by Michael McGrath
At the start of the 1983 school year, after having failed to land a suitable teaching position following my graduation from university, I approached the high school where I’d been a student teacher about the possibility of volunteering as a coach. Because of my job at a department store, my time was flexible, and thus I was offered an opportunity to assist with either the football or volleyball program. Having played both sports briefly in high school, I considered the game of football to be the king of kings, the undisputed big man on campus, while volleyball ranked, in my opinion, just slightly ahead of both cross-country and cheerleading. Like washing a load of laundry when you’d run out of clean underpants, it was worth doing only if you were left with no other choice. I detested the pregame warm-ups that sometimes lasted longer than the matches themselves, the endless repetition of bumps, sets, and spikes, and the incessant high-fives and butt pats between rallies. Tipping the scales in volleyball’s favor, though, was Calgary’s notoriously fickle autumn weather, and in the end I opted for the comfort of a heated gymnasium over the inevitable wind, rain, sleet, and snowstorms of a football season. A mailman might have been willing to work in those conditions, but not me.
Anonymity was another benefit of coaching a lower-tier sport. Unlike football, where revelations of a coach’s lack of knowledge might lead to a swift loss of credibility, hardly any attention was paid to volleyball, which would allow my many rookie mistakes to go unnoticed. I’d have the luxury of ad-libbing as I went along, focusing all my energies on ways of getting the goddamn ball over the net, and then hoping like hell that it didn’t come back.
The junior boys’ volleyball tryouts were overrun with a collection of fourteen- and fifteen-year-olds who are typically found perilously close to the bottom of the high-school food chain. The majority were made up of tall, gangly castoffs who had been already cut from the football team, but there was also a throng of smaller candidates, milling about the knees of the gawky horde that towered over them. A handful of basketball players, marking time before their season began, were salvaged out of this grab-bag of talent, forming the nucleus of the team. The remaining roster spots were filled with the most promising of the leftover misfits, with the exception of a tiny Vietnamese refugee named Bernie. Short in stature, but nimble as a Siamese cat crossed with a squirrel monkey, he was elected team captain.
Aside from being a gifted athlete, Bernie’s greatest attribute was deception, for he was able to bend time. Upon arriving in Canada without any official documents, Bernie told me that his parents had lopped years off his age so he’d have more time in school to refine his English skills. “They do it for my brothers too,” he said.
In recounting his story, Bernie reawakened a time-bending fantasy of my own, though mine didn’t involve setting the clock back. Instead, I often contemplated what it would be like to live at a specific age, frozen in time, for the remaining years of my life. I didn’t want to cheat death—simply the aging process that preceded it—and after some careful consideration, I determined thirty-four to be the perfect age. No longer saddled with the angst of my youth and possessing both the necessary experience and financial means to handle most hardships that came my way, I envisioned my insecurities being replaced with a renewed sense of confidence.
Bernie’s “fifteen,” though, was a far cry from my desired goal of thirty-four. Junior high was the only time in my life when I’d wished to be fifteen. I still recall how, as a newly minted teen, a daily dose of apprehension and self-doubt were the perfect companions for my intermittent acne, and how it was a constant struggle to hold it all together. Girls, obviously, were a major source of anxiety, but there were plenty of others as well: The clothes I wore and the way I cut my hair. The music I listened to and the jokes I found funny. My big nose. I fretted over anything that posed even the slightest threat to my popularity rating, which, to me, always seemed to be hanging by the most tenuous of threads. I dreamed of being in high school, where I’d hang out with those who smoked cigarettes and skipped classes and played snooker in the pool hall. Just wait, I’d think. In a couple of years, when I’m one of the cool kids, all my problems will be gone, no ifs, ands, or buts about it. Instead, my angst just increased with age, to the point of self-loathing. Now twenty-two and seeking a secure foothold from which to launch my teaching career, with a state of mind that was no less fragile, thirty-four was looking more unreachable by the day.
***
“Beats me,” I said when, to my surprise, we began the season with four straight victories and a tournament win, and I was asked to explain the secret of my success. “Beginners luck, I guess.” At that point, I figured team chemistry was primarily responsible for our winning streak as I’d spent more time organizing team get-togethers than practice plans. I was amazed what an afterschool barbecue, a par-three golf tournament, and a bowling night could do, though I didn’t expect anyone else to believe it.
I still wasn’t a big fan of volleyball, but I was interested in what attraction, if any, it held for my players, and so I asked them at the end of our next practice why they had chosen it over a more popular fall sport such as football. As it turned out, they had plenty of reasons. Some were afraid of getting hurt, while others were, much like myself, simply adverse to cold weather. For the basketball players, volleyball was seen as an easy way of increasing their vertical jump. It was Bernie, though, who seemed to sum up the group’s feelings best. “Football so rough,” the little fellow said, cringing. “We play volleyball because we all a bunch of wimps.”
I’d been trying to think of a way to reward my team for all their hard work—and for making me look so good in the process—but it wasn’t until I heard Bernie’s answer that I came up with the idea of a satirical postgame write-up called the Wimp Review. Each issue, which featured scores and standings, cartoons, and an article lampooning the previous night’s action, was posted on the PE bulletin board, where the players gathered in order to read the highlights, and lowlights, of their matches.
Word of the write-ups quickly spread, and soon everyone wanted a piece of the “Wimps,” as they had begun to refer to themselves. Routinely recognized in the hallways, they became mini celebrities, and with the increased exposure, volleyball suddenly became fashionable. The bleachers that had remained empty throughout the beginning of the season started to fill with a devoted following of fans flocking to see them play.
The Wimp Review turned out to be a motivational gold mine, proving to be as essential to our success as any strategy I could have devised. The Wimps stormed through the rest of the regular season, compiling an 11–1 record and picking up numerous tournament all-star and MVP awards along the way. They were a well-oiled machine, and once the playoffs began, they continued their roll through the first two rounds, which culminated in a berth in the city final.
On the day of the championships, I woke up feeling refreshed and strangely alive. Feeling electric, like a new man, a world-beater. Feeling as if I were, well, thirty-four. Gone were the paralyzing doubts and lingering insecurities that had plagued me throughout my life. I was full of piss and vinegar, confident, if not cocky, bordering on arrogant. I had finally arrived.
“We’re going to kick some serious ass today,” I boasted to my reflection in the bedroom mirror, the mere thought of losing causing me to shake my head and laugh. After the season we’d had, the possibility of defeat was so remote, so unimaginable, the odds so ridiculously infinitesimal, that the likelihood was impossible to fathom. The only way we’d lose, I was convinced, was if I somehow found a way to screw things up. And not just screw them up a little bit, either. I had to screw them up big-time. Royally, in fact. And, I thought, still chuckling, that ain’t gonna happen. Not in a million years.
Blinded by this sudden surge of brashness, I miscalculated the time vector by, oh, about a million years, and later that afternoon I somehow found a way to screw things up. Big-time and royally.
***
The city final turned out to be a horrendous disaster, a one-sided, best-of-five affair that we lost in three straight games. Our downfall happened so fast that everything was such a blur: a poor decision here, a shift in momentum there, and the next thing I knew, Boom!, our season was suddenly, brutally, over. Watching my team as we lined up for the awards ceremony—their distraught faces, their shoulders slumped in disappointment as silver medals were hung around their necks—my anxieties returned with a vengeance. Way to go, loser, they whispered in my ear. This is all your fault.
As the victors received their gold medals, I zoned out and thought about all the things I could have done differently. My mind then continued to wander as the championship trophy was awarded—You’re such a shitty coach—and just as I was thinking of a good way to off myself, Bernie nudged my arm and brought me back to the present, saying, “Not bad for a bunch of wimps, eh Coach?”
“But we lost, Bernie,” I said. “We got smoked. We got absolutely killed out there today.”
“Who cares? That is nothing compared to Vietnam.” Bernie rubbed his medal between his fingers. “This is most fun I have since I come to Canada.”
By this point the rest of the team had retired to the bleachers, where they’d joined the crowd of friends and family who had come to cheer them on. As the players drank pop from coolers and sampled homemade baking that was piled high on paper plates, their smiles slowly returned, and judging from the reactions they received as they passed around their medals, it was obvious that they were still as popular as ever. The Wimps may have lost the battle, but they’d certainly won the war.
As Bernie started for the stands, he waved me along and then, seeing my reluctance, grabbed me by the elbow, saying, “Hey, everything is OK. The sun, it will still come up tomorrow.”
From the mouths of babes, I thought, before remembering that Bernie and I were almost the same age. I might have been talking to a fifteen-year-old Time Lord in a nineteen-year-old body, but with all the wisdom he was spouting, Bernie could have been nineteen thousand years old for all I knew. “Lead the way, Captain Wimp,” I said.
Bernie gestured up the steps. “You go first, Old Man Wimp.”
“That’s Mister Old Man Wimp to you.”
I climbed the bleachers, and, after grabbing an Orange Crush and a chocolate chip cookie, I settled down among the players and rehashed the season. Stories were told, laughter arose, and halfway through my second cupcake, Bernie turned to me and said, “I feel like I am seven years old and am at a birthday party.”
Once again, I was impressed with his insight. “Me too, Bernard,” I said, wiping a blob of icing from my chin. After all these years, it appeared as if I’d been heading the wrong way in regard to my time-travel aspirations. Rather than peering off into the future for my perfect age, I should have just looked behind me.
I’d been debating whether to stay for the next match, but when I reached into a cooler and pulled out a 7UP, the choice became clear: surrounded by my players and having recaptured the carefree days of my childhood, I was exactly where I wanted to be. I took a sip and leaned back against the bleacher’s wooden slats, letting the cool, refreshing lemon-lime flavor wash into my throat. Now that I’d tasted what it was like to be young again, I was intent on stretching the moment out for as long as possible, savoring every last drop.
Category: Featured, Short Story