“Life’s First Gut Punch”

I slid out of bed, my foot hit the ground, and I remembered. Laced with testosterone and an edge of invincibility, my mind quickly transitioned. Friday night’s deep sleep was fading as I limped into the living room. The pain was tolerable.  My eagerness to read the Saturday morning sports page caused my heart to race. A 17-year-old athlete’s identity tends to be one-dimensional. It was my senior year, and my whole world revolved around football. The Macomb Daily was perched on the coffee table. Mom sat smiling in her red recliner. “Morning Pucci, your name is in the article twice,” she said in a voice beaming with pride.

(Pucci was the nickname she gave me, derived from the Italian “piccolino.” Since I was the youngest, I was her “little one.”)

We were both startled by the doorbell. Mom wiggled out of the recliner and opened the door. “Coach Drath, good morning, come on in,” she greeted. Al Drath was Warren Fitzgerald’s head football coach. He coached both my older brothers, and as a family, we adored him. A man that I would do anything for. He was the epitome of a wonderful, caring man who could motivate and coach with the best in the state of Michigan.  

“Well Ronny, how does it feel this morning? Let me take a quick look at it please,” Coach Drath questioned and paused. “I don’t like the discoloration, Mom; I would really like you to get an X-ray today. There is a podiatrist on the corner of 9 and Dequindre that we like. Can you take him there?” Coach Drath instructed.

Al Drath’s 25-plus years of experience told him that discoloration on the inside of an ankle was not a good sign – something was torn or broken – and he was right. An avulsion fracture was the technical term for it and after only five games of football in my senior year, my career was over.

I never gave much thought to my identity before. But when the following Friday arrived, and the homecoming assembly erupted, I felt empty and alone. Detached and fragile, there was a bitter silence in my head. I was no longer a two-way starter for state powerhouse Warren Fitzgerald. I was now just a high school student. The more condolences I received, the more emotional I became. My identity was a mystery, but I was now the owner of Life’s First Gut Punch.

Inspired and mentored by many great coaches, including Al Drath, I chose that same profession. I had a special place in my heart for any senior who suffered a career-ending injury. It became my mission to help those young men transition into their new world. If they shed tears, like I did, I knew they had committed their growth to that senior year.

Daily individual conversations would become the norm. I would share my senior story and the emotions that ran wild through my head. As a head coach it was easy for me to find jobs that could occupy the lonely space of the injured athlete. Other coaches understood the assignment, too, and as a staff we could purposefully help fill time.

I would also speak with the team and educate them on the rollercoaster the young man would ride. Helpful and encouraging “do’s and don’ts” were discussed. Family mindset was stressed and reiterated. Self-reflection and gratitude of the day became part of every practice. “You never know when this might be” was a common phrase to the team.

Before any injury would ever occur, I would start every season with a quick speech. “Not one of you, let me repeat, not one of you, will make your livelihood playing professional football,” was my opening line. As I’m closing in on 40 years of coaching, that still rings true. My purpose in that statement was twofold – 1. to educate them on the discipline and self-improvement skills they could develop during each season and 2. to establish the core identity of the team and what the core identity each individual should aspire to.

Leadership at all times, compassion for all students, and accountability became the core ingredients for our identity. We stressed the person they would become was not defined by the game of football, but more tethered to the process they use to attack the game. And finally, we hoped to cement the notion that the “process” is transferrable.

Nearing retirement, I now see a whole other side to the equation: former athletes fighting cancer and other life-threatening diseases, families enduring tragedy and the loss of loved ones, accidents leading to life-changing adaptations. These gut punches deliver a power much greater than the first punch I received.  

The formula should not change. Lean on the “process.” Get out of bed, check in on your loved ones, encourage conversations and provide any support possible. The game of football gave us tools to succeed in a bigger arena – some call it the “Game of Life.” Multiple punches are coming in this game. Some are more powerful than others. Put your foot on the ground and remember. You have the experience, you have the tools, you are a fighter.