Chapter Thirty #2
“And why can’t you see that about yourself?
” I ask, feeling frustrated for the first time since we started talking.
He’s so brilliant it’s almost offensive that he can’t see it.
“Why can’t you admit that, if you wanted it, you could skip over juniors entirely and be the damn national team coach?
That, here in Berkeley, you’ve barely scraped the surface of your potential? That you’re capable of so much more?”
“Because I will never be more!” He slams a fist against the doorjamb. “This is all I’ll ever be.”
Adrian lowers his shaking fist and raises his eyes to mine.
“I quit in high school. I’ve never even sat in a team boat since that day.
I’ve never gotten back on a starting line.
So, what right do I have to coach the athletes who have dared to push themselves so much further than I have?
The ones who aren’t quitters. I don’t. I can’t.
This is who I am. High school. This is the top for me. ”
My stomach lurches, heart skipping like a record scratch.
I want to yank him into a hug, to scream out that he’s wrong.
I’m itching to smooth his hair and insist with my touch that he is more.
But I can’t do that, not when none of this conversation changes our future.
Not when it’s already going to be nearly impossible to walk away.
So, instead, I ask, “Did someone say all that to you?”
“What?”
“Did someone tell you that you’re a quitter? That ‘high school’ is as good as you’ll ever be?”
He pulls in a deep breath through his nose and his eyes track lower. “He said it would define me. That it would hang around my neck for the rest of my life. He was right.”
I have an irrational urge to shove Adrian’s father off a bridge. “Only because he made you believe it,” I say desperately. “Not because there’s any real truth to it.”
Adrian’s eyes are distant again, but I can’t walk away from him like this. I won’t leave him with nothing but hurt and regret. I want his life to be better because I was in it, however fleeting our time together might have been.
“I want to read you something,” I say.
Before I can lose my nerve, I fish out my phone from my back pocket. I click open the Notes app with the draft of my cover letter for the recommendation to Carla and USRowing. It’s not polished yet, but this has to be enough.
“To the Board of USRowing,” I read. “My name is Katherine Parker. I’m a five-time junior national and national team member and NCAA Champion. Two months ago, I was given the honor to evaluate Adrian Crawford for the junior development lead coaching position.
“Coach Crawford’s technical skills are as strong—in many cases stronger—than every other national team coach I’ve ever known.
He’s up-to-date on the literature, not just in rowing and sports science, but in related fields.
He applies the research to his programming with energy, enthusiasm, and excellent attention to detail. ”
The phone starts shaking so hard that the words are blurring. But that was the easy part. The objective part. I take a breath and push forward, trying to keep my voice level.
“But it isn’t Coach Crawford’s hard skills that make him exceptional.
It’s the soft skills where he truly shines.
He’s passionate. He treats his athletes with kindness and respect.
He understands individual needs intuitively and deeply.
Then, instead of asking his athletes to change for him, he adapts himself to them.
He knows when to push, when to ask, and when to cajole.
He puts his athletes first, no matter how he’s feeling. Possibly to his own detriment.”
I hear Adrian take a shaky inhale, but I plow forward.
“I am undoubtedly a better athlete for having trained with him. He has made me a stronger and faster rower. He has made me a better person.
“I can only begin to imagine what he could accomplish at the service of USRowing. And so, it is in the strongest possible terms that I recommend him for this position.”
I stare at those final words for another long moment, afraid to raise my gaze. I can hear Adrian breathing, though. Deep, even breaths.
When I finally find the courage to look up, his eyes are still fixed on my screen, his thumb running laps over the calluses across his fingers. His expression, however, is unreadable. Lost in thoughts that I can’t see.
“I appreciate the recommendation,” he says with a voice that is carefully neutral.
My heart sinks.
“I didn’t—” My throat closes over the next words and I try again, unsteady.
“Adrian, you are more capable than you think you are. You once told me I was extraordinary, that you wanted me to see myself like you see me. Well, I know you’re extraordinary, and I just wish you could see that, too.
I wish you could see yourself like I see you. ”
He inhales slowly, holds it. “I don’t think there’s anything left to say.”
He’s shutting down again, and I need to accept it. His future isn’t my concern, anyway. It never was.
I step back beyond the edge of the threshold, everything melting at the edges like it’s been doused in acid.
“Okay. Yeah. I guess not.” I try to find his eyes, but he’s staring resolutely at the door handle. “I’m sorry. I’m sorry this couldn’t be more. I’m sorry I don’t have more to give.”
Before Adrian can answer—before I start to regret this enough that I change my mind—I turn. And I walk away.