never my heart
“Congratulations on your retirement” are words I’ve heard a million times since the announcement late last spring that my long career at Collegiate was coming to an end.
My usual response has been to offer a “Thanks so much” and add something like, “It seemed like 50 years was a good time to stop.”
More often than not, though, the conversation continues with, “…but you’re not really retiring, are you?”
Actually, yes.
Over the years, when I’ve contemplated stepping back from assignments that have given me joy — which have been pretty much all of them — the best advice I’ve received has been, “When the time comes, nobody will have to tell you. You’ll just know.”
Well, I knew. The moment was right. The time to slow the pace and focus more on family and volunteer work had arrived. My decision was (over)thoughtfully considered, it was the right one, and, with another school year on the horizon, I’m totally at peace with watching from the sideline.
That said, retirement — the “R-word,” I’ve always called it — doesn’t mean riding off into the sunset and never returning.
The plan — there’s always a plan — is to continue to assist with track and field, pen the Reflections column to tell the School’s story, and support the efforts of the Collegiate Family as well and unobtrusively as I can.
In fact, to the outside world, my role might not look all that different. It will be, though, and already there’ve been reminders that come September 1, I’ll no longer be a full-time employee for the first time since the fall of 1972.
Cleaning out all the “stuff” I’d accumulated over five decades was no small task.
Knowing that the end was nearing, I began decluttering a couple of years ago, tossed a lot of papers, letters, and memorabilia I’d stashed away and mostly forgotten, saved the meaningful items, and passed along to former students and athletes newspaper clippings, notes, and result sheets from cross country and track meets that I hoped would evoke fond memories and bring smiles to their faces.
I also stumbled upon several gadgets (for lack of a better word) I’d confiscated over the years, among them the electrical plug that some mischievous lads created back in the late ’70s to perpetrate what they called the great electricity scandal. Thankfully, the damage was minimal and no one got hurt. Hopefully, their three-day vacation gave them ample time to reflect upon their transgression.
Eventually, after much culling and sorting, I packed my remaining files into two cardboard Amazon boxes, grabbed a hand truck, and delivered them to Ben Lamb, the archivist in the Saunders Family Library, for safekeeping.
And just like that, I was no longer a resident of Flippen Hall. Someone else would sit in my coffee-stained chair in the corner of the workroom. It was a rite of passage, for sure. I’d wondered how it would feel, and it felt just fine.
My next stop was the faculty lounge to clear my mailbox. Over the years, as more and more of our communications have arrived electronically, fewer missives have shown up the old-fashioned way, and most went straight to recycling.
When I checked one last time, nothing was there…including my name. My longtime colleague Kimberley Booth had inherited the top-row, second-from-the-left mail slot. It was yet another reminder that my day was done, and it felt just fine too.
With my work in Flippen Hall complete, I decided that I couldn’t put off any longer the online training which everyone, regardless of experience or job responsibilities, takes annually. When I pushed the buttons to access the site, my name popped up with the descriptor, “Outside Coach.”
I laughed, then signed. “Outside Coach.” That’s where I started, as a junior at the University of Richmond coaching what we now call Cub sports for five bucks an afternoon. That experience ignited the spark, and along the way, I had the opportunity to coach five sports including three at the varsity level. For 40 years, I coached three seasons a year. Much has changed since I showed up on North Mooreland Road in September 1968, but I found a certain symmetry in the fact that I started as an “Outside Coach” and would end up as one as well.
Finally, it was time to clean out my locker, No. 2 in the coaches’ room in the athletic center. Yep, the code to open the door still worked. I pulled out a towel and laid it flat, then placed the dusty contents on it – a pair of socks, my Pensacola Blue Wahoos baseball cap, a couple of Dri-FIT pullovers, a ratty T-shirt, wrap-around sunglasses, and a well-used pair of Nike Air Zoom Pegasus running shoes – and packed them into a bundle.
Before I left, I pulled the piece of tape bearing my name in magic marker from the locker and closed the door for the last time, took one last look, and departed the spot that had been my athletic home base — win or lose, rain or shine — since the facility opened in 1983.
So, yeah. I’ve retired. It’s a different feel, for sure, but I have no regrets. There’ll be no looking back, except to reminisce joyfully on the experiences and savor the friendships, which don’t end, thankfully, with change of venue.
And, yeah, my possessions have left the building but not my heart. Never my heart.
