A Daughter Living in the Light of Coach Dad

Growing up in Pacific Palisades, I was surrounded by the children of celebrities. Some were well-known in the motion picture industry; others were titans of business. But my celebrity status was equal to anyone’s.

I was the high school basketball coach’s daughter. My father was a grand figure, a persona who loomed over my childhood like coastal fog in June.

Every outing with him to the movies, to the beach or to the market automatically included several “Hello, Coaches.” Every former student had an opinion--some revered him, some reviled him. Most of them had faded in his memory, but they never knew it. Dad stopped to chat, grinning and teasing them about their lack of coordination. Sometimes, minutes into the conversation, he would uncover the mysteries of what team they tried out for or sat on the bench with, and a flash of recognition would pass subtly across his face.

“Oh, that was that nice kid who could kinda shoot but was slow,” he would whisper later.

Ex-players found him at the Parthenon in Athens and in Montmartre in Paris.

At the height of his success, he had a few offers to become an assistant coach in college. Coach Jerry Tarkanian wanted Dad to go with him to Nevada. But like his father, also a high school coach, Dad was content to remain with teenagers, saying high school was where the real coaching is. In college, it was just about recruiting and coddling colossal egos.

No scrap of paper in the house was immune from his X and O scribbles. We strived to beat the powerhouse, the Crenshaw Cougars or cross-town rivals, the Uni Warriors. These were not just games. We didn’t even joke that they were. Basketball season was a religious experience, and we were the faithful.

We breathed offensive rebounds and Deep Heat balm. We ate foul shot percentages. We dreamed of winning the city championship. Hallelujah. Go Pali Dolphins.

Every game and most practices found me perched on the top bleachers, where I nibbled pretzels and raisins like a gym rat. I spread out my coloring books and crayons on the bench where the other fans sat. The odor of boys’ sweat and the persistent squeak of tennis shoes on the glossy wooden floor dominate these, perhaps my most profound, memories of childhood.

Every Halloween, I dressed as a point guard. And still in elementary school, I had worn out a spot on the living room carpet from practicing cheerleading steps. My mother knitted me a navy-and-white sweater with a big “P” emblazoned on it. I adored it.

My star-glazed little-girl eyes rarely strayed; he was the center of my universe. My mother seemed content to live in his shadow, preparing dinner and tucking socks into neat little bundles. She made hundreds of enchiladas for the 1969 team and their families. That legendary team achieved the ultimate success, a city championship.

She made countless dinners for assistant coaches and managers. One, a man who sold his soul to Pali High basketball, arrived at our doorstep every night at dinner time. He awkwardly plunked himself at the table, food dribbling down his face, and discussed the hot prospects coming through the junior high ranks. When my mother or I would moan that he was becoming a permanent bore at the dinner table, Dad would remind us that he ran the junior league and was indispensable to the success of the program.

Dad’s halftime speeches were the stuff of fable. Ex-players, now old men, still gather to reminisce about the best ones. If the team was playing badly, his remarks could make a Marine drill sergeant look sensitive. “Take off your damn skis, Shumway!” or “You are a disgrace. A disgrace!” he would boom, reducing the weakest to near tears.

I received a few of the uplifting ones too. When I broke my wrist playing leapfrog and failed a timed math test, it was Dad who sat on the edge of my bed and listened, gentle encouragement washing over me with the sound of his voice.

A sense of play was pervasive. Everything still is a game, a competition. Every person is gauged by his level of athleticism and coordination. Though he didn’t often consider my skills worthy of competition, we sometimes played pingpong, cards or checkers in the summer, and tennis or volleyball too. I have never won. Once I thought I had come close to victory in a pingpong match only to discover later that he was holding the paddle in his right hand. He is left-handed.

As children do, I jumped into my parents’ bed on summer mornings. Holding me down as I wiggled and giggled, Dad circled one finger over my tummy, making a small buzzing sound. “Now, let’s be serious here. Why are you laughing? Can’t you keep a straight face for even a minute?” he’d tease. Sometimes before bed when the house was dark, he stomped through the house like Frankenstein, cackling a sinister laugh. Half-terrified, half-delighted, I scampered to find a hiding place in the back of a closet or under a bed.

We nearly fashioned our own language from his silly expressions and pet names. Favorite people, even players, were rarely called by their proper names. He called some “Peanut,” “Toodles” or “Banright.” He called me “Roofer.”

When I left home, I breathed a huge sigh of relief, thinking I’d never again have to care so deeply about the final score. Even our daughters’ soccer games don’t carry the spine-tingling importance of those high school basketball games.

But I have never outgrown my Dad. Like Peter Pan, he refuses to grow up, still sprinkling his youthful enthusiasm and playfulness at 70 like pixie dust.