“For those of you who don’t know, I am, by profession, a history teacher. So hopefully, not only can I bring the family perspective to tonight’s celebration, but perhaps the historical perspective can be illuminated as well.

“I would like to tell you about a memory of my father that I didn’t quite understand until this very day. It happened when I was seven, in our basement. Our basement is wood-paneled and, over the years, has basically become a museum to Coach’s unprecedented career. Framed team photos hang in sequence along the walls—plaques, medals, certificates, lighted trophy cases, large squares of illuminated Plexiglas that house the five hundredth Victory Ball, nets from the eight national championships, framed letters from Richard Milhous Nixon, Ronald Reagan, and George H. W. Bush. There’s even a display case I made in ninth-grade Wood Shop for his lucky tie—the light blue one with an American flag set off in bold relief . . .

“But I digress.

“I was only seven years old, so I didn’t understand what my father’s erect penis was doing in the mouth of Linda ‘Minus’ Callahan (13.2 ppg., 3 to 1.2 assist-to-turnover ratio, All Conference honorable mention). Is Linda here tonight? I didn’t think so.

“Anyway—confused by what I had seen and perhaps a bit shaken—I asked him what he was doing. He said that Linda was having problems, and he was helping her out. Now it turns out he’s been helping out a succession of young women for over forty years.

“Only five—five so far—have come forward, five who are participating in the lawsuit—Oops, wasn’t supposed to mention that. Yes, the rumors are true. The college wants to keep it hush-hush. Many more of you could receive a nice chunk of change. You see, the college hasn’t realized that for every one of you who has come forward, there are ten or twenty of you who yet could. So spread the word. Close the school down. Most important, let’s gut the motherfucker . . .”

Regrettably, I didn’t give the above speech. I was either too chicken or still too stunned.

Earlier that night, while we drove toward the governor’s room of the Holiday Inn North in Toledo, Coach asked for a copy of my prepared text. I told him I hadn’t written anything. He asked if I thought that was a good idea. He was understandably nervous about what I was going to say, especially since I’d gotten wind of the real reason for his retirement. I explained that it was too difficult for me to put into words the enormity of how I felt about him. He nodded, looking dubious.

The crowd that had gathered was much smaller than he had imagined. The room was decorated with photos on foam core. Bouquets of light blue and pink carnations added to the occasion’s funereal feel. As featured speaker, I would go last. After the twelve-minute video presentation set to Queen’s “We Are the Champions” and Dionne War-wick’s “That’s What Friends Are For,” I walked to the podium with no idea what would come out of my mouth. What did I say? Nothing for a good long time. Then I said, “The facts.” I proceeded to recite his career statistics. That took a good ten minutes. At the conclusion of the endless litany of his triumphs, applause broke out, and someone threw a handful of confetti.