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The
Spirit Shines Through It Contributors
to the article: Vic Belfiore, Lorin Cyr, Terry Eidson, Pat Hays, Greg
Kopra, Bob Ladouceur, Alex Madrigal, Tom O'Brien |
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In the world of Lasallian schools, the best kind of winning is the kind that makes a difference in a person's life. It is a host of small victories in the classrooms, in the hallways, on the courts and playing fields. It is a single teacher spending time with a struggling student, two friends trying to solve a problem, a coach encouraging her team to think about what it means to be a team. Scenes such as these define what it means to be a particular kind of school – a school that is part of a tradition that holds the victory of each student as the final measure of its ministry. |
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Such priorities are echoed by athletic directors and coaches throughout the District of San Francisco. As they looked at their ministry within their schools at a recent workshop conducted at Mont La Salle by the Office of Education, they listed some of the qualities of an outstanding coach: "Puts athletes first, winning second." "Teaches respect for self, teammates, and opponents." "Is faith-filled, provides direction and guidance for actions and relationships." "Understands the big picture and keeps the game in perspective." "Is willing and able to look inward to address problems." "Is knowledgeable about all aspects of the sport." "Is passionate about coaching." These are values that find a natural fit within the Lasallian tradition. Consider two schools within the District that appear different at first glance. One is a newer school of 150 boys and girls that played its first-ever season of football in fall 2000. The other has a student body of 1000 boys and holds the national record for the longest winning streak in high school football history. Both are named for the Founder of the Institute – La Salle High School in Yakima, Washington, and De La Salle High School in Concord, California. Although they are at opposite ends of the spectrum of gridiron prowess, the educational spirit they share shines through, as evidenced in the following stories by reporters from the Yakima Herald-Republic and the San Diego Union-Tribune, who followed the teams in fall 2000. For those who walk onto the field of education, the hardest plays are always the ones that call for genuine human skills and specific personal victories. On football fields a thousand miles apart, there are two teams who know that by experience and in the process show visiting reporters – and all of us within the Lasallian community – where our real victories take place.
Excerpt reprinted from Yakima Herald-Republic, November 24, 2000 A
Season for Learning at La Salle When the school held its first meeting of prospective football participants in a classroom last spring, junior Cash Fiander was hoping for a big turnout. The autumn before, Fiander had commuted between classes at La Salle and football practice at Wapato High, where he stood a good chance of starting at quarterback this year. But he wanted to play for La Salle. Then came that first meeting, and only 15 or 16 boys showed up. Oh man, we're not even going to have a team, thought Fiander. Looks like another year of driving back and forth. But the brain trust at La Salle hadn't gone into this football thing lightly. A football program was just one small piece of a foundation, one building block among many as the school grew from its infancy. La Salle had started in the fall of 1998 with an enrollment of slightly more than four dozen, a total that has nearly tripled since and includes a dozen seniors. In the first two years, La Salle classes were held in what used to be Holy Family School while fund- raising campaigns generated money for the new campus being built in Union Gap. Some of that fund-raising was as mundane as bake sales, car washes and, of course, tuition. Some entailed mining the alumni of Yakima's now-defunct Catholic secondary schools – the all-girls St. Joseph's Academy, the all-boys Marquette High, the co-ed Central Catholic High, and the school those three merged in 1968-69 to become, Carroll High. Since Carroll closed in 1986, the Yakima Valley had been without a Catholic secondary school. And, obviously, without a Catholic school football team. Until now.
Lightweight Lightning Fiander was wrong. There would be enough players for a team – barely, just two dozen or so. But the players on that team, at the outset, sure didn't look like much. Most of them were, by football standards, pretty puny. Nearly half of La Salle's players weighed 150 pounds or less. One of those was junior Pat Hays. But, even at a mere 150 pounds, Hays wasn't small by La Salle standards. Another linebacker, junior Alex Madrigal, weighed just 135, same as junior receiver Pooky Hernandez. Fiander, the Lightning quarterback, was 150. Freshman Dylan Cyr – adopted younger brother of Lorin Cyr, who would start all season at defensive back – was listed optimistically at 115 pounds. "Yeah, he may be 115," Hays cracked, "after a full dinner and with his shoulder pads on." Little Cyr, though, might well have been the player most representative of this team. Small, but ready to hit hard, get knocked down and get back up; inexperienced, but willing to listen and learn. Early on, head coach Tom O'Brien dubbed Dylan "Mighty Mite," and he meant it entirely as a compliment.
Mister Around La Salle, a compliment from O'Brien means something special. The school's dean of students is also one of the state's most revered football coaches, a member of the state coaches' Hall of Fame and the architect of those once-powerful football programs at Marquette and Carroll. And he's Mister. Always. "I joke with the kids about Mister," said Brother Dan Morgan, FSC, La Salle's principal. "I told them even his wife calls him Mister – she doesn't, of course – but the kids were all, 'Really? She does?'" No, but just about everybody else does. Brother Dan; school president Tim McGree, who had played for O'Brien at Carroll three decades ago; school staffers; the four men O'Brien recruited to serve as Lightning assistant coaches, all on a volunteer basis. "It's just pure respect," said one of the four, John Durham, who had played for O'Brien at Marquette and later spent 14 years as a head coach at several high schools. "I don't think I could call him Tom if I wanted to." The day the team's practice uniforms were distributed was a revelation. Most of the players had never seen – or, obviously, put on – shoulder pads, much less the rest of the protective padding. Is this the front or the back? And what about these chin straps? Can ya flip 'em over or do they have to go this way? On the practice field, even the simplest of football terminology had to be spelled out for the new players. "You're telling them, 'OK, you're over there at tight end and you're at off-side guard,' and they're like, what's that?" assistant coach Joe Mann said. "They're starting from scratch." So was the school. La Salle had no athletic locker rooms yet, so the players' official dressing area was a classroom. Some simply hauled their football gear with them to practice at Marquette Stadium, where they would pull on pads and jerseys in the parking lot. Players carted the team's supply of footballs to practice not in a bag, but in a cardboard box. "We were the only team in the country with a ball box instead of a ball bag," Durham cracked. Marquette Stadium had no goal posts until two days before their home opener, when the long-on-order posts arrived and a group of players' parents installed them just prior to practice. The players themselves, though, never complained about the lack of facilities. Common perceptions about private schools notwithstanding, La Salle's student parking area doesn't resemble a Lexus lot. More than half of the students receive some kind of financial aid toward the annual tuition of $4,250. None, though, has a full scholarship. Everyone is expected to bring something to the table. "I think there's a perception that these are all rich kids, and that's just not the case," Mann said. "There's lots of scholarship kids, and a lot of sacrifices being made." And there would be adversity to overcome.
Two Strikes Before the season even started, the La Salle players had figured Mister out. If you were to ask any two players to describe Mister, they would look at each other and burst out laughing. Not because they didn't respect him. Because he was funny. "He's got a great sense of humor," assistant coach Sid Ottem said of Mister. "He tries to come off as a gruff guy, but I think the kids see right through that, and really enjoy being around him. Which is not to say that he isn't intense, because he's extremely intense . . ." But years of that intensity had taken its toll on O'Brien's plumbing. On Aug. 23, he underwent an angioplasty. Barely more than two weeks later – just hours before La Salle's opening game – he underwent a quadruple bypass operation. He would not coach a down all season. For the Lightning, that was strike two. Strike one had come Aug. 15 – a week before two-a-day workouts started. Fiander was celebrating his birthday on a dinner date with his girlfriend when his cell phone – borrowed from his mother – rang. The call brought terrible news. La Salle student Anthony Wade had been critically injured that afternoon in an automobile accident. Anthony's father had died in the accident. Anthony was to have been a Lightning player, and – according to coaches and teammates – would have been an excellent one, the kind of athlete coaches simply have to find a position for, to get him on the field. But more than that, he was a close friend to many of the players. In the school's "Big Brother Big Sister" program, in which older students "adopt" freshmen to help them with the transition to high school, Fiander had requested Wade, whom he had known for years. "I wanted Anthony real bad," he said. When Fiander got the call about the accident – and the news that Anthony was in a hospital bed, hovering somewhere near death – the quarterback broke down and cried.
The Rocky Road The Lightning's first taste of competition came at the Grandview Jamboree, where the La Salle players – wearing jerseys borrowed from the Naches junior varsity, since their own jerseys weren't ready – were wide-eyed and tentative. On La Salle's first play, Hays fumbled. On the next play, Dylan Cyr fumbled. "I just hoped we'd get out of the game without fumbling on every single play," Ottem said. "And I'll give the kids a lot of credit – because I was thinking that, but they sure weren't, because they started driving the ball after that. They have a lot of heart. They're really willing to overcome every piece of adversity they'd been given." The team was making progress. Baby steps, yes. But progress nonetheless. "Coach Durham is always reminding us there's a guy with his chest ripped open just dying to be out here, and Anthony is [hospitalized] over in Portland just dying to be out here," Fiander said. "So you just have to play every down like it's your last, because you never know what's going to happen."
Coming Together What was going to happen, as it turned out, was the maturation of a team. What happened was victory. All night during La Salle's second game against the "C" team at tradition-laden Royal High, the Lightning players and coaches alike kept telling each other: Let's do this for Anthony. And they were definitely doing something. Fiander hit Pooky Hernandez with two passes that the speedy receiver turned into long touchdowns. Eric Vijarro, playing despite a foot injury that would nag him throughout the season, scored on a 23-yard run. And very late in the game, after a couple of critical defensive stands – one on an interception by Fiander – the Lightning had a 22–20 lead and the ball. During a timeout, Ottem was on the field exhorting the offense. The next play would be a sweep by Lorin Cyr. With the ball deep in its own end of the field, La Salle could not afford a fumble. "You've got to hang onto the ball," Ottem told Cyr. "This is job one. Do NOT fumble." "Geez, coach," Cyr replied. "That's a lot of pressure." Pressure? What pressure? On that next play, Cyr took the pitch from Fiander, followed his blocks, tucked the ball safely under his outside arm and went 74 yards for the clinching touchdown. In the final seconds, the coaches began telling the players to lock this game into their memory banks. You're going to experience the first win La Salle will ever know, they kept saying. "God only knows if the players were listening or not," Ottem said, "They were a little shell-shocked." The game ball was signed by all of the Lightning players and delivered to a Portland hospital, and into the arms of Anthony Wade. [Excerpted by permission of the Yakima Herald-Republic. The full story is at www.yakima-herald.com]
Excerpt reprinted from the San Diego Union-Tribune, November 17, 2000 The
Brotherhood of 'The Streak' by Kevin Acee, Staff Writer, San Diego Union-Tribune
At the far end of the tiny brick campus of an all-boys school run by the Christian Brothers sits an afterthought of a football field. The field is bordered along one sideline by a busy street and beyond one end zone by a condominium complex. Cars whiz past and people sleep no more than 100 feet from the chalk lines of the playing surface. Not even 15 feet separates the other sideline and the home bleachers, which sit in the middle of the all-weather track. Yes, right there on the rubber is a permanent grandstand. The entire stands hold 2,000 people. They can fit 3,500 if fans crowd in behind the end zones. That's what happened one night three years ago when the football team that calls this grand stade home set the national high school record for consecutive victories. The De La Salle Spartans have still not lost, their winning streak at 110. They are ranked number 1 in the nation by USA Today, as they have been all season. That its football team is good is all many from the outside know of De La Salle. But as that first, shocking peek at the stadium portends, football is not all that monumental inside the school's confines. "Football here is just something kids do," said Scott Hirsch, a math teacher and the school's water polo coach. "It's no different than any other activity. Oh, it's the thing here. It's just quiet. The coaches are quiet." This inconspicuous presence begins with a bespectacled man so unassuming, he would be the last one you would finger as the mastermind behind a dominant football program. Or any program, in fact. Bob Ladouceur is muscular but slight. He squints a fair amount and walks as if reading some important message inscribed in the sidewalk. He looks a lot more like the religion teacher he is than the football coach he is. Despite that appearance, there is an aura about him. As he walks the halls, crowds of young boys part as they practically bow in reverence. "It's weird," said senior Matt Sytkowski, who plays baseball for De La Salle, but not football. "You just don't do anything because you're blown away he's there." A former juvenile hall counselor with a master's degree in theology, Ladouceur doesn't like to talk much about himself or even the sport he coaches. He will go on and on, however, if the topic is educating kids and developing manhood. "Football is just a vehicle, but this is where we are, so let's make it the answer," he said as he sat in a cramped office that was not even his own, because his own cramped office has no room for visitors. "It's not about the streak. It's not about winning. It's about growing up. When you grow up and become a man, you have to be accountable." Those students who have Ladouceur for senior seminar, a class in which 17-year-old boys sign a confidentiality agreement and then spend an hour each day talking with each other about their innermost feelings, say he is thoughtful and thought-provoking. At a team meal before the season's second game, the coach provoked a frank discussion among teammates about how some people were letting the team down, that certain kids needed to accept responsibility and decide for themselves their place on the team. "Football is just a tool that is used to teach us about life," said Matt Gutierrez, the Spartans' junior quarterback. "People want to think there's some special element involved, but there's not. People can't understand unless they've been a part of it." Gutierrez's point is well taken, but a day on this campus makes it clear there is most certainly a special element involved. "Our teams are successful because of the spirituality and faith we have," said student body president Aaron Uchikura. "It's all part of the tradition, and it's built in from day one. You walk onto campus and you start meeting guys and you just get immersed." Said Sytkowski: "It's just a big old brotherhood. It's a respect we have for each other. You kind of want to get involved when you're at this school, because it's so well known and it's a tradition. It's the best feeling in the world to put on a De La Salle jersey." Every class at De La Salle begins with the teacher saying, "Let us always remember" and the class answering in unison, "We are in the holy presence of God." For their $7,000 a year, parents are certain their children are taught as if that's the case. The school is appreciated for its clothing drives and food drives and for the thousands of volunteer hours its boys perform. Its mock trial team placed third among Bay Area schools last year. More boys are involved in The Company, the school's performing arts club, than with the football team. And football is not the only Spartans sport to dominate; its basketball team is a defending state champion and its baseball and volleyball teams defending section champions. All but one percent of De La Salle's 1,020 students go on to some sort of college, 75 percent of them to a four-year school. The football team does not overly contribute to that statistic. Watching a De La Salle game makes it clear that – despite what some people say – the school does not recruit football players. The Spartans are not big nor all that fast. There are fewer than a half-dozen Division I prospects on this season's team, and most of those are juniors. This particular game is like most in the string of victories: lopsided and only sporadically watched by the crowd. The female cheerleaders are provided by neighboring Carondolet, the all-girls high school across the street. Many of that school's students are also in attendance, and the gathering is mostly social. The biggest cheers come from, and are inspired by, The Lancers, an informal group of male cheerleaders who dress according to a different theme each week. On this night, they are in western garb. They lounge on hay bales on the sideline between bouts of cheering and throwing candy into the crowd. As the teams file across the 50-yard line to shake hands after the game, the public address announcer states evenly, "Consecutive win No. 102 for the Spartans." And not another word would be said about it. In the locker room a short while later, little is said about the game. There is talk about the following week's showdown with Southern California power Mater Dei. One player who had been suspended for a disciplinary reason stands up and asks his teammates' forgiveness and help in keeping focused. As the group breaks up, defensive coordinator and athletic director Terry Eidson shouts this bit of praise: "Thank God Almighty: He's a Spartan." [Reprinted by permission of the San Diego Union-Tribune. www.signonsandiego.com]
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