Hey, fellow travelers!
I write this from The Coffee Peddler in a wonderful little city called London, Ohio.
Bikes, coffee, London. You’re right, we’re suckers for such things.
Before I take on a day of speaking engagements at Covenant Seminary, I’d like to share a parable with you.1
If you can name the current hot topic my story illustrates, you WIN!
The prize? I’ll write you a very cool post card from St. Louis or Denver, your choice.
Bonus: If you can describe the deeper meaning supplied by the companion quote below it, I’ll send you a copy of my book, Good Posture.2
THE PARABLE
Put Me Down, Coach. I’m Ready To Play!
Mr. Housnecht, the junior high basketball coach, was flummoxed with his team. After practice on a Tuesday afternoon, he called them to circle up on the hardwood.
“What’s going on, guys? I leave for a week, and I come back to a pack of bickering idiots.”
His question wasn’t rhetorical. All he got was darting eyes and slumped shoulders.
“I thought we were on a roll. Before my trip, you guys were having fun, right Jared?” He was now addressing the team captain.
Jared stammered. “I guess so. It’s just that, I don’t know. Huff says we ain’t tough. Well some of us, anyway,” as he threw a head fake across the room to a huddle of second-teamers.
“Wait. What? What are you talking about? Can someone else tell me what’s going on? Gheesh. I don’t get it!”
He wasn’t ‘done: “In the scrimmage, it was fouls left-and-right. And I’ve never seen anything close to a pushing match…till today. You guys looked horrible.”
“That’s not what Huff says,” volunteered one of the shrimpier guys from the back ring.
“OK, what’d he do? Come on. Just talk! You’re not in trrruuu-ble.”
Coach strung out the word with faux contempt.
“And I won’t kill Huff, unless he deserves it.” A few players chuckled.
Marc Huffman was his volunteer Assistant Coach, a golden boy back in his heyday. He still carried an easy authority, especially among aspiring ballers.
When Housnecht went out of town to attend a funeral across the country, he turned over his whistle to the guy who once won the high school state championship in 1995 and lived continuously in its diminishing glow.
He infected the guys with a kind of swagger that his own coach would’ve driven out of him. As an assistant, Coach H. could keep Huff at bay.
He didn’t really trust Huff, but he owed him a favor related to a car and a ditch and a late Saturday night a few years back. He figured one week with him wouldn’t kill the kids.
Jim Housnecht also felt for the guy.
A loner, given to drink, Huff was handsome enough to get low-level sales jobs but not stable enough to land promotions.
In just one week the boys became victims of Huff’s bullying, favoritism, and pushing. Literal pushing. His goal was to purge his disciples of lame sportsmanship and fundamental discipline.
He created a Lord of the Flies culture of fear and shame. And he held out a hope of winning it all, if only they proved to be tough enough.
The team became #hufftuff, which would’ve been slightly humorous except that he actually used that hashtag against the boys online.
Housnecht was not so much surprised as furious with Huff. He’d deal with with him later.
“OK, look. Huff’s right. I’m not tough enough on you guys. Just go home. You’ll see what I have in mind tomorrow at practice.”
As he said the last line, his eyes tracked the colorful lines on the gym floor as if to say, We’re running a crap load of suicides tomorrow.
The boys perked up in horror. Not even Huff made them run suicides.
Conditioning, in his mind, was superfluous. He’d rather they bite and devour each other on their road to greatness than break a sweat.
The silence in the circle turned to squirms, sighs, and sneakers squeaking on the floor.
“You guys know what sarcasm is, right?”
Brandon chimed in, “That’s a vampire bite, right?”
Coach’s eyes went up into his head with exasperation. “Sure, Brandon, yeah. No!”
“Look, forget Huff. And forget what I said about tomorrow. But let’s get one thing clear: If I see one of you hammering a team mate, you’re sitting out, you hear me?”
In an attempt to salvage his investigative pep talk, he added, “We’re a team, remember? What’s our creed?”
In unison, a few of them mumbled the corny mantra Housnecht taught them:
“One goal. Wins and fun. Each for all. All for one.”
“I can’t hear you turkeys!”
“ONE GOAL. WINS AND FUN. EACH FOR ALL! ALL FOR ONE!”
“That’s better. You really are a bunch of turd burglars. But you’re not trolls, not Huff’s, not mine. So don’t act like it. You’re ballers! Look, I love this game. I want you to love it too. And maybe I love you guys, too. I’m still deciding.”
That night he called Huff, chewed him out royally, and said, “Drop by the house tonight. And bring your whistle.”
THE QUOTE
For you gladly bear with fools, being wise yourselves! For you bear it if someone makes slaves of you, or devours you, or takes advantage of you, or puts on airs, or strikes you in the face. To my shame, I must say, we were too weak for that! 3
As Lewis would insist about Narnia, it’s not an allegory, so don’t take things too far! Look for one main idea.
If you already have my book, I’ll send you some bonus content I’ve been collecting for my coming-of-age-in-Watsontown memoir. No, really. You want it.
The apostle Paul wrote this to the Corinthian church in his second letter, chapter 10, verses 18-21, English Standard Version.