I played football my sophomore year. I was a 106-pound running back. The only reason I was fourth-string was because we didn’t have a fifth-string. I hustled, but I took a lot more hits than I gave.
Our coach was Jack Richardson, the kind of high 
school football coach they make those high school football movies about. He was good, and he motivated us. He taught us how to play and he showed us how to win. We made the state play-offs that year (I say we loosely – I dressed out but never played). A lot of schools wanted our coach.
That Christmas, weeks after the season, walking down our main street, I realized that traffic had stopped and there was a lot of honking. I looked over, and there was Coach Richardson, blocking traffic, rolling his passenger window down, yelling and waving at me, his fourth-string running back who never played. He called my name, wished me and my family a Merry Christmas, then drove on. It was nothing to him, but here it is, 34 years later, and I’m telling you about it. It’s nice to be appreciated.
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