Cutdown day

Cutdown day is probably both the best and worst day of the calendar. You get to get rid of people you’d hate, like dumb kids with poor attitude or with no skills. But there are some people you really hate to let them go. 

As I’m still in the coaching office, at 3 o’clock in the early morning stuffing my cheeks with tobacco, I’m pondering on what I just did to the Irish kid was the right thing to do. 

Back home in Ireland, the Irish kid is a bit of a Star, in some kind of Irish football or something. He won their version of the Super Bowl, which is the All Ireland or don’t know what. All I can see is that he’s a bit quiet, but he’s calm under pressure and takes calculated risks, a lot of calculated risks. When he picked up the pigskin to play in some league in Europe 5 years ago, he received a ban from playing his native sport because of some bullshit about violating the ‘amateur ethos’ of sport. That was only supposed to last for a few seasons, but it got upgraded to a lifetime ban after he signed the contract to be with us here in ‘Gomery. 

He’s also not bad, he got a decent leg, he’s quick as a flash, good aggression and he has a lot of potential with converting his fake punts. But he lacks finish. Don’t get me wrong, I got nothing against Irish boys, but he can be pretty sloppy with his kicks. 

Despite the promise he’s showing, orders from above say we have to cut him, and I’d rather give it to him personally. 

The Irish kid walked in at half past one, his playbook tucked under the arm. The stoney faced lad sat down on the empty chair, as if it was any other day. 

“Coach, is it really happening? After all of the effort we’ve been through?”

“I’m afraid so son.” I see him repeatedly adjust the chair. “Bill Browning got cut by the Submariners, and ownership wants an experienced guy who can relieve the pressure and guide our number 1 pick. We already have a lot of talent with our kicking department, so your spot goes to him.”

The Irish lad snapped out of his usual stoicism. His face morphed and darkened into various stages, anger, envy, worry, relief, then fury again. 

“You didn’t even go through my agent to have these talks. And I don’t have a chance to argue my case? To not even have a one on one with ownership?”

I crossed my arms. 

“Don’t backtalk to me boy, this is not Europe. Getting cut is almost like a rite of passage in this field. Even I was cut by 3 teams when I was playing. You’re not a special snowflake you know.”

“Coach, you don’t understa…”

“Oh I do understand, and that it’s final. No one here is above the rest. Why should you get a second chance to bargain? If you really deserved it, you wouldn’t be cut.”

“The Turk called me in the middle of the night, telling me to come here with my playbook, and you can’t even give me some basic decency? We are supposed to be professionals.”

What in the Sam Hill is this guy’s problem? These Europeans really don’t know when to shut up. 

“You are overstaying, give me your playbook and leave,” I said as I raised my voice. 

“Please give me a chance to plead with the owners. I’ve even accomplished 8 coffin kicks in the last game," he argued.

“You’ve made 3 kicking errors in our pre-season against the Oilers,” I shouted back. 

“But I also made 6 tackles in the last game, I prevented 6 different kick sixes."

“You made those tackles because 4 out of the 6 punts you made didn’t have enough hang time, this is not helping our defence in any way.”

“What about that fake punt run where I scored a touchdown?” 

“Enough, I am going to get security to throw you out.”

Bang. He slammed his fist down on the desk. His eyes became crimson with emotion. 

“I’m not even your player anymore! You don’t even know what I’ve been through! My career in Ireland is gone! I would never be able to play for my county or home club ever again. I could have spent the final years with my parents instead of playing Gridiron in Europe!”

I was moved when I heard those words. 

“I’ve tolerated all of these stupid American traditions like Hell Week and your Oklahoma Drills and your mandatory optional workouts, and now I’m being cut because you want to sign a 40 year old who can only throw ducks? I’ve sacrificed my family, my love for my country and now I can’t even get someone to understand what they’re doing is destroying my life’s efforts.”

He wiped away the tears streaming down his face. And for once, I dropped the Bobby Knight act. 

“Listen here O’Keefe, the entire coaching staff doesn’t like this decision,” I said softly. “We don’t care that you’re the only one here without American College experience. We really like your work ethic, your calmness under pressure and your willingness to take risks. But in this league, decisions from the ownership is final. If you’re cut, you’re cut. If I don’t follow through, I’m putting my job at risk too.”

The lad looked up at me, as if he finally understood me. 

“I am mighty sorry that you have to go. There’s no shame in trying again as a free agent. I really do hope that we can sign you again next year, but that is the most I can offer you now. You may not taste the fruit of your labour now, but I know you will succeed. You got their pluck in you. Not now, but eventually. I really wish you all the best.”

He sat completely still.

After what felt like forever, he finally spoke. 

“Farewell Coach.”

O’keefe stood up and offered me his hand. I shook it. He walked out and never returned.

After that I texted ownership that we had cut O’Keefe. I just sat there for hours, I don't even think we made the decision anymore. As I put in another wad of chewing tobacco in my mouth, I opened up the playbook left by the kid. 

It was chock full of sticky notes, with all kinds of annotations. He wrote down mnemonics to remember plays, various tips and tricks he wrote down; he had even drawn up his own plays. 

But there was one single piece at the end that stood out. 

The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer,

    my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge,

    my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.