Powell is cradling him.The grin on his coach’s face is best described as gritty, solid joy. This one photo reminded me of all I ever wanted for my children, a moment when I knew they were loved fully. Look, see, he is loved.
Powell was almost godlike to my boys, and not just to mine; almost every parent on the team had what we called Powell stories. He drove immediately to the home of one boy who was a victim of a violent crime; Powell talked to him for four or five hours.
“Powell was the only one able to calm him down,” his mother said.
When Peter Kowalczuk, the heavyweight cocaptain of the team with Weldon, made it to the Olympic Trials in Las Vegas in 2008, Powell was there coaching him and cheering him on. Sometimes I thought I must be idealizing who Powell was and how much the boys depended on him. And then Powell did something Powellish—like have the wrestlers sandbag the local Des Plaines River all day because of threatened flooding.
Powell called if a wrestler missed weight lifting to see what was wrong. If nothing was wrong, he chastised him but was never demeaning. If Powell heard rumors of a boy drinking or getting in trouble, he called him into his office and told him he had to stop or he would be off the team. The boy would stop.
“You can’t lie to Powell; he knows when you’re lying,” Charlie Johnson, another wrestler, told me. The four other wrestlers in my family room one Wednesday night nodded.
There was no deterrent for any of them stronger than the disfavor of Coach Powell. A mother or father could threaten taking away driving privileges or a cell phone, even grounding indefinitely, but nothing mattered more than the possibility that Powell had lost respect for the boy. In five years, no wrestler had been reprimanded at the school for a violation of the code of conduct. You couldn’t say that about members of the other sports teams.
Whatever Powell said held a hundred times the weight of a parent, teacher, anyone. The boys craved his approval. They would do anything they could for him. I was sure it was one reason he wasnamed Coach of the Year in 2009, a statewide honor for all high school coaches.
“About damn time,” he said half-kidding.
It was the start of the 2008–2009 season, and I was waiting for Colin to emerge from the field house at about 8:30 PM after practice. I congratulated Powell on his award as he headed to his car, the end of a normal fourteen-hour day for him.
“Colin looked real strong tonight, real good,” he said. And when Colin got in the car a few minutes later, I told him.
“Powell said that? He did?” Colin smiled ear to ear.
In the daily practices the boys said they worked harder than they ever thought possible, with a half hour of jogging around the wrestling room followed by more specific wrestling drills, followed by almost an hour of live wrestling—intense matches between wrestlers of similar weights. Two and a half hours of practice without breaks every day, each wrestler dripping with sweat; Powell and the coaches too. My sons would come home with their practice shorts and T-shirts in tied, plastic grocery bags. When I opened the bags to throw the clothes in the washing machine, they would be soaked through as if they had been dropped into a lake. A few times Brendan left his workout clothes in the trunk of the car in the winter, where they froze as solid as bricks.
Sometimes Powell would tell the boys practice was going to be short that day, and when he pushed the boys harder, he smiled and said, “I lied.” Later he told Brendan, “If you want to be a badass on the mat, decide you are a badass. That’s the difference.”
About five feet ten, Powell weighed about 180 pounds, not much heavier than his high school and college days. He was in peak shape, muscular and cut, able to wrestle with the boys and able to beat all of them any day. At the wrestle-offs for the varsity spots before the 2008 season, an exhibition parents
Powell was almost godlike to my boys, and not just to mine; almost every parent on the team had what we called Powell stories. He drove immediately to the home of one boy who was a victim of a violent crime; Powell talked to him for four or five hours.
“Powell was the only one able to calm him down,” his mother said.
When Peter Kowalczuk, the heavyweight cocaptain of the team with Weldon, made it to the Olympic Trials in Las Vegas in 2008, Powell was there coaching him and cheering him on. Sometimes I thought I must be idealizing who Powell was and how much the boys depended on him. And then Powell did something Powellish—like have the wrestlers sandbag the local Des Plaines River all day because of threatened flooding.
Powell called if a wrestler missed weight lifting to see what was wrong. If nothing was wrong, he chastised him but was never demeaning. If Powell heard rumors of a boy drinking or getting in trouble, he called him into his office and told him he had to stop or he would be off the team. The boy would stop.
“You can’t lie to Powell; he knows when you’re lying,” Charlie Johnson, another wrestler, told me. The four other wrestlers in my family room one Wednesday night nodded.
There was no deterrent for any of them stronger than the disfavor of Coach Powell. A mother or father could threaten taking away driving privileges or a cell phone, even grounding indefinitely, but nothing mattered more than the possibility that Powell had lost respect for the boy. In five years, no wrestler had been reprimanded at the school for a violation of the code of conduct. You couldn’t say that about members of the other sports teams.
Whatever Powell said held a hundred times the weight of a parent, teacher, anyone. The boys craved his approval. They would do anything they could for him. I was sure it was one reason he wasnamed Coach of the Year in 2009, a statewide honor for all high school coaches.
“About damn time,” he said half-kidding.
It was the start of the 2008–2009 season, and I was waiting for Colin to emerge from the field house at about 8:30 PM after practice. I congratulated Powell on his award as he headed to his car, the end of a normal fourteen-hour day for him.
“Colin looked real strong tonight, real good,” he said. And when Colin got in the car a few minutes later, I told him.
“Powell said that? He did?” Colin smiled ear to ear.
In the daily practices the boys said they worked harder than they ever thought possible, with a half hour of jogging around the wrestling room followed by more specific wrestling drills, followed by almost an hour of live wrestling—intense matches between wrestlers of similar weights. Two and a half hours of practice without breaks every day, each wrestler dripping with sweat; Powell and the coaches too. My sons would come home with their practice shorts and T-shirts in tied, plastic grocery bags. When I opened the bags to throw the clothes in the washing machine, they would be soaked through as if they had been dropped into a lake. A few times Brendan left his workout clothes in the trunk of the car in the winter, where they froze as solid as bricks.
Sometimes Powell would tell the boys practice was going to be short that day, and when he pushed the boys harder, he smiled and said, “I lied.” Later he told Brendan, “If you want to be a badass on the mat, decide you are a badass. That’s the difference.”
About five feet ten, Powell weighed about 180 pounds, not much heavier than his high school and college days. He was in peak shape, muscular and cut, able to wrestle with the boys and able to beat all of them any day. At the wrestle-offs for the varsity spots before the 2008 season, an exhibition parents
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