The legendary story of his childhood in Pittsburgh has been retold by many. In his final years, when I was a much younger coach, the other assistants and I joked about his legacy. He was older than the stadium where he coached; older than the field house where his teams practiced; older than the last seven university presidents; quite possibly older than the coprolites studied by the paleontology students. He was Frank Benson, the most respected man on campus and head football coach at Division III Mountain State College in central Pennsylvania.
As a young impressionable assistant coach, I listened dutifully when Coach Benson shared his history. He began his career on the streets of Pittsburgh, back when the sky was eternally gray from the belching steel mills. He played sandlot football on fields that were more rock and debris than dirt. The ball they used barely stayed inflated, but they still played every day.
Frank learned when he was a senior in high school that he was never going to get into a major college if he had to rely on his athletic skills, so he began to study the game. “I was called to coaching,” he repeated many times.
The year was 1946 and he had just returned from a six-month stint in the US Army wiping up the last remnants of World War II. He never fired a shot. By the time he finished Basic Training, the Germans had surrendered. The Captain of Fort Bliss in El Paso knew of his football experience and asked him to assemble a team for a friendly game between the enlisted men and the young officers. “That was it,” he said to me. “My chance to see if I could coach.” He was a player-coach, field general, and the enlisted men’s quarterback. He had exactly one week to assemble the team, organize the plays, and beat the tar out of the officers.
The fort had been blessed with a group of Texas and Oklahoma high school graduates who had played mostly seven-man football. They were all fast with good hands. He selected the best of them. He also found a small group of oversized farm boys from Kansas who knew how to get in the way and stomp over lesser-sized men. And so it was. He installed ten plays and drilled them four hours a day for five days.
They played the game on the Fort Bliss field, modest to the casual observer, but a thing of beauty to Frank. It had grass with chalk lines and bleachers to hold about a thousand people, not unlike some of the fields where Mountain State College now played. “I felt like a big-time college coach,” he told me.
The score was 28 – 21 with five minutes to go. The enlisted men found themselves on their own eighteen-yard line with the officers driving for another score. He was about to be down 35 – 21 and humiliated. The officers did finally score on a power run right into the line of farm boys. They collapsed. The enlisted men lost.
Coach knew the captain as an honorable man. He did not disappoint.
“Great game, Benson, your guys did good.”
“Thanks Captain. We’ll get you next time.”
“Won’t be a next time, you’re being discharged.”
#
When I arrived outside Coach Benson’s office for our daily meeting, he sat motionless in the office he has occupied all forty-nine years as head coach. Now in his early eighties, he has more wins than any other college coach in the history of the NCAA. Some of the younger boosters and alumni had called for Frank to step down. “The game’s passed him by,” they said. But there was still a loyal following of old and new fans who loved what he represented: a clean winning program with history and pride. Yes, Coach Frank Benson was the pinnacle of what every college coach should be.
When I entered his office, Coach was sleeping with Sports Illustrated in his lap open to the latest article debating his retirement. And although he should have been honored to be a subject in a national sports magazine, all he could focus on was everyone debating his future, his decision. In his mind there was no decision to be made. They were in late summer, and practice was in full swing.
“Wakeup Coach,” I said.
He startled and almost fell from his desk chair. “Offleman…was I sleeping?” he asked, drool dripping from the corner of his mouth.
“Guess you were taking a nap.”
“So, what’s on the agenda for this meeting?” he asked.
“You called the meeting, Coach.”
“Maybe I did. You’re my offensive coordinator and now I want to talk about our true freshman QB, okay?”
No one was ageless, but for a guy in his eighties, he was still spry. Unfortunately, it was one thing to be an old person who still functioned and another to be an old head coach. College football was a complex game that required quick tactical decisions. Kids fresh from high school, no matter how talented they were, needed nurturing. The past few seasons the other assistants and I began assuming more and more of Frank’s responsibilities. He simply wasn’t up to it. Coach lacked the energy and mental acuity to be the father figure he once was.
“I feel the same about the kid as I felt yesterday,” I said. “He’s young, but talented enough to be adequate by mid-season. And as I also said yesterday, our success this season will depend on Cedric’s veteran defense.”
Cedric Jones was our defensive coordinator. Coach promoted him last year from linebacker coach. Cedric and I had both played for Frank, albeit during different eras in his seemingly endless career. When the position opened, I pushed Frank to hire an experienced coach from the outside, but Charlie Pedersen, the Athletic Director, wanted to save money and Coach was hugely loyal to his assistants. He liked to keep things in the family.
“I’ll set up a meeting with Cedric for later today to discuss the defense’s progress,” Coach said.
“Didn’t you guys meet yesterday?”
Coach leafed through his notebook. “Right, I have the notes here. He’s got things in good shape.”
It was time for me to get back to some real work and I let him know.
He waved me off. “Sure, go,” he said. “I have to get back to what I was doing anyway.”
As I walked back to the locker room, I wondered how long it would be before he fell back asleep.
#
Thursday prior to the Saturday afternoon game against Acorn State, Charlie Pedersen called the standard season opening dinner meeting with all the assistant coaches. We met at Ellie’s Steakhouse—the only decent steakhouse within fifty miles.
August preparations had gone reasonably well, but Coach was still a concern to Jones and me. And oddly, Frank had not yet arrived.
When Pedersen arrived, every assistant stopped talking in mid-sentence, filling the room with the silence of uncertainty. Where was Frank?
“Gentlemen, thanks for coming,” Pedersen said while simultaneously waving for the waitress.
“The usual, Sir?”
“Make it a double, dear.” He stared down the rectangular table. You boys all set? Good. Let’s get started. How’s Coach’s leg? I see he’s still using the cane.”
“Is Frank coming?” I asked.
“Wasn’t feeling well. I convinced him to get some rest. The last thing he needs right now is scotch.” Pedersen stopped, took the glass of mahogany liquid from the server, filled his mouth, savored the flavor, welcomed the vapors into his sinuses, then deliberately swallowed and continued. “I’m concerned something bad may happen. He can’t get out of the way when plays hit the sideline. Heck, that’s how he broke his leg in the first place. The man is not ageless.”
“He won’t leave the sideline and go upstairs,” I said.
The event from last season played again in my memory. The two-hundred-and-fifty-pound defensive lineman from Southeast Virginia State plowed into Frank, nearly making him a permanent part of the sideline turf. His leg took a full year to heal, dispatching him to the booth last season. It was clear he would never coach from upstairs again. “I can’t feel the game.”
“We know, Mr. Pedersen, but I think Coach is okay,” Cedric Jones said.
Coach Jones always stuck up for Frank. His career was modeled by the great man. Cedric would probably have died on the streets of Philadelphia if Coach hadn’t found him and convinced his mother to let him play football for Mountain State instead of getting a low-paying unskilled job. Division III schools didn’t offer athletic scholarships, so Frank insisted he pay for Cedric’s education with grants and other alumni help allowed by the NCAA. That was the thing about Frank Benson, once he decided to do something it just got done.
“Cedric, I know you love Frank, we all love him,” Pedersen said. “Guys, I know this may sound alarmist, but I’m afraid he’s going to die on the sideline during a game. I’m soliciting suggestions on how to keep him from a bad turn of events without asking him to step down. He’ll never do that. I’m not asking for any quick ideas. Think about it and let’s get together again next week.”
When the dinner meeting ended, I sat in my car, key in the ignition, feeling traitorous. Did Jones feel the same way? The AD was right, and I knew it, but moving Frank Benson off the sidelines and into retirement wouldn’t be easy. Impossible.
#
The traditional opening season pep rally took place on Friday night in the soccer field next to the stadium. A bonfire, torched from kerosene saturated shipping pallets, blanketed the student body of five thousand with crackling sparks.
“WE WANT COACH—WE WANT COACH—WE WANT COACH!”
The cheerleaders lead the frenzy, flipping each other with acrobatic maneuvers. Cedric and I stood out of view, hoping to keep an eye on Coach when he made his entrance. He always came exactly five minutes after the chant started. I checked my watch, concerned. Eight minutes had already passed and there was no sign of him.
“WE WANT COACH—WE WANT COACH—WE WANT COACH!”
Finally, the frail limping man emerged from the shadows, using his cane to steady himself. He waved to the crowd with his free hand and almost fell.
“COACH BENSON—COACH BENSON—COACH BENSON!”
Two of the cheerleaders did back flips and landed precisely at his left and right, holding his arms to steady him. That had to be rehearsed. Coach kissed each on the cheek and walked with them to his sacred position in front of the fire. The cheerleader on Coach’s cane side, continued to support the frail man.
Frank raised his free arm, signaling the beginning of the rally. “Here we are, back in front of this big—uh—fire—which represents the opening game of the—uh—2009 season, another great football season!”
The cheerleader leaned into Benson’s ear as the crowd quieted a bit.
An immediate sense of dread hit me. I stopped breathing.
“Sorry kids. My wonderful escort just told me this is the 2010 season.” The students remained silent until someone yelled. “It doesn’t matter Coach; we still love you!” And then the chant started:
“WE LOVE COACH—WE LOVE COACH—WE LOVE COACH!”
Coach raised his free arm again. “Thank you. You’re right. What matters is we win tomorrow against Middle Valley State!”
This time the silence was immediate, and I realized I had to take control of the situation.
“Beat Acorn State, beat Acorn State!” I began shouting while running as quickly as possible toward Frank and the cheerleaders. The other coaches followed shouting the same chant. The student body joined the mounting clamor:
“BEAT ACORN STATE—BEAT ACORN STATE—BEAT ACORN STATE!”
Frank Benson stared at the mass of students as if he had forgotten the reason he was there. I motioned to Cedric, and he took the cue, quietly escorting Coach back to the locker room while I finished the pep rally.
A few minutes after midnight, while reviewing the offensive game plan one more time, my mobile phone chimed.
“We have a problem, don’t we—”
“—we do Charlie, we do.”
#
With half the season completed, a goose egg sat squarely in the loss column. Charlie Pedersen left things up to the coaching staff—mostly me. In his mind I was the senior assistant, the head coach without the title.
I met with Frank multiple times a day. He had to be reminded of practice schedules. The game plans were largely lost on him. The daily assistants’ meetings always led to Coach and what to do with him.
“Guys, we all know that Coach is in surprisingly good physical health for his age. And although his mental abilities obviously aren’t what they were, we can fill that gap. My concern is the sidelines,” I reminded them. “Remember that dinner meeting with Pedersen?”
“What’re you getting at?” Jones asked.
“Let’s face it, Coach can’t move. I’m afraid he’s going to get steamrolled.”
“We can’t really protect him,” the offensive line coach said.
“I know and I’m going along with Pedersen. I’m planning to convince Coach to work from the box upstairs.”
“What’s he going to do up there? He can’t call plays—” Jones said.
“First let me convince him. We can work out the logistics later,” I said.
#
“Not going to happen! Forget it. That sideline is my territory. I belong there.”
His reaction came as no surprise to me.
“We can’t protect you,” I said.
“My boys would never let anything happen to me. And besides, who said I need protection?”
“Do you remember last year when that defensive lineman from Southeast Virginia State crushed your leg?”
“That was my fault, Bob. I just didn’t react fast enough.”
“That’s my point Frank. Next time it could be worse. The sidelines are dangerous even for the younger coaches, even for me.”
“I’ll think about it.”
“You can call the plays from upstairs. You’ll just be safer.”
“Goddamn it, I said I would think about it!”
“Let me know, Frank. I’ve got coaching to do.”
I stood outside his office door and listened to his mumblings about everyone treating him like a child. Wasn’t that what happened to everyone as they grew old? The difference was that most people Frank Benson’s age were already in assisted living.
The assistants waited for me in the coach’s locker room. “What’d he say?” Jones asked.
I told them.
“We can’t protect him,” the offensive line coach protested.
“I’ll get him upstairs, just give me more time,” I said.
It didn’t take long. Frank must have talked with Betty, his wife of fifty plus years. He always listened to her. He summoned me to his office the next day. I saw the resigned pain in his wrinkled, liver-spotted forehead. He insisted that he have the best headset and the entire game plan on a waterproof laminated card just in case he spilled his coffee.
“Got it, Bob?”
“Got it, Coach.”
#
Before Coach began his decline, I would sit in my office with coffee at four in the morning reviewing the offensive game plan knowing that everything else was in his competent hands. On this Saturday before our formidable opponent, Kentucky Tech, I could no longer rely on Frank’s skills. Pedersen hoped I was the glue that would hold the team together.
The Friday night dinner at Ellie’s before each game had continued without Coach. But this Friday he insisted on attending since the coaching structure was changing with his planned move upstairs. We left the seat at the head of the table open for him. Pedersen also joined us. I was happy to let the AD do his job.
Everyone arrived and took their seats. The usual waitress came to take our drink orders and spotted Frank sitting at the head.
“Coach Benson, so good to have you with us tonight.”
“Thank you. Get me a Chivas, no ice, dear.”
Everyone else placed their drink orders.
“We do have some specials tonight,” she said.
“Forget the specials,” Frank said, waving her off with his hand. “Prime rib for everyone, on me!”
“Frank,” I leaned in. “We all chip in for dinner. Besides, I don’t think everyone wants prime rib.”
“Bull. Everyone likes prime rib, right?” he said to the coaches.
“Sure Coach, that’s great,” they agreed.
“Frank, I want to thank you for deciding to coach from upstairs. We think it’s the best for you,” Pedersen said.
“Hogwash. It’s got nothing to do with me. I just don’t want these youngsters,” gesturing toward the assistants, “to be distracted in their game day coaching jobs trying to protect me. We’ll just have to see how it works.”
That one statement set the tone for the rest of the dinner. The assistants ate in relative silence while Frank recounted every coaching tale beginning with his Fort Bliss Army experience. Most had already heard the stories, but he seemed to ignore everyone’s ill-fated attempt to hide their boredom. He droned on through drinks, salad, main course, coffee, and dessert. While Frank drank his coffee and picked at his carrot cake, I looked at Charlie Pedersen. We both knew I would be officially taking over all day-to-day team functions. It only needed to be announced.
After dinner Pedersen leaned against his car smoking a cigarette. I took the opportunity to say something to him that had been nagging me since the beginning of the season.
“Don’t let me coach beyond—” But before I had a chance to finish, he crushed his butt under his sole and waved me off.
“Don’t worry. If I’m still here I’ll fire your ass before you start drooling.”
“Thanks,” I said.
“Least I can do.”
#
Moving Coach upstairs worked for the coaching staff. We crushed Kentucky Tech 45 – 3 with Coach calling plays from the box and me changing them using hand signals on the sideline. Coach couldn’t keep up with the pace of communications and had trouble understanding the chatter in the headsets. But it didn’t matter, he was protected. Pedersen insisted that no changes be made for the remainder of the season.
We ended with our twenty-sixth undefeated season and went on to win the Division III national championship for the twenty-ninth time. The team celebration party, as always, was to be held at Frank Benson’s sprawling home on the most scenic fifteen acres in southeastern Pennsylvania. His house sat nestled in a plot of perfectly groomed lawn between two large hills resembling an unlined football field. The guest list consisted of all the players, every coach with his respective spouse, and Pedersen. In the previous forty-eight years Frank greeted everyone as they arrived. But this year Betty greeted guests assuring everyone that her husband would be along in due time. I watched as the guests filed in and whispered to each other with troubled faces. Even the players, many of whom were upperclassmen and had attended one or more of these parties, seemed concerned.
The hors d’oeuvres paraded through the guests on silver platters. Betty always used the same caterers. She worked with them to design football-oriented gourmet morsels. My favorite was the pâté formed in the shape of a helmet on a football shaped cracker. I grabbed as many as I could without anyone noticing.
“Worried?”
Betty surprised me as I stuffed the last helmet into my mouth. “When’s he going to join us?” I mumbled through the pâté.
“Didn’t you talk with him yesterday?”
“Yes, and he said he felt fine and was looking forward to the party.”
“He’s not fine. I asked him this morning if he had spoken with you, and he said no. Then he asked me when the party was. I’m worried.”
“Hey, look!” a senior yelled out.
The old man limped down the stairs from the screened porch and ambled toward the patio. Only distant birds broke the silence.
“Where’s the microphone?” Frank asked when he approached Pedersen.
“I was just about to begin the festivities,” the AD said.
“Well now you don’t have to,” Coach said, stealing the microphone.
“YEAH, COACH BENSON! LET’S HEAR IT! WE LOVE YOU!”
“Okay kids, thanks,” he said, holding his cane in the air. “This is a great day!”
“COACH…COACH…COACH…COACH…”
Frank reached into his pocket and pulled out an ancient whistle. Everyone watched as he inhaled deeply then exhaled into the opening, barely making a sound. His face turned deep scarlet; he lost his balance, cane flying into the air.
Pedersen caught him.
“Hand me that cane, will ya, Bob?”
I helped Pedersen and gave Coach his cane.
“Well, that’s a little better,” he said, steadying himself. “Back to what I was saying. This is a great day for Mountain State. We’ve won our second national championship and—”
My stomach turned. All the coaches looked at each other with confusion and then resignation. The players didn’t move.
Coach continued. “The second one is always the hardest one. But repeating is the biggest reward!”
Silence.
“That’s great Coach, thanks. Let’s all just have a great time,” Pedersen said as he tried to wrestle the microphone from him.
“I’m not done! Kids…let’s make it three in a row next year! Now I’m getting a hot dog!”
He dropped the microphone onto the concrete patio.
At that moment I knew it was beyond just figurehead status. Coach Frank Benson, my mentor for over fifteen years, was now a person who would have to be managed like a child. Yet no one had the political will to end his career. He had contributed too much to the finances and prestige of the institution. The college president wouldn’t hear of it. I realized at that moment, as he stuffed a hot dog into his mouth and spilled a wad of yellow mustard on his warm-up top, next season would require me to ensure this man doesn’t die on the sidelines.
#
I managed to control spring football the next year and keep Coach thinking he was contributing. Betty had convinced her husband to see a doctor and reluctantly he agreed, protesting as all old men do when they feel their competency is being challenged. He was diagnosed with very early-stage dementia. “Not unusual for his age,” the neurologist had said. “He can still work if his schedule is kept light.”
Early July, a week before fall practice was to begin, Pedersen called me to his office.
“C’mon in, Bob.” Pedersen motioned to the chair directly opposite his cherrywood desk. I felt like a young coach interviewing for an entry level position even though I was three years older.
“Bob, you know the situation.”
“Well, I think there’s more than one situation,” I said.
“How so?”
“We know that Coach isn’t actually going to be coaching this season. And we know that he needs to believe that he is coaching.”
“Agreed.”
“We want to put him back on the sidelines where he belongs.”
Pedersen looked at me with round, unblinking eyes. He filled the next several minutes shouting every reason not to put Coach back on the sidelines. “It is simply not an option! If it were up to me, I’d put him in his recliner at home and let Betty deal with him. But I know that’s not an option.”
“I’m putting him on the sidelines.”
“Are you going against me, Bob?”
It was my turn to explain my position. Cedric and I had put together a plan to assign one of the younger offensive linemen to shadow Coach and protect him. We knew that there would be weekly arguments with him before every game if we tried to keep him upstairs, and none of the coaches wanted that distraction during preparation. Keeping young players on their game was difficult enough without the coaches being sidetracked by other issues. I knew Coach could as easily drop dead in his bathtub as on the sidelines at this point. I had come to that realization in the offseason.
“He needs to be honored and retired,” I said.
“I can’t argue with you there, but you know about the president—”
“Charlie, please find a way.”
“I’ll do what I can, but you need to win and try to keep the old coot alive, agreed?”
Pedersen needed my agreement; he was a consensus man. I nodded and left his office.
At this point I didn’t care if the head coaching job was ultimately given to me. Just get me through this season. I assigned the offensive line coach the job of putting a Coach protection plan in place.
“Find the biggest freshman lineman who has the slimmest chances of playing,” I instructed him.
All went well in the 2011 season. We were, as always, undefeated going into the last game with an assumed laugher against a rebuilding Tennessee Tech. Late in the game two of our offensive linemen were injured on the same play, forcing a rarely played freshman lineman to take the field. My sideline responsibilities kept my attention on the game and not on Coach. The next play was a sweep to the strong side. The freight train of pads and beef moved in a choreography of controlled chaos with little regard for field position or sideline personnel. Frank Benson stood alone and unprotected.
It was the very offensive lineman assigned to protect Frank Benson who barreled helmet first into Coach’s frail, vulnerable body. Later accounts by the sobbing lineman described how he heard “life” leave Coach’s lungs. He never took another breath; his chest completely caved like a sinkhole.
There was the formality of an inquiry after the funeral services. And, as we all expected, no blame was assessed. Everyone including the players understood. Coach had moved on. Sadly, the offensive lineman never played another down.
#
Early the next spring I was again summoned to Pedersen’s office. He awarded me the official title of Head Coach at Mountain State College. I was the first coach to follow the man who made football a religion in this small and proud community. I was the first head coach to be called Head Coach other than Frank Benson for over forty years. I was their new leader; their new institution and I was determined to retire with all my faculties. But coaching college football is a kind of narcotic. It’s easy to become bigger than the job; something Frank Benson never fully comprehended.
I thought I did.
#
It was the thirty-fifth year of my reign as head football coach at Mountain State College in central Pennsylvania. Pedersen was long gone, dropped dead from a heart attack a month after he retired. Now, two days before the 2047 season opening game against Acorn State, my trusted Assistant Head Coach, Cedric Jones, sat in my office as I had done so many years ago with Frank Benson.
“Coach, are you sure you feel safe being on the sidelines? I’m not sure we can protect you.”
At that moment all the memories of Frank Benson in his last days disappeared from my memory.
“I’ll be fine,” I said, feeling almost ageless.
Kenneth Schalhoub writes exclusively short stories. He has published science fiction and western period pieces. Kenneth lives in Colorado with his family.
If you enjoyed this story, you might also enjoy “The Gift of the Magi” by O. Henry.
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