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...Once
after an exhausting training session at Santa Clara,
Jerry decided that I needed a little extra work. He
felt I wasn’t focusing; that I was missing just
that extra bit of drive. But that’s not what he
told me. He insisted that I stay, and asked the goalkeeper
to hang around for a “goal-scoring exercise,”
(and to help frustrate me as much as possible) because
he knows how much I love to score. Jerry set up a drill
in which I had to run around a cone, and shoot the ball,
time and again. “Get it on frame! Choose a better
part of your foot!” he shouted. The sun began to
set behind the buildings on campus, and by the time
I’d made it through one more set of 20, it was
dark on the unlit field.
I’d
been at it for 45 minutes. I was totally spent and was
getting mentally beat up by the constant pressure of
making split-second decisions triggered by his commands.
“Another set of ten,” he told me, “You
need three good ones to finish off.”
Battling
the darkness, the goalkeeper, who was having an unbelievable
day, and fighting off my own fatigue, I struck the final
shots, grunting like Monica Seles hitting a backhand.
“Now you’re getting it,” he finally said.
Having given it everything I had, I collapsed onto the
grass. And that’s basically what Jerry wanted:
For me to push myself to the edge of my effort, because
he knew it’d make me stronger.
Two
weeks later, we were in a Santa Clara game at our home
field, Buck Shaw Stadium. It was the first time I’d
met the UC Berkeley squad since transferring colleges,
and the game would determine who had the home field
advantage if we were to face each other in the playoffs.
With this important implication hanging over us, it
turned out to be a difficult game, with a lot of back
and forth. It was a very hot night, and as always, I
was sweating buckets. There must have been nearly 3,000
fans, all screaming, when I got the ball at midfield,
near the touchline. I had a couple of defenders draped
over me right away, but I continued to dribble the ball
on a diagonal to the far post. I felt like I was dragging
those opponents along, carrying their weight, barely
pushing past them. By the time I made it near the goal,
there were four or five of them on me. I dribbled into
the penalty box on the right side, and drove the ball
just like I had in practice, past the goalkeeper for
my second score of the game. I managed to meet eyes
with my grandfather, who was jumping up and down on
the front row just as my teammates dog-piled on me.
The fans streamed down from the bleachers to the railing.
Everyone was going crazy.
That
taught me yet again that hard training can be a lot
like taking medicine. It can seem an unpleasant experience,
but it works wonders if you’re in the hands of
a good doctor. Or in this case, of a gifted coach.
At
after the post-game handshakes, Jerry nodded his head
at me, and raised his eyebrows as if to say, “See,
wasn’t staying late for that drill worth it after
all?” That practice had been for me as an individual,
but also for the greater good of the team.
That dramatic goal came from that exhausting practice,
where a spirit was also developed—the fighting,
never-say-die attitude; the knowledge that even if someone
tries to push you, you’ll find a way to break through.
Today, it is that spirit I always strive to play with,
and it’s also one that, as a coach, I now try to
instill in young players any chance I get.
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