Who Says I Can't, page 9
No one coaches high school football for the money. You coach because you love the game. You love the practices, the strategy, the competition, and the kids.
Especially the kids.
As I moved into my twenties and put some distance between me and the players I was coaching, I liked them even more. I thought I had something to offer. So I decided I wanted to be a head football coach.
“You know, Robert, there’s not a lot of money in coaching,” my father said to me one day, after I told him of my goal. (That’s what it was—a goal, not just a dream.)
“I know, Dad. But money isn’t everything.”
A bit idealistic, perhaps. Money is important, especially if your life reasonably forecasts the possibility of catastrophic health-care expenses. But I believed then, and I believe now, that if you can find purpose and joy in your work, everything else will work out.
What I didn’t realize then was how challenging it would be to secure a head coaching job, or how long it would take. You see, coaches love coaching. And there are a lot of us out there, looking for work, fighting for the best jobs. Many coaches spend years climbing the ladder before they get to run their own team at the varsity or even the junior varsity level. Complicating matters for me was that I didn’t exactly fit the profile of a typical football coach. I had never played the game. I had never played any competitive sport on the high school level.
I was in a wheelchair.
I had no limbs.
I was, to put it mildly, different.
I would have to prove not only that I was capable of being a head coach, but that I was more capable than most. I would have to build a résumé that would negate any concern about my physical condition. In some ways this was a double-edged sword, as it often has been in my life. It’s wrong for a person to be discriminated against in the hiring process (or in life, for that matter) due to a disability that in no way precludes him or her from successfully meeting the job’s demands. This sometimes gets complicated. I can’t be a firefighter because there’s a physical component to the job that’s required of every candidate. But a disability cannot legally be used as a reason for termination or as a barrier to hiring, if the candidate is otherwise suited to the job.
In other words, you can’t discriminate based on appearances and preconceived notions.
Yet it happens. It happens in the workplace, and it happens in life. I know that people sometimes look at me and presume there are things I can’t do. Indeed, some things I can’t do; we all have barriers that can’t be scaled. The difference, for me, is that my appearance too often provokes false limitations.
He wants to be a football coach? How is that even possible? He can’t do that.
Who says I can’t?!
Like any other young coach, I paid my dues. First, I spent two years as a position coach and then offensive coordinator of the freshman team at Gilroy High. When most of the coaching staff there left to start a program at newly formed Christopher High School in Gilroy, I took a job at the Pop Warner level. I guess you could call that a demotion, but I was thankful to still be involved in the game.
In 2009, I was offered what at first felt like a dream job: junior varsity head coach at Christopher, where I’d be reunited with my former coaches. But Christopher was going through growing pains—it didn’t even have a senior class yet—and numbers for football were dangerously low: twenty-two players on the JV and only eighteen on the varsity. After a few weeks of practice, the two teams were merged into one team that could play safely at the varsity level. I remained on the staff as an assistant.
I stayed at Christopher for three years, moving on to assistant positions at the JV and varsity levels at several different schools in the San Jose area. Unfortunately, transiency comes with the territory. Coaches are nomadic folks, especially early in their careers. Promotions frequently involve relocation. Sometimes you move because the head coach has resigned or been fired, and the new guy wants to bring in his own staff. I experienced all of these scenarios early in my career. You learn to be thick-skinned and professional.
But coaching is also a business of personalities, and as with any organization, sometimes people don’t see eye to eye. I’ve never been shy about speaking my mind and standing up for what I believe is right. By the time I was named offensive coordinator for the junior varsity team at Sobrato High School in 2014, I had compiled a solid coaching résumé, bolstered by hundreds of hours at clinics and summer camps. I was confident in my ability to run an offense and eager to see what I could do in the job. We had a good season, and I enjoyed working with the kids. It was my hope to stay at Sobrato for several years, especially if there was a chance to become a head coach.
After only one season the head coach resigned, and I figured I’d have to go back on the job market again. Indeed, the new coach cleaned house, brought in a whole new staff, and initially indicated that I would be part of the purge. I didn’t take it personally; it was business. But the school administration had gotten positive feedback about my performance from many JV players and their families, so the new coach was encouraged to retain my services. I became one of the few holdovers from the previous regime.
In the beginning we got along well . . . or so it seemed. We had a nice, long talk about coaching philosophy, with a particular emphasis on offensive strategy. I told him about some of the clinics I’d attended and what I’d learned. I’d gotten to know some of the coaches at Southern Methodist University (SMU), and I’d become enamored of their offensive system. As a result, by the summer of 2015, I’d begun to develop a playbook that was similar to SMU’s, leaning heavily on a spread offense (quarterback in shotgun formation), frequently in “hurry-up” mode. It’s an aggressive, fast-paced offense designed to keep the defense on its heels. It’s also an ambitious offense for a high school team. But the head coach apparently liked it, and we agreed to develop it not just at the JV level but at the varsity level as well. As I said before, most programs like to use one playbook at all levels, so by the time the players get to the varsity team, everyone has the plays memorized. Consistency is the key.
So we were on the same page in terms of offensive strategy. But we didn’t agree on much else. Some of the problem was a personality clash. Some of it, I believe, was because the varsity coach had been pressured to retain me as a coach when he would have preferred to hire his own JV offensive coordinator. In fairness to him, that’s a normal response. But I also think some of it was jealousy resulting from the fact that I was a holdover from the previous regime, and a popular coach at that. Many of the new coach’s varsity players had been on my JV team the previous year, and I had a strong relationship with most of them. Their parents liked me too. For whatever reason, I got the sense this didn’t sit well with my boss. Maybe he felt threatened. Maybe he just didn’t like me. All I know is that I did a good job that season. We won more games than we lost, and I developed a playbook that was successfully implemented across the entire program.
But one day in the off-season, I received a text from the varsity coach, informing me that my services would no longer be required.
I had been fired.
Like I said, it’s business. I’d been fortunate to have had even one season with a new staff. But part of me was furious. There was no reason for me to lose my job, and none was offered. The worst part was the way the news was delivered—by text!
Life is about relationships, and sometimes relationships are messy. There is a right way and a wrong way to end a relationship, and texting is definitely a wrong way. I’d given two solid years to Sobrato; I had developed a playbook and earned the players’ respect. I felt I was owed an explanation. In a face-to-face meeting. Or at least on a phone call.
In a fit of rage, I responded with a text of my own. I called him a coward for not giving me the courtesy of a meeting. It wasn’t a nice note, and we’ve not spoken since. I’m not proud of letting my emotions get the best of me in that moment, but I will say this: while losing the job at Sobrato hurt, it also added fuel to the fire. I stared at that text exchange for several minutes, seething. Then, a calm came over me. I dropped the stylus from my lips and smiled.
Just watch. I’m going to prove you wrong.
CHAPTER EIGHT
One of the toughest—and most rewarding—jobs I had was at San Jose High School, where, for much of the 2016 season, I served as offensive coordinator for the junior varsity team and quarterbacks’ coach for the varsity team. That fall, the San Jose Mercury News published a story about my experience. This level of notoriety was far beyond what I’d experienced in Gilroy, and it felt both emboldening and discomforting. It was a nice story, like the one that had appeared in my local paper a decade earlier, but I bristled somewhat at the realization that it had been published not because I was a successful football coach (which remained my goal) but because I was a limbless man who also happened to be a football coach.
It has taken me some time to come to terms with the perfectly human response people seem to have when they hear of my story—and especially when they witness visuals that accompany the story. I am a (profoundly) physically challenged man trying to make his way in a world defined by physicality. I’m not talking about the world at large (although that’s true as well) but about the world of football. At the highest levels, football players are incredible athletes—spectacular physical specimens who have spent a lifetime honing their skills and sculpting their physiques. And while it’s true that few coaches ever played professional football, just about everyone who coaches did play, somewhere.
I did not. I could not. That I am now a coach provokes curiosity at the least, skepticism at the worst, and wonder in the vast middle. Within the coaching fraternity there exists a long-held belief that you can’t know a sport well if you’ve never played the game. Certainly, you can’t know it well enough to teach others how to play. I’m not so arrogant as to think there’s no merit to this argument. Playing football from a young age fosters a love for the sport, and an understanding of its intricacies, that not only provides a springboard to coaching but also generates a large pool of qualified candidates. But, as always, there are exceptions to the rule, and people do become outstanding coaches in a sport they’ve never played, or at least didn’t play professionally.
In my case, skepticism rises to the level of incredulity based primarily, if not entirely, on my physical condition.
How can he explain or demonstrate a drill?
How can he navigate the practice field or the sideline in a wheelchair?
How can he diagram a play?
How?
If you’ve gotten this far in the narrative, then you know the answers to these questions. Nevertheless, they’ve been a persistent refrain in my life and career, which I understand and indulge with as much grace as I can muster. But I’m a human being, no more or less fallible than the next person, and on occasion I’ve lacked the maturity or patience to deal with these questions, regardless of their origin. I still don’t like being defined by tetra-amelia syndrome. Yet I understand how unique it is, and I’ve tried to embrace the possibility that by being a successful coach and a decent human being—by showing that even profound hardship can be overcome—maybe I have something to offer the world.
Something beyond coaching (although coaching is its own reward).
On the morning of November 18, 2016 (that’s right—Thanksgiving Week all over again), the Mercury News published a story under the following delightfully upbeat headline:
“No Arms, No Legs, No Problem: San Jose Coach Defies the Odds.”
Accompanying the story was a photo of me heading off the field in my wheelchair, Starbucks cup and smartphone clearly visible, players in the background.
The story began as follows:
“Rob Mendez sounds like any other football coach on any other field across America—passionate, authoritative, knowledgeable . . .”
Cool. Good start.
“. . . but he is like no other coach you know.”
Here we go again.
“He has no arms or legs. He moves in a custom-made wheelchair that he operates with his shoulders. He diagrams plays on a smartphone attached to the chair, using a stylus that he maneuvers with his mouth.”
Yup, been doing it for years. Is this going to be a pity party?
“He does all this with a spirit that seems to lift everyone around him—players, coaches, strangers, peers and family.”
Okay, that’s very sweet. Thank you.
It was a thoughtful and balanced story that touched equally on my personal and professional journey, with flattering comments from coaches all across the Bay Area with whom I’d been fortunate to work, as well as from some of my players at the time.
“He taught me better footwork,” said one player.
“I’m amazed,” said another.
“I didn’t bring him in here to be a feel-good story,” explained my boss, head coach David Ashkinaz.
For someone who wanted more than anything to be respected as a legitimate football coach, not as a charity case, this was a critical observation, and it made my heart swell with pride to see it in print.
Yet it was a feel-good story, and I had to get comfortable with that notion, because there it was, in black and white, in the words of my father:
“Robert is kind of like the light in a dark room. He’s the same for us as he is for other people.”
That one almost made me cry. It also felt like a heck of a burden to carry. I mean, you try being the light in a dark room for everyone who meets you. We all have bad days or bad months—or even bad years. I’ve had some tough days—days when my scoliosis acts up and I can’t fall asleep, or when chronic bed sores on my buttocks make every movement painful, or when I have a sudden need to use the bathroom and have to ask for assistance. Even more mundane matters can spark a darkening of mood, like when we lose a football game and I question some of the decisions I made in the heat of competition.
But I’m fortunate—the cloud usually passes quickly. Like I said, when it comes to having a generally positive outlook on life, I’m one of the lucky ones. I was practically born with a smile on my face. And if that provides inspiration or perspective to someone else, then fine. I’m eager to help. I want to be of service. It just took me a little while to get to this point.
By the time the story appeared in the Mercury News, I had grown accustomed to the occasional request for a speaking engagement. Typically, these came from school or church groups, and the audience comprised mostly of young people. I didn’t think of myself as a “motivational speaker,” nor as a particularly inspirational person, but I was happy to oblige and tell my story. It never occurred to me that there might be an audience beyond the Bay Area or beyond the world of football.
On the morning of November 18, a young woman named Kristen Lappas found herself in a Bay Area coffee shop, where she saw a copy of the Mercury News. Kristen was a producer for ESPN, specializing in features and documentaries, so she was always on the lookout for interesting projects. Within a few weeks—after the story had been picked up by a few Bay Area news stations and began trending throughout the state—Kristen had reached out to me about the possibility of producing a short documentary about my life.
From our first conversation, I liked Kristen a lot. It was clear that she was a dedicated and passionate professional. I did some homework. Kristen and I were almost the same age. Obviously, since she worked at ESPN, she was an extremely knowledgeable sports fan. Considering that her father is Steve Lappas, a former basketball coach at Villanova and now a prominent broadcaster, it must be in her blood. But Kristen had already established her own bona fides by piling up a stack of awards.
“I want to tell your story,” she said.
Kristen was ambitious, earnest, smart. I was inclined to trust her. But I told her I wanted the story to be about football as much as about my personal story.
“It’s both,” she explained. For that reason, she wanted to wait until I became a head coach—even at the JV level—before committing to the project. Her reasoning was sound. If we did the story while I was an assistant, and then I became a head coach in mid-production, or worse, in postproduction, they would have to start all over. I appreciated the transparency.
“I’m hoping that happens soon,” I said.
“Me too.”
I put that conversation out of my head almost as soon as it happened. My focus was on trying to land a head coaching position. That would prove to be a challenge. When Coach Ashkinaz resigned, there was a shake-up in the San Jose program. I’d been around long enough to know exactly what that meant: a new varsity coach would be hired, and that person would replace most of the current staff. That’s the way it worked. Rather than sit around and wait for the inevitable to happen, I decided to take a big swing.
I applied for the varsity job.
I went into the process with my eyes wide open. For several reasons, I was a long-shot candidate, and none of those reasons had anything to do with being physically challenged. First, I had never been a head coach at any level, which is typically a prerequisite for taking over a varsity program. Exceptions are sometimes made if the candidate has spent a few years as a top assistant at the varsity level (as, say, an offensive or defensive coordinator). I couldn’t check that box. Second, I was part of the prior regime, and that regime had won only nine games in three years. It was perfectly reasonable for the administration to seek someone who would provide a completely new perspective. A fresh start, so to speak.
Nevertheless, I submitted a formal application. I was granted an interview. It was courteous and professional. I did not get the job.
So, as 2016 gave way to 2017, a little more than a month after that uplifting story appeared in the Mercury News, I was out of work.
Again.
There was no point in sulking. You control what you can control in life, and this situation, like so many others in coaching, was well beyond my sphere of influence. I cleaned up my résumé, got on the phone, and started looking for a new job. The search proved more challenging than I’d anticipated, but I wound up with what appeared to be a pretty good offer: offensive coordinator at Overfelt High School in San Jose. This was a chance to develop a playbook and direct an offense at the varsity level, a necessary step on the road to becoming a head coach. I was excited and grateful. But it turned out to be a painful learning experience with an unpleasant end.
