By Nicole Hicks
The Football Family Identity is about the intricate dynamics of having a coach as a father. This story focuses on when to take the whistle off and how that will ultimately affect the families relationships; getting perspectives from all family members. Through the twisted stories of being raised by an absentminded college football coach to navigating high school with the close eyes of Coach Hicks; this story delves into how being a football coach can truly affect more than just the game.
Photo by Nicole Hicks
The lights, beaming down onto the large spread of green grass. The cheerleaders, flying across the air, toes pointed. The smoke, funneling out of the blown-up tunnel. The fans, excited, yet nervously ready to cheer on the sub-par team about to run out. It was Friday. Like any other Friday in the fall, the town of Hickory congregated at the high school football field. I never missed a football game my entire life. I stood, dressed in the weekly theme of Hawaiian shirts, in the front row of the section labeled “students only.” That was my place. That was my home– on Friday nights. My mom, sitting twenty yards to my right, sat among the parents of the boys playing. Friday looked different for her. Always worried and always on the edge of her seat. Causing her worry was my brother. Troy was the safety of the football team. The last man. The swift runner who had the daunting task of making sure the score stayed in their favor. And my father. Well… he was the head football coach.
As we all were within 100 yards of each other… We all saw the game in a very different light.
I was born in the fall of 2001, football season. In fact, my father flew out to a football game minutes after I was born, where they would announce the birth of his baby girl over the loudspeakers. A proud moment to say the least. But his most proud being that the little girl mumbled the words “football” before she ever said “mom” or “dad.”
Troy was born on Super Bowl Sunday 2003. My dad stood in the corner trying to equally divide his attention on the TV screen and my panicked mother as she went under for a C-section. He paced around the room with me on his hip, unbothered by the fact that the game could be replayed, this birth could not. We like to joke that he never quite remembers Troy’s birth, just the score being 48-21 with a Bucs win. We know he just can't miss a football game. Football was already pulsing through Troy’s blood as he entered the world on that foggy night.
In 2003, my dad had just started his new coaching job. He was hired as Lenoir Rhyne University's head football coach. A job that would take up excruciating amounts of his time. Time that he never quite had for his two small children.
Around that time my mom was struggling with whether or not to take time off of her job or use the master's degree she had worked so hard to receive. Ultimately, she chose work. And with that traveling business job, my little brother and I were raised by babysitters. These babysitters changed every few months, with my dad finding new promising college students around Lenoir Rhyne’s campus. We loved those girls. They really loved us.
*
A few years later, my dad decided he needed to be more present in our lives. So, he decided to take a job at the local high school. As the defensive coordinator. It was a downgrade that I'm sure took adjusting. Nevertheless, we got bits and pieces of our dad back.
The babysitters kept coming for after-school playdates, and my dad kept getting more creative where he found them. The most notable being the high school quarterback. A boy. Not exactly the nurturing type. But my brother loved Kyle. Kyle would throw footballs with my brother, and I got to go to school and tell all my friends that the quarterback hangs out at my house. A win-win.
Then, it all started getting real. High school was approaching, and my dad was offered the head football coach’s position at the rival high school ten minutes down the road. Now that we had grown up and were able to be left alone, my dad happily accepted. He was finally headed back towards his passion. But with my brother nearing high school, this position would not be nearly as familiar as he once thought.
*
I’ll never forget the day my dad told us we had to transfer schools. With cheeks stuffed with corn kernels, my dad hesitantly led with “before you get upset I want you to hear me out…” We immediately knew this news wasn’t something we would be excited over. As the words “St. Stephens” left his mouth, I could no longer breathe. The enemy school. The school where nobody I knew went.
My brother took this news quite well. He was only a sixth grader and had played baseball with the other kids since he was a little boy. I, on the other hand, was in eighth grade. A grade of absolute misery and awkwardness – just getting comfortable with the people I had spent my entire life with. And now I had to transfer schools to start high school. Nothing could be worse.
*
As high school approached rapidly, I went weeks early to tour the school with my dad by my side. As we walked room to room, meeting all my future teachers and coaches, I began feeling more content with the move. Having teachers know me was nice, but having no friends wasn't.
Troy managed to create strong bonds at the middle school across the street. Combining his baseball teammates with new classmates until he had a large group of guys he called family. That was, until they would all be calling my dad coach for the next four years.
While having a dad attend your high school has its small perks (e.g., lunch money, tardy passes, and teachers automatically liking you), it comes with some heavy burdens. I was automatically sprayed with boy repellent, and my brother was doused in constant doubt of his own abilities.
*
Years went by and I had developed friendships I could have never imagined at my previous school. I truly was content. Thanks Dad.
My brother, on the other hand, was not nearly as comfortable at St. Stephens. He had impeccable friends, made decent grades, and was a multi-sport athlete, but still felt an overwhelming burden hanging over his head as he walked the halls.
As Troy walked to his first class of high school, he heard the eerie words of “Little Hicks” echo down the long dark hallway. Hearing his last name, he immediately turned and saw Coach Mendel standing about 25 yards from him. “Oh, hey Coach Mendel. What’s up?” Troy said. “I’ll see you at try-outs after school! Can you tell your dad I will be 5 minutes late?” Mendel yelled as he walked towards Troy. “Sure,” Troy mumbled, turning red instantly.
*
Troy was always the loud personality. I was always the quiet one. Troy was the class clown, always getting into trouble for pranking his teachers and friends. He had a laugh so contagious and loud, he became known for it. If you asked my teachers what my personality was like, they would say, “I am not even sure I know what her voice sounds like, but she is a good student.” I never wanted attention on me and certainly never wanted to get in trouble. Troy, inversely, thrived on constant attention.
That same behavior followed Troy through middle school. Always getting in trouble. Always joking his way out of it. But when Troy got to high school, this proud personality slowly started to dim. He was no longer “Troy, the class clown” but rather “Little Hicks, coach's son.”
*
When the bell rang on Troy’s first day of high school, he hustled down to the field house. It was the first day of tryouts. A day to showcase what talent he had. But when Troy arrived, he was instantly met by my dad, with a stern look and high expectations. Troy had played football his entire life. He was pretty good. He was smaller in stature but certainly the fastest on the field. He immediately threw on a practice jersey and ran outside to line up for the first assessment. Sprints. Since football was highly regulated, they weren't allowed to wear pads to practice for two weeks– meaning the skills for tryouts would solely be based on athletic abilities outside of tackling. Troy found this to his benefit. He was never the best at tackling, but he could chase down anyone. As his team lined up for sprints, my dad blew the whistle. They all went flying 40 yards down the field.
Troy finished third.
“Again!” yelled Coach Hicks. They went flying down the field, this time going 50 yards.
Troy finished fourth.
“Again!” yelled Coach Hicks.
Troy, getting tired, was only losing rankings. He felt proud of himself for making the top ten as a freshman.
“Again. And this time Troy, you better finish first,” said Coach Hicks with a grimacing face.
And that is the day Troy lost the smile he used to bring home from school each day.
*
I can’t tell you the exact day Troy lost his love for football, but I can tell you what my house looked like that day after school.
Troy, being 15 years old, rode to and from school with my dad. So, when practice ended, he waited hours upon hours in the field house until he could catch a ride home. This first day, he sat boiling in his locker cubby. Replaying the scene of his dad calling him out in front of all of his new teammates. Troy was furious that day, and it showed when he came barging through our front door.
At around 5 p.m., Troy ran through the front door as my mom and I sat at the kitchen table waiting for the boys to join us for dinner. My mom had cooked chicken, green beans, and rolls for our first day back. As we chatted about my first day of junior year, we heard a car door slam, followed by another slam. In came Troy, sweaty, bright red, and speeding straight to his room. As he ran up the stairs we heard “I HATE DAD. I NEVER WANT TO PLAY FOOTBALL AGAIN.”
My concerned mom ran after him while I sat at the table completely dumbfounded. About five minutes later, my dad walked in. He was holding a huge stack of playbooks, had three whistles around his neck, and looked sunburnt despite the visors he wore everyday. I was frozen with shock and decided to say nothing. My dad acted as if the day went perfectly fine, and joined me at the table to eat. All he said that night was, “how was your day, Nicole?”
We never spoke about that night again.
*
The outbursts never stopped. And my dad never mentioned them. He was always pretty calm and cool about fights in our household. Never really raised his voice, never really minded all the slamming of doors. But that all continued to happen in the fall. For four years.
Troy would come home, boiling about his day, and run upstairs screaming. My dad always followed, sitting to eat dinner unbothered. I think his unbothered nature made my brother even more bothered. Troy was constantly being singled out. Whether he had to run more because “he wasn’t giving it his all” or he had to stay late and clean the jerseys for “acting up with his friends,” Troy was constantly being handed assignments that his teammates never were.
The irritation and resentment grew even stronger on game days. If Troy was not the hero of the game, he was the cause of the loss. Immediately jerked off the field for one missed tackle or one missed play. His best friends were praised for the same behavior he was punished for.
It all followed him home. He was never not being told what to do by my father. If it wasn’t football, it was his grades. If it wasn't a missed play to review on the film screens, it was him not being able to go to his friends’ houses because he was clearly sleep deprived. Troy’s life was under constant surveillance.
I will never forget the nights Troy used to enjoy watching my dad’s film. They would sit for hours together, plotting plays and studying the other team. It used to be something they bonded over. That bond was undone when the last name “Hicks” was branded on the back of one of those jerseys. A name that carried a lot of weight. A name that meant he should have the advantage and be the best on the field.
*
As the daughter, my views on football were very different. I absolutely loved Friday nights. It was a place I knew so well that I considered it my second home. Those bleachers were something I owned. And those themes were something I planned. I prided myself on understanding football and being one of the only girls there interested in the actual outcome and not just socializing. I would scream at referees, I would yell about plays, and I would certainly pray for a win. Not because it was my school, but because of how my entire house's mood depended on it.
There was a running joke that if we didn’t win the game, I would turn and ask all of my friends if I could spend the night with them. And if we won, I would ask my dad for that new shirt I wanted. A silly joke, but man, it rang true.
A win meant hugs, forehead kisses, “I love yous,” and, most importantly, no slammed doors.
A loss meant silent treatment, a disappeared father, and a screaming battle on “what happened to that one play?!”
I prayed hard for those wins, but I prayed even harder that it wouldn’t be a loss.
*
My senior year of high school, I was selected to represent our class in homecoming. Homecoming was the one night a year that four girls got to walk the football field at halftime in beautiful dresses and anxiously wait to see who was announced as queen. The girls all walked with their dads linked around their arms. It was a moment I had dreamt of since I was a little girl. And I had the privilege of being selected.
As the night approached, I was told to fill out a form with information about myself, what I was doing after graduating, and who would be walking me.
I had never really thought about it until that moment. Who would be walking me? That night at the dinner table, I announced my happy news. I looked to my dad and asked “can you walk me at half time or will you have to stay in the locker room?” I remember telling him I understood if he couldn’t, that it was just his job. I don’t think he ever really knew that his answer absolutely crushed me.
“Sorry punker, you know halftime is the one chance I get during the game to go over the plays.”
And that is where he left it. He never brought it up again. And he never got to see me in my dress.
*
My brother had a similar experience happen to him. He was selected as homecoming king. An honor that would require him to walk the field at halftime too. But of course, my dad changed the rules that year, and Troy had to remain in the locker room for review of his plays. He missed crowning the queen. He missed his shining moment of his senior year.
*
These stories became normal in our family. If it was between July and November we knew we wouldn't have a dad. We also knew there would be severe family fights. Troy always came home in a panic, my mom always followed and defended him, and my dad remained silent about the entire thing. I sat, alone most nights, eating my dinner observing.
My parents' relationship definitely faltered during these seasons. My poor mom had to endure some of the most challenging parents, questioning their kids' playing time and saying horrendous things about her husband. Despite it all, they stuck it out. For 22 years. A true football wife. Drink in hand, in her unassigned assigned seat on the 50 yard line, every single Friday or Saturday night.
My dad being the football coach definitely tainted my high school experience. I never was allowed to date the football players. I never got to walk with my dad during homecoming. I never really had two parents at the same time. I had emotion after emotion during football games. Crying about the bullies surrounding me in the stands. Hearing chants about how horrible of a coach my father was. Listening to the brutality of teenagers' opinions on my brother’s already critiqued playing time. It weighed heavily. It always will. But I was also able to see the positives. I was sent to the best high school in the area because of him, where I learned some of the most valuable things in life and had a well-rounded education. A place where the wrong people were shielded from me. An office down the hall where I could run if I ever felt unsafe. Coaches and teachers were constantly looking out for me. And most importantly, having my dad back in my life, even if at times it felt smothering. I, for one, am thankful to have someone who looks out for me so.
My brother endured most of the harshness of my dad’s job. He hands down had the hardest position in our family. We all know it. My dad has since apologized to my brother for being so tough. My grandfather was a prison warden and that shaped the hard-shell that is my father. Troy will always resent the last four years of football he ever played. He never quite got that class clown personality back. But slowly and surely, I see my brother and dad on the couch most weekends, talking football and playing; reworking that bond they once had.
The last name “Hicks” means something in our family. A connection we can all share. But in the fall, our last name is “Football,” and I think it always will be.