THE MIGHTY QUINN

He had been coaching high school football for so long, 37 years, that my father and four of my uncles had played under him. Hundreds and hundreds of players over the years were taught by him starting with his time as a coach at Azusa high in California through his many years at Waunakee High before he retired from coaching in 1993.

He counted 15 conference championships and three undefeated seasons during his tenure.  But, he measured success with each individual. He demanded your best effort and if you gave that, well, that’s the point for doing anything at all and really what success is.  Don’t get me wrong, he really liked to win but it wasn’t all about that to him.

Below is an excerpt from my book, No Bed or Roses, I dedicated to Coach Quinn.

Most importantly, Coach Quinn truly cared about his players as people more than players. We innately knew this, which is why so many of us abided by his strict doctrine.

Quinn taught his players to carry themselves with class and had us address all adults as “Sir” and “Ma’am.” I recall one game in high school where I had a bloody snot in my nose that I dispelled quickly over my right shoulder. The gob just missed hitting a referee. I responded, “I’m sorry, SIR.” I hoped the classy remark might redeem me from my grotesque gesture. It did.

In fact, our team’s decorum often impressed the referees enough to write letters to our school lauding the character of its football players. Quinn used to say he was more proud of that than our wins, and I sort of believed him.

Coach Quinn didn’t allow players to have long hair. He thought short hair made one look more respectable and argued pragmatically that the closer the helmet is to your head, the better it works. If a player didn’t have his hair cut by the time fall practice started, Quinn became his barber. He definitely was a better coach than a barber, but then Vidal Sassoon didn’t use a tape cutter to style hair.

Coach Quinn was old-fashioned, but his players respected and worked hard for him. He was a man’s man, a man of his word, and a man who believed that a handshake meant more than any legal document ever could. He was John Wayne, Clint Eastwood, and Knute Rockne all wrapped up in a mesh baseball cap and cardigan sweater with a football helmet insignia on it. He didn’t say much, so when he spoke you listened. He expected toughness, both mental and physical, from his players. He preached the importance of character. Coach Quinn emphasized discipline, pride, and hard work. His authority trumped all. I never questioned it, not even the time he berated me at practice in front of the whole team: “Kennedy! That’s not good enough! Run it again, boys.”

I was playing fullback, and my assignment on the play was to block the middle linebacker. I blocked him but didn’t move him very far, and the tailback, following my lead, tripped over my legs. Coach Quinn blew the whistle and made us run the play again. He demanded that I move the linebacker out of the way, so there’d be no chance of the tailback tripping over me. The linebacker was tough and didn’t want to let me do that to him. We ran the play again, and again I failed to move him far enough for Quinn. The linebacker grew tired so Quinn substituted another linebacker to replace him. I was pissed off.  Quinn then lined up four other linebackers to take me on one by one, and I had to block and move each of them.

By the time I got to the last guy, I was like a rabid pit bull. I was embarrassed and angry and frustrated and exhausted, but I summoned myself and drove the final guy almost off the practice field, continuing even after the whistle blew as my own form of protest. Biting down hard on my mouth guard, I turned and glared at Quinn through my face mask. Quinn just nodded with a slight smile, pointed his finger and said, “That’s how you should do it every time, now grab some water.” He set the standards high, and I couldn’t handle disappointing him.