First Person: Field Goals

One might think that a responsible high school English teacher would spend the waning days of summer break shoring up lectures on the historical context of Huckleberry Finn, or developing strategies to grow reluctant writers into eloquent artists of prose. Not this English teacher. I've been too busy showing the future leaders of America how to push a round object into a net without using their hands. It's soccer season and, for the fourth year running, I'm coach.

Molding 20 adolescent boys into a cohesive team is not an easy job, and being a full-time teacher on the side doesn't help. I'm up before dawn, home after dark, dashing from classroom to field after school, peddling tamales at lunch, arguing with Parks and Rec during my prep. The stipend barely covers the cost of wraps for my knees and flowers for my neglected wife. There's no fame involved (anyone name the coach of the 2006 A-AAA boys' soccer champs?), no time to play for myself and, add to the mix a season like last year's-full of player suspensions, racist insults, broken bones, poor budgeting, a mascot-tackling scandal-and you gotta ask: Why do it?

I could say, "I do it for the kids." But let's be honest: If I'm going to spend my Friday nights grading papers by cell phone light in the front seat of an Enchirito-scented school bus, there's got to be something in it for me. And last season, during our final game, a player who I'll call "Jack" made it clear what that "something" is.

Jack had been a respectful, hard-working player in years past, but his senior year he'd shown up with a pair of sunglasses and a "Prima Maradona" swagger. He took impossible shots, criticized his teammates to tears, or frustrated them with his aloofness. I wanted to cut him, but kept giving him another week, hoping he'd come around.

Our final game, I began to think my patience had paid off. We'd hung on through a tough first half against a strong rival, and at halftime were down 2-0. When I asked the seniors to speak, Jack stepped forward.

"Just play hard," he said.

The boys stared, checked to see he was speaking in earnest and then took the field with renewed intensity. Our defense stepped up, our forwards broke through and, midway through the half, Jack himself delivered a textbook corner kick to our striker, who headed the ball to the back of the net. We all went wild. The boys doubled their effort, and three minutes later nearly scored the equalizer. The other team began to bicker. Our goalie stood on the edge of his box, clapping.

This was it. This was the Hoosiers moment every coach dreams about, the moody player sparking his team to the Cinderella victory. Another goal and we'd have some respect. A headline in the local sports page. An outside shot at State. "Eye of the Tiger" played in the distance.

And then Jack was whistled for a foul. The ref called him over. All Jack had to do was say, "Yes, sir," and walk away. But the old Jack resurfaced. He swaggered up to the ref and held out his hand sarcastically, muttering under his breath. The ref's face flashed crimson; he pulled the red card and sent Jack out of the game. Shrugging, Jack walked off the field, dropped his uniform by the bench and went to sit in the stands.

You could hear the boys' heads drop. One by one, they gave up. The other team snuck in a goal, the final whistle blew and our season from hell ended true to form. I sat on the bench and stared across to the stands, where Jack was messing around with some of his buddies. Single-handedly, he'd ruined the game and undermined our chance to salvage the hard work of the season. It was maddening. Infuriating.

And, I realized, excellent pedagogy.

In an instant, Jack had taught the kids something I'd been unsuccessfully trying to convey throughout my seven years of classroom teaching. He'd taught them that there are times when we have to curb our individualism and consider how our actions affect others. Through his negative but very effective example, he'd taught them what it means to act ethically.

Who would've thunk it? All those years of strangling students with humanist poetry, forcing them into groups, even requiring them to develop social action projects, and it turns out I have better luck teaching ethics on a bumpy grass field, in shorts. The problem is, group responsibility doesn't stand a chance in the modern American classroom. Elementary schools give out the "Cooperates with others" grade, but it doesn't take kids long to figure out that the academic subjects are what count. Individual skills are the ticket to success. Helping Suzie in row two just doesn't have much payback.

For those who believe that schools should prepare kids for the competitive, dog-eat-dog world in which we live, the current system makes sense. But for those of us who believe schools should prepare youth to help build a more cooperative, dog-feed-dog world, it's hard to accept such extreme individualism. Young people must develop individual skills, of course, but as populations grow and resources diminish, shouldn't they also develop some sort of ethical understanding that we're in this together, and that if Suzie-or India, for that matter-is struggling, sooner or later, it's going to come back on us all?

Someday, when I'm ready to get myself fired, I'm going to set up my English class so that no one passes unless everyone does. It'll be interesting to see what happens when some cocky senior decides Shakespeare's an idiot and doesn't turn in his final paper. But until then, I'll keep my idealism out of the classroom and on the soccer field, where success and failure is owned by us all, and even the worst of seasons brings us a little closer to a more peaceful world.

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