We Left Him Speechless
A couple of weeks ago on a Saturday that was typical for January in the Delaware Valley with its chilly temperature and biting breeze, there was a gathering of about 20 former high school basketball players. These players varied in ages from…well, that doesn’t really matter does it?! Let’s just say that these guys were playing hoops for Pennsbury High School in Fairless Hills, Pa, long before you ever heard of texting, Snoop Dog, or Tom Brady. Upon seeing each other in the lobby of the gym and then later in the stands before and during a Saturday afternoon matinee junior varsity/varsity basketball double-header, there were the usual warm handshakes, manly hugs, the “Great to see you again”, or “How have you been!” And the occasional aside, “Who is that guy?” I suppose that happens when time takes its toll on hairlines and waistlines. Although there were a couple of guys that looked like they could have walked back on the court right then and there (your humble correspondent was certainly not one of those, and I hate every one of them!) – when informed of this observation, said gentlemen were quick to laugh and hoped for speedy ambulance service if any of us were stupid enough to try something so foolish!
But in the middle of all this was a man even a tad older than the oldest of us. The man we had come to honor; and even though some of us didn’t recognize each other, we recognized Coach. Ed Cochrane was the basketball coach for every one of these guys (and hundreds more) from 1973 to 1986. And he’s the reason why all of us had shown up. For a brief moment of recognition and appreciation to a man who had played an important part in all of our young lives. And in that moment in the lobby of a gym we had all spent countless hours in, before the official “ceremony” took place, and before the evening festivities of eating and drinking were to commence, I looked around at these faces, some that I’ve known for 40-plus years, and I thought to myself, “This is really cool.”
It’s amazing the memories that flow back during these types of reunions, not to mention the stories that surface and resurface as everyone works hard to hold on to things that sometimes recede in the mind as time moves forward. That said, it is amazing what you can remember. And remember, we did. As much as I sometimes roll my eyes at the whole “glory days” thing, I admit to being fascinated by some of the stories I heard that night. And the best stories were from Coach. He’s got a million of ‘em. Some we’ve heard, some we were a part of, and the rest waiting to be told. There were stories of game-winning shots, championship seasons, and tough injuries that changed the course of seasons. And there wasn’t one story Coach told that night, or that I’ve ever heard him tell that didn’t begin and end with how much he cared about his players. Priceless.
After watching our basketball descendants play that afternoon (and may I pause for a second and wonder when the age for varsity athletes was lowered to 12 – because there is no way we ever looked that young…and now back to our regular programming), the players and some family and friends adjourned to a local establishment for a wonderful buffet and assorted liquids. After some poignant words by a couple of the old-timers, as well as a surprise speech by an old nemesis from a rival high school (which was pretty special), more stories ensued. As for your humble correspondent, for the most part I was quite content to walk around and just listen. I tried to stay away from Coach and the former players talking to him, as I get to see and talk to him more than most at the local golf club where I play and where he is now one of the starters on the first tee. More than the remembering, I treasure the conversations Coach and I have in the present, between two men seeing things more eye-to-eye, as it were. We talk about friends, family, loss, and what it’s like to look back. But that night, surrounded by a lot of looking back, what I heard as I walked from conversation to conversation just reinforced what I already knew. And it’s this…
Playing sports can be good, and sometimes bad. You’ve got nitwit parents who vicariously live through their kids, and you’ve got athletes who use their status to lord over others, which in high school can be a powerfully dangerous weapon. But on this night, I didn’t hear any of that; it was the good that I heard. I heard grown men who were appreciative of the camaraderie and long-lasting friendships that playing a team sport can provide. I heard men talking about the successes they have had in their adult lives and how they trace some of that back to their young playing days. Most of all, I heard an appreciation for a man who, in ways large and small, helped make all of that happen.
Coach was a big part of all of our young lives. While the family has the ultimate influence on who we become, people like Coach Cochrane have an influence that is silly to ignore; and Coach took that obligation seriously. From the pre-season, to the actual playing and practicing during the season, to summer leagues, he kept an eye out as best he could. And while I’m not naïve enough to think that he didn’t care about winning and championships and the like – I know from personal experience that he cared on a human level, and wanted every one of us to be good human beings and good citizens.
Because he allowed me to play on those basketball teams (really good teams, I might add) and become a part of the tradition, as it were, I met and have stayed friends with some of the best people I’ll ever know. He also taught me to not only lose well, but to win well (lessons that always need reminding). For these things and many others, Coach, I am eternally grateful.
I close with two stories…somewhat related. Back in the mid-80s, Gary Jones, one of the most frighteningly gifted and hard-working former Falcons, was playing at LaSalle University. Coach was at the game sitting somewhere in the arena, and as I remember the story, wanted to get Gary’s attention during pre-game warm-ups. So Coach whistled; and not some ordinary whistle where you’re trying to get the attention of a dog in the back yard. When Coach whistled, I’m convinced the astronauts in orbit could hear it. This whistle was usually reserved for getting us on the baseline to run, or when you screwed up and he needed your attention 15 seconds ago. You know what happened next, don’t you? In that arena of, oh, about 10,000 people all talking and laughing, etc., Gary heard that whistle and looked up and found Coach.
Years later on a golf course with the sun shining and the temperature close to perfect, your humble correspondent was warming up on the range before a round of golf with some friends. I knew our tee time was drawing near but I wanted to get in a few more swings. All of a sudden, like a bolt of lightning from another time came that whistle…absolutely ear shattering and beautiful. “Pete! Get up here!” I kid you not, I looked for a baseline to start running sprints.
That January afternoon and evening two very important things happened: The first was that we got to honor a coach, mentor and as the years went on, a friend. The second thing that happened was, for the first time ever…we left Ed Cochrane speechless. That was pretty cool.
But in the middle of all this was a man even a tad older than the oldest of us. The man we had come to honor; and even though some of us didn’t recognize each other, we recognized Coach. Ed Cochrane was the basketball coach for every one of these guys (and hundreds more) from 1973 to 1986. And he’s the reason why all of us had shown up. For a brief moment of recognition and appreciation to a man who had played an important part in all of our young lives. And in that moment in the lobby of a gym we had all spent countless hours in, before the official “ceremony” took place, and before the evening festivities of eating and drinking were to commence, I looked around at these faces, some that I’ve known for 40-plus years, and I thought to myself, “This is really cool.”
It’s amazing the memories that flow back during these types of reunions, not to mention the stories that surface and resurface as everyone works hard to hold on to things that sometimes recede in the mind as time moves forward. That said, it is amazing what you can remember. And remember, we did. As much as I sometimes roll my eyes at the whole “glory days” thing, I admit to being fascinated by some of the stories I heard that night. And the best stories were from Coach. He’s got a million of ‘em. Some we’ve heard, some we were a part of, and the rest waiting to be told. There were stories of game-winning shots, championship seasons, and tough injuries that changed the course of seasons. And there wasn’t one story Coach told that night, or that I’ve ever heard him tell that didn’t begin and end with how much he cared about his players. Priceless.
After watching our basketball descendants play that afternoon (and may I pause for a second and wonder when the age for varsity athletes was lowered to 12 – because there is no way we ever looked that young…and now back to our regular programming), the players and some family and friends adjourned to a local establishment for a wonderful buffet and assorted liquids. After some poignant words by a couple of the old-timers, as well as a surprise speech by an old nemesis from a rival high school (which was pretty special), more stories ensued. As for your humble correspondent, for the most part I was quite content to walk around and just listen. I tried to stay away from Coach and the former players talking to him, as I get to see and talk to him more than most at the local golf club where I play and where he is now one of the starters on the first tee. More than the remembering, I treasure the conversations Coach and I have in the present, between two men seeing things more eye-to-eye, as it were. We talk about friends, family, loss, and what it’s like to look back. But that night, surrounded by a lot of looking back, what I heard as I walked from conversation to conversation just reinforced what I already knew. And it’s this…
Playing sports can be good, and sometimes bad. You’ve got nitwit parents who vicariously live through their kids, and you’ve got athletes who use their status to lord over others, which in high school can be a powerfully dangerous weapon. But on this night, I didn’t hear any of that; it was the good that I heard. I heard grown men who were appreciative of the camaraderie and long-lasting friendships that playing a team sport can provide. I heard men talking about the successes they have had in their adult lives and how they trace some of that back to their young playing days. Most of all, I heard an appreciation for a man who, in ways large and small, helped make all of that happen.
Coach was a big part of all of our young lives. While the family has the ultimate influence on who we become, people like Coach Cochrane have an influence that is silly to ignore; and Coach took that obligation seriously. From the pre-season, to the actual playing and practicing during the season, to summer leagues, he kept an eye out as best he could. And while I’m not naïve enough to think that he didn’t care about winning and championships and the like – I know from personal experience that he cared on a human level, and wanted every one of us to be good human beings and good citizens.
Because he allowed me to play on those basketball teams (really good teams, I might add) and become a part of the tradition, as it were, I met and have stayed friends with some of the best people I’ll ever know. He also taught me to not only lose well, but to win well (lessons that always need reminding). For these things and many others, Coach, I am eternally grateful.
I close with two stories…somewhat related. Back in the mid-80s, Gary Jones, one of the most frighteningly gifted and hard-working former Falcons, was playing at LaSalle University. Coach was at the game sitting somewhere in the arena, and as I remember the story, wanted to get Gary’s attention during pre-game warm-ups. So Coach whistled; and not some ordinary whistle where you’re trying to get the attention of a dog in the back yard. When Coach whistled, I’m convinced the astronauts in orbit could hear it. This whistle was usually reserved for getting us on the baseline to run, or when you screwed up and he needed your attention 15 seconds ago. You know what happened next, don’t you? In that arena of, oh, about 10,000 people all talking and laughing, etc., Gary heard that whistle and looked up and found Coach.
Years later on a golf course with the sun shining and the temperature close to perfect, your humble correspondent was warming up on the range before a round of golf with some friends. I knew our tee time was drawing near but I wanted to get in a few more swings. All of a sudden, like a bolt of lightning from another time came that whistle…absolutely ear shattering and beautiful. “Pete! Get up here!” I kid you not, I looked for a baseline to start running sprints.
That January afternoon and evening two very important things happened: The first was that we got to honor a coach, mentor and as the years went on, a friend. The second thing that happened was, for the first time ever…we left Ed Cochrane speechless. That was pretty cool.
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