spirits were low one day in class. I wasn’t surprised when he asked for some time in my office at the end of class. I could easily see the sparkle in those eyes was gone as he came into the room.

“Tim, what’s up with you today? You don’t seem like yourself.”

“It’s football,” he said, as he fell into the student chair next to my desk.

“What’s the problem with football?” I said aloud, while wondering to myself.

“I play defensive end,” Tim began. “I don’t get to play as much as I want to. I don’t get to start the game, and I don’t ever play more than one of the halves. I’m so frustrated, I’m thinking about quitting.” Tim’s head hung down as if his neck was broken.

“Who starts in front of you?” I inquired.

He paused, “It’s Jeff. He starts and plays the entire first half.” The expression on Tim’s face was a mix of anguish and anger.

Jeff was another singer in our choir. Everyone knew Tim and Jeff were best friends. “Is Jeff a better football player than you?”

Tim’s head snapped up and his burning eyes met mine for the first time since he sat down. “No! That’s what really bothers me,” he barked through bared teeth. “I’m just as good as he is, but the coaches never notice me.” 

My student’s situation was merely his own version of a story that follows most kids through school, and in some cases, on through life. Even I had not been immune to this same wanting as a student. Tim’s sadness and longing touched a place in me that had never completely healed. I desperately wanted to say something that would give him hope, at the least, if not more playing time on the field.

I drew a deep breath and began, “Tim, there’s only one thing you can do if you want the coaches to realize the football player you are. You’re going to have to start knocking people down in practice. I don’t care who it is, the moment the ball is snapped you knock down the person in front of you and then you run to someone else and knock them down too. You show everyone that you’re an animal. Coaches notice this on a football field. I can almost guarantee that if you knock a lot of people down in practice, the coaches will let you play more in games.”

Tim looked at me with wide eyes trained directly on mine, the burning replaced by wonder. His face bore a look that asked, “Do you really mean it? Could it possibly be true?” I might as well have just told him he was going to date the school’s most popular cheerleader or make straight A’s.

My next choir shuffled into the room. Tim was about to be missed in his next class too. I wrote a pass and sent him on his way. Then I stopped him at the door of my office. “Who lines up across from you in practice?” I asked.

“Jeff, of course,” was all he said through a big grin under dancing eyes.

“Be sure and let me know how things go in practice, okay?”

“Sure,” and he was gone.

This is probably the best place to admit that I don’t really know anything about coaching football players. In fact, I’ve never played a single down in a game or even been suited up in pads. I used to feel a little inferior to those who have. Growing up, I had the feeling the question of whether a boy has what it takes is answered in a football uniform. As an adult, I’m a little more mature in my perspective of how men are measured. Tim was a gifted and capable teenager, but I couldn’t help but wonder if he was wrestling with the same question.

Although I possess a mere surface-level understanding of the game, I’m pretty sure that power, speed, smarts, and explosive enthusiasm are valuable assets to football. The incredibly wonderful thing about holding student’s hearts, however, is that I don’t need to know everything about their situation. All I need to know is my student and the heart inside them, and of course, love them both.

Tim and I had talked on a Tuesday. I didn’t see him again until he came to class the following day. Tim was obviously in better spirits than he had been the day before. When we finally squeezed in a private moment, I asked him how practice went.

“I did just like you said.” He was bubbling over. “As soon as the ball was snapped, I just started knocking people down. I hadn’t ever played like that in practice before. The coaches were all saying, ‘good job’ and stuff like that. The best part was right at the end of practice. On the last play, I blocked a field goal.”

That was impressive. During our original talk, I wasn’t sure that Tim really wanted more playing time enough to do the work to get it. Not only would he have to put out more effort, he would have to out-champion his best friend. I didn’t know if he had what it took or not. His excitement about what he had accomplished in practice indicated that he might. The next football game was scheduled for the following night, and I wondered if Tim had made a strong enough impression on the coaches to change his playing-time situation.

On Friday morning, I was eager to learn the news about the previous night’s game. Sneaking out under the pre-dawn canopy, I found the day’s newspaper beneath my car. The chirping of early-rising birds accompanied me on the mission. I couldn’t believe my eyes when the paper unfurled before me.

The paper always included a section completely devoted to sports, but the picture captivating my attention appeared above the fold on the front page of the main section. In this position, everyone in the county who took a paper would see it, regardless of the main reason they opened the paper. If someone even passed by one of the many vending machines, they would take notice of the picture, what had happened, and who was involved. I stood motionless among the trees in my front yard, still in my robe, as realization washed over me.

The picture had frozen a moment from a single play in the third quarter of the game. The opposing team was on offense and the ball had been snapped a moment or so before the camera’s shutter. Central in the shot was the opposing quarterback, who had dropped back to pass the ball. Included in the picture were linemen blocking our team’s players. In spite of the fact that everyone in the picture was motionless, I could tell it captured a moment of extreme strain and maximum effort.

The picture was on the front page because a player from our team had broken through the defensive stand, his outstretched arm reaching the quarterback. Our player held a handful of the opposing player’s jersey, which was stretched as far as possible in the distance between them. The caption said our player sacked the quarterback for a huge loss and our team went on to win. My eyes watered as I read the player’s name.

It was Tim.