Coach's Corner

A fine thing about children is, after a time they grow up and live in their own house. If you're already thinking about the day when the angels move away, however, be assured that the race you're running can only be viewed as the longest of marathons; a slow, never-ending trek, like trying to touch the horizon. You will hit the wall many times, feeling unable to take another step. Then, you'll sip some Gatorade and tread, often in blindness, onward. I am a tired, battered sojourner, well along the uphill path. When a child reaches the age of 17 -- keep your eyes forward, don't look back, this will happen -- a new, different sense of urgency arises. At last you glimpse a light at the end of the tunnel. It's the calm, blue glow of the television in the child's house. I think of the solo ocean voyager, with 2,000 miles past, but 500 still to go. This is a dangerous thought to dwell on.

It's time to think of college, a hypnotic reverie, implying a distant place, where Snapple bottles are piled knee high in his room. Where 24-hour-a-day "music" is played in her living room. Where filthy dishes and unwiped counters are in someone else's kitchen. Snap to it, Bucko! Keep your eye on the ball.

It starts slowly, with a trip to the bookstore, looking for a primer on colleges. Now, with the child well into his senior year, I've put away all real literature with real authors. Within eyeshot: Princeton Review's The Best College For You, The US News and World Report's college guide, and Newsweek's How to Get Into College. Before bed, watching a ballgame, when I wake up, this is what I do. This is what I read. I hope for your sake I'm more obsessive than you. In any case, the college selection process has begun.

At college introduction night at the high school, a lively lady will tell you about "letting your senior" do most of the work. If my experience is anything close to typical, this is utter nonsense. Your senior is out there being 17. Yeah, the teenager may tell you, often on a daily basis, how he can't wait to get out of the house too, but come on, aside from mowing the lawn and a few futile shouts about turning the music down -- which they don't hear anyway -- kids don't have it so tough. Remember, it's your race.

These many guides are filled with well meaning advice. Chroniclesque best-of lists (best food, best dorms, best scenery), dim statistical references to mid-50th percentiles, cryptic test score ranges, and totally subjective number rankings for all the schools -- 90s are real good, 80s are good, 70s are ehh, and 60s are where I went -- of literally thousands of schools. To your senior, this college stuff is just an abstraction. Not to me. I'm motivated.

The college visit: Your senior met a guy once, who had a friend he went to camp with, who told him Woodchopper Tech was a wonderful place. So what if WT's located deep in the Georgia woods, where 73% of the 150-person student body majors in forestry -- your senior wants to see Woodchopper Tech. This is your senior making a decision you wanted him to make. You promised a campus visit, so trying to be a good parent, you sandwich in a few decent schools to visit. The child has no interest whatsoever in these other schools. You can only hope for the best. Off we go to WT.

We had a pretty good trip. We drove a thousand miles, 115 of which were without the senior's tapes disturbing cows and sheep. A typical exchange: "Turn that shit off. You're making me insane!" "Chill Dad. Mellow out. Look, here's some Hendrix."

At one prestigious university, I was publicly insulted by the admissions counselor. The senior and I were dressed in our college hunting attire: Jeans, T-shirts, and open flannel jackets. They split us up, kids in one room, parents in another. As the parents gathered downstairs, the admissions guy remarks, with a shit-eating grin, "You and your son," at this point he hesitates, it's the kind of pause when you know you're about to say something real stupid, but you're stuck with no graceful way out. He was trying though. "Well, you two are certainly cut out of the... umm," loooong pause, "...same cloth." "What do you mean by that?" I replied. He's visibly squirming now. A college admissions counselor is a public relations expert; how the fuck, he's wondering, does he get out of this mess? "Well," he lamely offers, "you two don't exactly look like morning people."

I should've let it drop right there, but this pissed me off. The senior, it's true, was only minutes from his bed and had made no effort whatsoever to hide his unhappiness with this early appointment. Perhaps overcompensating, I was positively bubbly, chatting amiably with all the perky, perfectly dressed parents. "I've been up for hours," I said, and stretching things a bit, adding, "I like the morning!" With all graceful avenues of retreat blocked, he just smiled, pretended I wasn't there, and launched into how wonderful his university was.

One thing the senior and I agreed on: He's not Notre Dame material.