The opinions represented in this article do not necessarily represent those of the staff of CUIndependent.com nor any of its sponsors.
I feel uncomfortable telling this story, of portraying this man in context. I am afraid because he is imperfect, yet to denigrate his memory seems wrong to me.
His is a story worth telling, far from the glorified images so embraced by our media, by the nostalgia that omits imperfections and idealizes the past. This remembrance is felt by everyone who ran for him, the sheer reality of our memories explosive in detail. He did not exist as a caricature, but as a real man who defied us to forget who he really was, a man who will be a constant focal point in high school reunions and e-mails to long-lost friends.
Our coach was, quite simply, average. His height, 5 feet 8 inches, average. His gaunt runner build, average. His age (45), his facial hair (mustache, not too long or too short), his slightly tan complexion and wire-rimmed glasses — all average. He was not imposing, nor was he a pushover. He seemed like one of those psychological experiments that melds face upon face together to create a uniform whole, made up of many faces, that represents the sum creation of a given population group.
I first met Coach Ed McGuinn in 2004, when I decided to run track. It was the end of sophomore year at a school I didn’t really like, due to a slew of pointless policies. They were trying to mold me into a productive, cookie-cutter Catholic schoolboy, distinguishable by my posture and refined style of dress. I was just another face drifting slowly along the conveyer belt, a means to confirm the school’s reputation, to graduate and enhance the school newsletter’s college-admissions page.
So I stood on the track, ready to be bored with practice until it became hard, when I would endure the pain and go home. The last thing I expected to do was laugh.
“All right, if you want to be a member of the 4-by-100 team, go to the trailer and get a baton. You guys are gonna get to know that stick so well you’re gonna think it’s your pecker.”
I had never heard a comment like this from a real, live adult, much less someone in authority. The typical football coaches could swear and monger fear, but these phrases were always threats, not jokes veiling an actual important message. It soon became apparent that McGuinn had no respect for the Catholic values of our school, or for the ire of parents who would dare complain.
His insults became endearing, the team meetings eagerly anticipated. Whether he said that we “ran like we were humping a cow,” or that our opponents “had to get some Charmin because you shit all over them,” McGuinn was our guy, the one terrifying piece of normalcy that we had in a school that fabricated our very existence and sense of self.
When Coach launched into one of his often profanity-laced, always-hilarious diatribes, there was a collective stirring in our minds, something to the effect of “aren’t there rules against this?” Coach McGuinn was the antithesis of what our school tried to grow in us — he was intolerant, he drank, he had little respect for pointless rules and he valued winning above all else.
Beneath the insults and comedic phrases was a man who did not know how to express affection, yet felt the deepest sort of love for us, his boys, the few people on the planet who actually gave a damn about who he was; who soaked up his words reverently, who did not question him, yet obeyed. We shared successes with him much more often than failures because he would not have it any other way.
I was divided at St. Johns High School. Which rules were pointless, which rules were important? McGuinn made things so beautifully simple. Why do we tie our shoes the “proper” way? “Because if you don’t, you’ll get shin splints. Walking will be painful, you won’t be able to run, and old coach over here will have a heart attack when we lose the district meet because you couldn’t run. Just tie the damn shoes correctly.”
Irresponsible? Yes. Invaluable? Yes.
The administration never knew about the friendship that formed between coach and athlete, and had they known the intricacies of his relationship to us, they would have fired him on the spot. To be so divisive, to uproot the image they sought to maintain, was akin to treason and would have resulted in swift justice.
His very words pitted us against the school, the hypocritical school that only had morals when it served them. McGuinn was too stern for weak, vice-like hypocrisy, and he detested it even from his employer. Coach simply knew how to motivate people, to cause them to reach their potential. Other aspects of life were simply less important, and downright negative if they inhibited this goal.
Nick Krouse, a University of North Carolina runner, recalls that McGuinn was the first person who ever truly motivated him.
“There’s just something about an old man screaming at you that makes you want to respond,” Krouse said. “He’s so emotionally invested in this, how can we not be invested in him?”
The staleness and monotony of Catholic, all-boys high school life was broken up by Coach McGuinn. For that, we are indebted to him. Very few of us still follow track, fewer still moved on to run at the collegiate level. But McGuinn helped get us through high school, a vulnerable time in all our lives, simply by being himself. He refused to be a fabrication, refused to let societal norms or structured form interfere with the messages he wished to convey, with the air he expected us to carry amongst ourselves.
This is not a portrait of a salty track coach. It is the portrait of a life unhindered. We were able to learn because he left himself uncensored — we were not mired down so heavily by the details, so larger goals remained shimmering in the mist. No, we chased great dreams at his urging, we literally climbed mountains for him, and in some ways he will always be with us.
Contact CU Independent Entertainment Editor Adrian Kun at Adrian.kun@colorado.edu.
