He was a rough, rugged and rotten old man.
Bathed in booze and Cigar smoke
Skin tough as leather
Face wrinkled and weathered from battles in the elements
Eyes cold and grey
A formidable opponent to a high school kid
Making us Bleed, though never laying a hand on us.
Making us sweat until we ran out
Making us suffer at his mere delight
Always on his hill, watching over us
Criticising our every move, our every formation
His voice screaming to get it right
Wrong route; Run The HILL!
Missed the block; Run The HILL!
Fumbled the ball; Run The HILL!
As hard as he was though, he was our Coach
Year after year we returned in early August
To be tortured under his rule.
To young to understand the lessons he was entrusting us with
If I only knew then what I would have learned
Thanks to Coach