Xs & Os

While we prepare for our next round of interviews, I just wanted to take a few moments to summarize what has brought us to this point.

As a concept, the project which would eventually become Coached into Silence began several years ago.  At the time I had naively envisioned it as an objectively journalistic, detached “issue film” exploring the sexual abuse of boys within the world of organized sports. When the subject matter is so under-discussed and the stakes so high, such a documentary could have still had value. Anything that raises awareness can aid prevention. Anything that lets those who have suffered these abuses know that they are not alone can provide a small measure of support.    

We began our research process in the Fall of 2009. The deeper we found ourselves buried in the thousands and thousands of cases, the more we had to face the following disturbing fact: No matter how many cases you would find—-90% of these abuses will never be “cases” at all. The fact that we can even read about a report of child sexual abuse already makes it a rare exception to the rule. As we delved farther into the reasons for that statistic, we began a series of interviews with many of the leading experts on the subject. Psychological & legal experts, those at the vanguard of prevention, support and advocacy…all of whom played a part in opening our eyes to facets of the issue that we had never known existed. 

We were determined to represent the full scope of this issue. These abuses occur in every sport, across all levels of sport, and so we will be including survivors who played in the smallest town little leagues to those who eventually made their name in the professional ranks. There are no boundaries or barriers that guarantee a child is protected from falling prey to someone in a position of power intent on exploiting their access to children. “At risk” urban public schools and leagues are short of all resources, including those which would provide safeguards for children, while elite preparatory academies have the money and influence to protect the facade of their “pristine” reputations. 

From the cracked asphalt of inner city leagues blighted by poverty and neglect, to the immaculately manicured fields of private bucolic Ivy League feeder schools.  Once you have scratched the surface, you have to go all the way. 

As our research continued, we began to reach out to those who had been directly affected by these crimes. Men and boys, their parents and loved ones. There was nothing to be gained for them personally by opening these wounds and speaking out. Their hope is that by opening their lives to us others may be helped, may even be spared the nightmares that they have endured. 

As these conversations continued, the original ‘detached’ vision of Coached into Silence began to fade as the project became more and more personal with each passing moment.  As I began to meet these courageous people, as I talked to them for hours, the emotional roller-coaster rumbled ahead. One moment appalled at the crimes themselves and then outraged at the injustices that too often followed. In the next moment, I would find myself completely awestruck by the courage of these survivors. 

Though the conversations were painful, I felt safe sandbagged behind my role as “filmmaker”. It wasn’t long before each crack in their voice began to bring about cracks in my own armor. I’d sit with the articles & notes from these pre-interviews, I’d discuss themat length with m’lady and lead researcher. I’d sit silently by myself, taking inventory of my emotional and physical state, becoming aware of the knot in my stomach and I would ask myself “What are you resisting?”

During the next phone conversation with a young man who had been the victim of a serial molesting coach who left at least a hundred wounded children in his wake, the knot in my stomach returned. Exactly what I had been resisting revealed itself once and for all. 

I felt like a fraud.

How dare I ask these people to reveal these stories, their darkest days, their darkest secrets,  when I had chosen not to include the story I know best of all?

From the moment I chose to include my story as the thread that will tie all of these disparate stories together Coached into Silence has taken on a life of it’s own. The first step in that direction was a doozie….

Be like Mike. (Mixed messages)

Sir Charles is firmly on the record: "I am not a role model...parents should be role models"

The rightness of the latter point doesn't overrule the wrongness of the premise. Of course parents should ideally be the first, most direct and most influential role models in a child's life, but for anyone whose occupation requires an audience of tens of thousands in an arena, and millions in their homes to recuse himself from responsibility is laughable. If Charles wanted to take a stand and a step toward dis-emulation, he could have asked to pull the replica Barkley jerseys from all of the stores. There were plenty of little #34 Sixers or Suns jerseys on the courts in those days. It wasn't the first, and it wasn’t the last time Charles was wrong.

To a child, everyone is a role model. Every encounter, every observation, every bit of media a child consumes, can have an influence as they learn how this world works. No interaction, no action or inaction is so small that it can escape a child's thirst to learn what a thing is and how it should be done. More than taking a village, it takes a society. You don’t opt in, you can’t opt out. If you exist, you are a living example. Whether you embrace that role or not, it's yours.

Gatorade's marketing machine didn't create the drive to Be Like Mike any more than Nike's Air Jordans did. Their accomplishment was to masterfully brand and commodify the most natural of instincts: imitation. They made it hummable, they made it cool, and they made sure that it was everywhere that you looked. By 1997 Michael Jordan the man had officially become his own sub-brand of Nike.

In 1932 when Babe Ruth pointed to centerfield to call his shot off of Charlie Root (or didn’t, depending on who you believe) it may have taken days or even weeks for the newspaper accounts to trickle down and be repeated in sandlots from coast to coast--but we live in the era of SportsCenter. Every home run admired, every bat flipped, every sack dance, every plume of chalk dust tossed high above the scorer's table, every Sharpie from every sockapplied to pigskin will be reenacted in most every schoolyard the following day. The through-line from Ozzie's backflip to Jeter's backhand flip, from a Gatorade dunk to a Blake Griffin dunk is our wanting to do as our heroes do.

For years, I would play afternoon one-on-on wiffle ball with my friend Steve Migliore, taking turns batting as each real life member of our favorite lineups. In the age of YouTube, this has even become it's own endlessly entertaining cottage industry . (BSG, I’m a fan--call me!)

I have seen a ten year old prepare for each pitch by tugging the sleeve of her outstretched arm like Ichiro. There have been thousands of little hockey players who have only considered their pre-game preparations complete once they had tucked their sweater like Gretzky. A decade’s worth of on the field or on the court style can be influenced by a single player. Just ask Allen Iverson.

When it came to choosing a uniform number, there was a time when every basketball and hockey team had youngsters arguing for the honor of wearing #23 or #99.  I grew up loving # 44 for Reggie before I eventually shifted to hockey and made a commitment to both a number and a hockey hero by pulling on the #11 jersey as an aspiration and in tribute to Mark Messier (then still in Edmonton).

Wood, wiffle or aluminum; little as I was, I swung the bat with the same reckless abandon as my favorite Yankee Dave Winfield. When hockey took over my life, my intentionally wrong-footed wristshot from the wing mimicked Mark Messier. The celebration of an early evening goal scored, playing against the chain-link fence in the lengthening shadow of P.S. 207 could be part Brian Propp part Mike Foligno (and now his son Nick’s) leap.

Those fortunate enough, as I was, learned to throw a ball the way Dad taught us. I was blessed to have that. The times when he would return from work and we could stand at either end of the narrow alleyway between our house and our neighbor’s remain priceless memories. Him heaving the ball straight up into the sky and my yelling “Pop Up! I got it! I got it!." During those sessions, his praise for my effort, for not giving up on a ball, for being willing to dive headlong to make a play taught me lessons every day. By seeing what he valued in a player, I learned what he valued in a man. It didn't matter if other boys ran faster...just as long as I ran harder. All-out effort, all the time. You knew kids like me: small body, huge heart. Like Theo Fleury, I learned that heart was the ultimate equalizer.

Under Dad’s tutelage, I was a daily casual baseball player as boy but by the age of thirteen I had officially become a hockey obsessive. If I had chosen baseball, I could have continued to be tutored by my father. Perhaps even coached by him--as both of my brothers had been in Little League. I chose hockey; foreign not just in it's origins, but also to my family. Part of finding my own path was choosing not to do what my big brothers had done. It wasn't until I was 14 years old that I felt the pull to be part of a real, honest-to-goodness organized team. I chose hockey, and so my unquenchable thirst to learn the game and my quest for daily improvement fell to someone outside of the family circle. That is no more my parents fault than choosing hockey was mine.

Keep that in mind as you peruse this site.

We approach sports in a most permeable state, at a most malleable time. We pour our energies, youthful exuberance & instincts into a mold that we admire as we learn the capabilities and the limitations of our growing bodies. We want to be like Dad or Mom. Like our big brother or sister. Part of us, powerfully, wants to be like Mike.

I was drawn to sports by watching my heroes on television. That allure was strengthened by the chance to display and develop the characteristics that I knew my father valued.

We send our children to play sports to learn these lessons and more. The value of teamwork , of discipline, of responsibility and of loyalty. To see the reward of one’s efforts and tireless effort as a reward in itself. To strengthen the foundational lessons that that they have learned at home.

Oh yes...and for fun.

I’d really like to hear from anyone out there...players and parents alike.

Players: What initially drew you to play sports? Who were your sports heroes growing up? Was there a player you modeled your game on?

Parents: When you sign your child up for their first team, what benefits are you hoping they will find there? For fitness and for the pure love of the game? Following in your footsteps? All of the above?

A followup I like to call Death & the Maiden 2

Don Yaeger interview

On September 10th, former Sports Illustrated editor Don Yaeger sat down with us to discuss his milestone 1999 cover story, “Every Parent’s Nightmare”.

An uncomfortable friend request.

The peculiarities of social networking sites being what they are, I shouldn’t have been surprised when—in one of those very Facebook sort of ways—it turned out to be ‘throwback day’ or ’ old school’ day or some such thing which translated into ‘post an old picture of yourself as a profile picture.’ On this day I was greeted in my news feed by the High School graduation photo of the youngest son of my own abuser. When the friend request originally arrived,  I did have to weigh this particular single-degree-of-separation connection, yet I accepted after considering it for only a few moments. After all I hoped to have ‘the conversation’ with him at some point in the future.

Having already returned to the house where these abuses took place for the interview that kicked off production of Coached into Silence, I fancied myself difficult to unnerve, yet that picture hit me hard.

Prior to that interview, I had not stepped foot in 822 for at least a dozen years. As I toured the house, camera in hand, my visceral reaction to the sights and smells and the memories that these brought back surprisingly took a back seat to the new information that I was discovering. As I tried to calmly process both separate streams of stimuli, a framed photograph froze me in place.

On a bedside table stood a cardboard frame holding my own high school graduation photo, nearly two decades old. More disturbing than seeing my younger face two feet from a where a pedophile slept, was the revelation that the photograph was not alone. Behind mine, in layers, were other photographs of yet another boy, and another. One proud but distant at his Confirmation. Another with a forced smile & dead eyes in a school photo. Another boy’s graduation photo bore witness from high atop the dresser. The collection was a collision of Norman Rockwell and Norman Bates. Pedophiles; unable to connect in any real way, insteadcollect. Trophies. Milestone moments; graduations & confirmations, captured in pictures while boys were captured in the teeth of this meticulously laid trap. Just as Norman Bates added the Crane, Marion, to his collection of stuffed birds, the photographs of these boys were the collected notches on the belt of a serial child sexual molester. Dead, still life. Never aging, frozen forever at precisely the age he wanted us. The burden of what my own eyes in that photograph may have seen in all of these years will always weigh heavily on me. Framed, I was right there, bearing photographic witness to countless crimes against the other boys in his collection of “proteges.”

Seeing the graduation photo of his youngest son online today had me mourning something altogether different as I remembered all of the images that I saw in that house. It had me thinking of what was nowhere to be seen in that house. There were no pictures of his own sons anywhere. This man, unable to connect to his own sons, collected other people’s sons. Incapable of fulfilling his most important role in life as a father; he role-played as (in his own words) “a father figure in disguise.” Fatherhood, in it’s only pure & genuine form was available to him; a rare thing in his life that was not fully taken advantage of. We boys who crossed his path suffered for this, but we are not the only ones.

Upon seeing the graduation photograph of his youngest son, a photograph that has no place in the home where that young man grew up, a wholly new reaction surfaced:

Compassion for the son robbed by circumstance of the only father he will ever have.

Travel team: Larchmont, NY

I didn’t know what to expect, or when to expect it. I thought I might read while I waited so I brought a book with me, only two chapters remaining. I planned to write more, so thank your lucky stars, this entry could have been several thousand words longer. Instead, the interaction of the two characters in the picture above provided the entertainment.

So I sat nursing my overpriced iced coffee, allowing myself the rare luxury of distraction courtesy of the two men performing their homage to silent era cinematic comedy teams, and waited for the arrival of the man I came here to meet. I had never in my life paid for an iced coffee and that minor beverage milestone wouldn’t be my last first on this summer Sunday. This man and I had never met, but I was aware that he had done enough online research to have a clue as to who he was looking for. I made sure to wear the glasses that I only wear for driving (and profile pictures, apparently). As for who I would be looking for, I would know his face as quickly as tens of millions of others would. Instantly.

I sat by the floor-to-ceiling front window to catch him, all the while wondering if I would be the first person to recognize him. A figure who at one time owned the world stage, had traveled four hours to this meeting. His last update, via text message, had him passing Greenwich. Twenty-three minutes away, according to his GPS. Twenty-three more minutes of stretching the hour-old tall/small iced coffee to justify my presence in this place.

Though we had not met, this man & I are members of the same fraternity. Not a fraternity of the sort that I avoided like each and every one of Moses’ ten plagues in my university years. Not the sort that uses the Greek alphabet to signify membership, but a fraternity nonetheless. Rather than a foreign alphabet, this group is most often represented by no letters, no words, no sound at all that might betray a brother’s membership. This is a non-exclusive club, yet at one time or another most of us have believed that we were it’s sole member. Statistics will say that at the very least, one in six men wear our colors. More often than not, our colors have been camouflage. A uniform that some of us have worn forever, to pass, to blend, to hide. Half of us have been—or will be—laid to rest in this suit, having worn it from the moment of indoctrination until the day all of our remaining moments have run their course. Some among us will see that cessation as the closest thing to mercy they have known in several decades.

This man, with his place in athletic history secured, and I—absolutely nobody of note—have a shorthand before we speak, and a code when we do. We finish each other’s sentences in a common language. Our plan to meet for forty-five minutes becomes a few hours. I imagine that conscripted soldiers relate in just the same way. What few words are needed express common thoughts, relate common experiences, no matter how divergent the backgrounds. What has separated us from the rest of the world is exactly what bonds us to each other immediately. A characteristic that those nearest and dearest to us have only ever experienced as ‘the distance’, we would call simply: ‘knowing’, if we needed to call it anything at all. We don’t.

What may be walls in our closest relationships function as bridges to complete strangers. The hope is that, eventually, these structures may be transformed into gateways through which re-entry into the world of the living is possible. In the instant of knowing that you are not alone, there is some measure of comfort, of validation. It is not just you. You are not insane. It was not your fault. It is as if you have had a recurring nightmare for years—for decades—and someone, at the benighted nadir of a nightmare all their own, has heard your silent scream. I hear you, brother.

The transformative power of that…

This secret society has no secret handshake, and it is part of my work to make it a secret no more. Handshakes are for one’s who don’t know. We know all too well, and through that, we know each other better than most. Handshake? Forget handshakes. We, who can shy away from human contact or seek it with compulsive destructiveness, can greet our brothers with a hug, damn it. We get it. We understand. We know.