Coaches Corner: The Man Who Must Not Be Named

It’s 2:45 on a Wednesday afternoon in late March. Stray students, the ones that don’t ride the bus, are waiting to be picked up by parents, while athletes make their way down toward the locker rooms to change for practice. Of the four spring sports, tennis, baseball, softball and track, track draws the largest number of athletes. They casually gather in the foyer, knowing that the man they wait for will eventually make his way toward them at the turn of the hour (more or less), which he does. He is easily recognizable the moment he emerges from his room at the other end of the hall, a significant figure even at a distance, clad invariably in khakis and a blue Trumansburg Track and Field pullover. Like a small, blue planet rolling down the hall in white New Balance sneakers, the giant shuffles toward them in a parody of haste, his voice booming “Let’s Go!” despite the fact that he is the one who is late. Upon his arrival amid the throng, he is greeted with a chorus of pestering remarks ring from the mouths of the male track athletes, whose sole purpose apparently is to annoy the man in question. He responds to their jibes with implied threats of insidious, grueling exercises-ladders, wall-sits, and man-makers- unpleasant, often brutal endeavors that involve extended trips to the Spa of Lactic Acid. They smile gleefully at the empty threats, basking in his presence. The ragtag group assembles itself in a semicircle around the man, awaiting instructions regarding the day’s practice plan. After a short speech he dispatches them, calling out admonitions to them to remain focused. They simultaneously acknowledge and dismiss his counsel with a half-hearted wave and make their way to the foyer doors, bantering good naturedly, relaxed and happy to be set free into the afternoon sunshine.

Before any of this even occurs, his student-athletes have to go through a sometimes grueling school day, consisting of nine periods. Throughout the course of the day it is almost guaranteed that a student will come into contact with the radiant, Hulk-like figure. A comedic messenger, seeming to make light of every situation thrown at him, and a welcome break in the gray monotony of classes. A proverbial jack-of-all-trades but master of none, the robust figure makes his way through the halls, moving from task to task with a determined boisterousness. On occasion he interrupts a class to retrieve information or an answer to a question. The question may be school related, or it might be sports related. Regardless of the purpose, he knows his reception will involve a distraction to the students, which challenges his rapport with his colleagues. The cost of doing business? Perhaps. A little back and forth repartee and he is out the door, mission accomplished, on to the next item of business. Despite his overwhelming sense of humor, the man realizes that not everyone that he comes into contact with will be up for his numerous antics. Much like a “Spidey-sense”, he can analyze a situation and take necessary action based on the tone that his pupil, or their teacher, is emitting. This is a useful skill, and one that has worked for him, if not necessarily everyone around him.And so he continues, pulling in students and staff into his orbitr in a Death-Star-tractor-beam like method.

He is ubiquitous; on the soccer sideline, in the basketball huddle, at the bottle drive, the concession stand at Cornell, the track meet, there is seemingly no end to his involvement, and yet his influence is remarkably difficult to quantify. He is like a nucleus, being a center of all things in whatever footing present. He is a walking oxymoron; a generalist who specializes in minutia, a obsessive compulsive who thrives on disorder, Chaos Theory personified.

He is Neil DeRaiche.