Lake Highlands High School is blessed with a diverse mix of students, and its teachers relish the lessons that diversity brings to the community. Veteran sophomore English teacher and Wildcat tennis coach Bob Williams wrote this short story called “Richard-The Burmese Lion-Hearted” about his experience with a 9th grade boy from Burma trying to find a place on the LHHS tennis team. It’s longer than most things we post here on the blog, but the moral about hard work and never giving up is a good one for us all. Thank you, AVID teacher and mentor to many LHHS immigrant students Michelle Matthews, for sharing the story with me.
Our team was preparing for the first match of the spring individual season. As coach of the Lake Highlands Varsity Tennis Team, I particularly look forward to this match with all the expectations I would imagine many coaches share at the beginning of a sports season. This night in January we would be loading the van with racquets and traveling north to McKinney,Texas where the Lake Highlands Wildcats would square off against the McKinney North Bulldogs. For the past twelve years the cats and the dogs have battled it out in a season opener, a sort of toe in the water kind of gauge, to get a barometric measurement on the season.
The week leading up to Friday night’s contest I received numerous emails and calls from players and parents delivering bad news: high temperatures, school absences, and doctors’ orders to abstain from playing in the season opener. Naturally, our growing disabled list would affect our outcome, but it wouldn’t necessarily mean we would forfeit any matches. The talent and skill of our junior varsity squad runs deep so I was able to call up two novice players to compete in their first varsity match.
Throughout my years of coaching I’ve often remarked that I could write a book chronicling the inspiring highs and the painful lows of twenty plus years spent coaching a sport that requires of young players so much mental energy, so much heart. This particular experience which unfolded on the court a cold Friday night in January was one that grabbed my heart in a way unexpected and unforgettable.
For the trip out to the rival high school, one of my JV players, Richard, sat in the back of my van nestled in tightly against the window alongside two other players. Heavy traffic made getting out of town tough. Construction on one of the major highways narrowed the lanes out of Dallas down to two, and that, combined with the usual Friday afternoon rush, made for a slow crawl north to McKinney. As the traffic out of Dallas begin to ease, I noticed through the rear view mirror that Richard sat in silence, the top of his head barely peeking over the seat in front of him.
A year had passed since Richard and his friend Elvis walked onto the courts one afternoon during tryouts. The official school year had yet to start so we were still in the grip of a Texas summer. But heat was hardly a deterrent for two young men wanting desperately to play what they thought would be a great game for their frame, a game where being outsized didn’t necessarily mean being outplayed. These two boys had never played competitive tennis, and with over forty kids trying out for the team, Scott, my assistant coach, and I needed to focus on many of the younger players to evaluate their potential. I placed Richard and Elvis on a far court to minimize the risk of sprayed balls rolling into the paths of the other kids. As the heat began to melt the verve of the younger players, and even the veterans began to lumber in for water and shade, Richard and Elvis, positioned out in the far country, doggedly continued hitting balls in the general direction of each other. It came time for me to call in all the players for a break. A group of them huddled under the canopy outside the courts, guzzling from their large thermos jugs, and munching on store bought snacks they had packed in their Prince and Babolat tennis bags. Richard and Elvis sat still and quiet. I offered the boys some cups and showed them the water coolers and they nodded, filled, and drank. Then without hesitation, they returned to their court to hit more balls in each other’s direction. Scott and I just looked at each other from under the shaded cover as the two ran out to the court, ran to pick up balls, ran to the opposite baselines, and ran to retrieve the balls that had landed either in the net or over the fence. They seemed to be swift on their feet, and they certainly had the drive. They simply didn’t want to take breaks, I thought. While the rest of the players cooled from the intense heat, Richard and Elvis never capitulated.
As I walked out to talk with the two who were banging, swatting, generally running around the court like bees buzzing the hive, both boys quickly ran to meet me. After a few questions, I realized both boys struggled with English, but Richard, the younger freshman, stepped up to help Elvis, the eighteen-year-old senior. From our conversation I learned Richard and Elvis were Burmese refugees and had lived in the states just a few years.The boys grew up without many of the material objects their Lake Highlands teammates consider necessities. Richard told me it wasn’t until he reached the United States that he was introduced to a concrete tennis court, a racquet, and baskets of balls enough to supply the children of a dozen Burmese villages with afternoons of fun. Intrigued by their stories, I continued to pepper Richard with questions. Then Richard turned a question on me: What must I do to have a spot on the team? My heart swelled with hope for these two boys. The stark realities of assimilation present many difficulties for the growing number of refugees in our community. It pained me to think that I might be placing before these boys yet one more barrier by informing them that they just weren’t going to make the team. This was a part of my job I could certainly do without. For while these boys obviously possessed an abundance of energy, drive, and determination, they simply didn’t have the skills necessary to compete at the high school level. In fact, they could scarcely hit the ball over the net and inside the lines. And so the two waited, unaware that the proverbial axe was about to fall. I had to tell them that it just wasn’t going to work. I paused. Silence. Scott had released the other players back into the hot sun, and as I watched the other kids move like heavy elephants back onto the courts to resume tryouts, I turned back to the eager, glistening faces.
“You guys know YouTube?
“Yes,” Richard responded and Elvis nodded.
“Well, I want you to go home and look up tennis on YouTube and learn all you can. Practice what you learn every day on the courts near your apartment. Then come back the week after school starts and show me what you’ve learned. Do you understand?”
They excitedly nodded.
What was I thinking? Learn tennis on the internet? I was only postponing the inevitable. But I just couldn’t let the axe fall. There was something different about these two. Their energy. Their hope. Their faith. It was contagious. I believed they were different, and they had earned the right to a little more time to prove themselves.
From sun up to sun down Richard and Elvis used the daylight to practice what they studied on YouTube at night. For six days the pair watched YouTube’s instruction and then took to the courts to mimic Federer’s forehand slice, McEnroe’s precision volley, and Agassi’s crushing serve with the hope that what they showed me on Monday afternoon would secure their spots on the roster.
The next Monday as Scott and I circled the courts to survey the potential, we stopped to watch Richard and Elvis hitting back and forth in a smooth consistent rally. We looked at each other in amazement. The two boys had returned to the courts with remarkably improved mechanics! The decision Scott and I made that Monday afternoon was one of the easiest decisions we would make this season.The boys had earned their spot.
Now on this Friday night season opener, with Richard as the JV player listed on my varsity roster, we arrived at McKinney North High School where many Bulldog fans were already seated in the bleachers overlooking the courts. The Cats’ senior captains directed their teammates to run laps around the courts and stretch. Richard eagerly followed the commands as the players clapped as one, moving in to circle up and listen for lineups, court assignments, and my final words for the opening match of the year. Boys doubles, mixed doubles, and girls singles would will the courts the first round. Boys singles would have to wait until the second round. Richard, his anticipation hardly squelched by the possibility of a two hour wait, nervously watched as the other players, before taking to the courts, tightened the circle as the captain yelled, “Team on three!”
As the first matches progressed, I would look over to see Richard, racquet in hand, waiting on the bleachers. I’d nod my head and he would nod and smile back, nervously shuffling his feet. Each time I looked over in his direction, Richard sat up, gripped his racket, shuffled and smiled. I was worried that, as the sun set and the cold surrounded him, he would be worn out with anticipation by the time his court opened up.
As darkness gradually took over daylight, the lights illumined the courts. Richard was watching as I put on two singles matches. Twenty minutes later a third court opened. “Richard!” I turned to where he was sitting, but he was not there. I called over one of my senior players and inquired about Richard.
“I think he’s in the bathroom, Coach.”
“Is he okay?”
“Yeah, Coach. Just a little nervous, I think.”
“Well go tell him he’s on!”
A few minutes later there was Richard, running full gallop.
“Oh, my goodness,” I thought. For the first time that night I fully realized the magnitude of this night for my novice player.
As Richard’s match progressed, I’d walk onto the court during the changeovers to coach him and get a sense of how he was handling the pressure.
“Richard, after you strike the ball, don’t turn and run back to the center point. Sidestep so you can keep your eyes on the ball and your opponent.”
“Yeah, right, Coach,” Richard looked up attentively and listened to my every word.
Match after match finished until at last Richard was the only cat playing against a varsity level dog. His opponent was a senior, a seasoned veteran playing his final year on the varsity squad for the Bulldogs. He planned to win this match and by all logic should. But if this game always made sense it wouldn’t be tennis. Richard stayed consistent and determined, seemingly focusing on each shot. And he won the first set 6-3.
Recognizing what was at stake, Richard’s teammates asked if they could sit on the adjacent empty court and cheer him on. My thoughts returned to the year prior. Richard had studied YouTube to learn the game of tennis. Now he was out on a Friday night with a crowd of varsity teammates cheering him. I pondered the idea of a small boy growing up in a tiny village in Burma, now a young man playing competitive tennis under a cold Texas sky.
Soon to be tied in the second set, Richard battled on like a seasoned varsity player. When he made a great shot, the team would roar: Richard! Richard! Richard! He tried not to look over but occasionally he couldn’t hold back a boyish smile. We all watched in amazement as his opponent’s ball tipped the net cord and dropped to Richard’s side of the court. His short legs sprinted from the baseline, and inches before the ball touched ground for the second time, Richard dug it out and dropped it over his opponent’s head. Once again his teammates roared while even the Bulldogs gasped at what they had just witnessed. Two games later, with the heart of a champion, our victorious Wildcat walked to the net, shook the hand of his opponent, and then flashed his team a beautiful smile. And then, as if on cue, the senior Lake Highlands boys swarmed Richard, picked him up, and carried him around the court as the rest of the team clapped and chanted, “Richard! Richard! Richard!” In a final gesture, Richard flung his hands and racquet up into the air in a Rudy-like pose.
That night our team captured a taste of what it means to be thankful; thankful for cold nights, for tennis, thankful for teammates who become good friends, and thankful for a young man who showed us all what it means to have heart. Richard the Lionhearted. Now his is a story worth telling.