We All Wore Blue

Copyright © 2019, 2020 by Emerson Robbins

All rights reserved. Some names and identifying details of people described have been altered or withheld to protect their privacy.

Published in the United States by BookBaby

7905 N. Crescent Blvd. Pennsauken, NJ 08110

www.bookbaby.com

ISBN 978-1-09832-460-5 (paperback)

ISBN 978-1-09832-461-2 (ebook)

printed in the united states of america

Second Edition

This book is dedicated to the young men who played for

FC Shoreline International, and their families, as well as

all kids around the world whose challenging circumstances

prevent them from playing the beautiful game

Contents

The Kickoff

The Seahawks of Soccer

The Move to Seattle

Mad Dogs and (Other) Countrymen

The Internationals

Club Initiation

Major Changes and One Big Mistake!

What a Crazy Game!

Big Foot, Big Foul

Revolving Door

Subtraction by Addition?

A New Blue Crew

Swan Song Summer

Trials and Tribulations

The Final Chapter

Chapter 1

The Kickoff

I never would have imagined I’d someday be coaching a soccer team. Even though I’d always loved sports, I didn’t know the first thing about soccer growing up, other than it was popular around the world, and it was played with one’s feet. They didn’t have soccer around where I grew up, or if they did, I sure didn’t know anything about it.

I was never a great athlete myself. I was the guy the coach would spot playing in the gym and say, Hey, Robbins, looking good. You should come out for the team this year. Then, I’d go to tryouts, and for two straight years, I was the last guy cut. No hard feelings. I deserved to be cut. I was the kid who was not quite good enough to make the team but usually one of the best in the regular gym classes. It never stopped me from playing hoops after school in my driveway and later on in adult leagues and at the local health club.

However, when I became a father, it was pretty clear that my firstborn son, Ben, was a natural athlete. When he was only about two and a half, he could throw a whiffle ball up and hit it in the air with a bat. I could see he was no chip off the ol’ block. Instead, it looked like he might own the block. I couldn’t wait until he was old enough to play a sport.

My name is Emerson Robbins, known to all my friends as Skip. My brother Steve and I owned a chain of engagement ring stores, which is how I found myself one evening at a boring industry dinner dance, the kind where everyone sits at round tables and is served the proverbial chicken or fish dinner, ordered in advance. Though I always hated these types of events, it was expected for me to be there, and I’m usually a get-along kind of guy.

I was sitting at a table next to a friend of mine in the biz, Bob Sears. Bob was a sales rep for a big jewelry wholesaler. We didn’t do much business together, but he and I always got along well. His wife Renee was entertaining Sherri, my wife, with a story about the time, many years ago, when she went out on a date with Elvis. Yes, The Elvis!

Bob said, Logan, my six-year-old, is having a blast playing soccer.

Cool; where does he play? I asked.

He plays through AYSO at the Sherman Oaks Park; you know, the fields off Woodman.

AYSO is the American Youth Soccer Organization, the largest organization in the country for youth soccer, founded in Torrance, California, in 1964.

I’ve never really been into soccer, but I’ve been wanting to sign Ben up for a sport. Do you know when sign-ups are? I asked.

Bob, taking a bite from his cheesecake, said, I think they’re next month.

I was also thrilled that Sherri was enjoying her conversation with Renee, which hopefully meant I wouldn’t have to dance.

* * *

So, with Bob’s encouragement, I decided to sign Ben up. When the AYSO sign-ups opened, I was there first thing to register my son to play at AYSO Region 58 in Sherman Oaks.

Ben ended up on a team coached by a gentleman who looked more like a bird-watcher than a coach...turned out, his hobby really was bird-watching.

He even wore the dorky shorts and vest. It didn’t take long before I figured out that this not-very-athletic-looking gent knew even less about soccer than I did, and, worse, he proved to be totally inept dealing with young kids, even his own.

The first season was a long one for this unfortunate team. For me, too…the boys lost every game. They didn’t keep score at that age, but the kids knew what was happening. No one likes losing, especially every game. The kids learned very little about soccer, and most didn’t even have fun.

On the positive side, Ben enjoyed playing, and, as suspected, he turned out to be the best player on the team. Soccer, at that time, wasn’t a very popular sport in the U.S. There weren’t many parents, at least who we knew of, who understood the game or who were willing to put in the time to coach, so the league board members were always begging for volunteers.

I began to realize I should probably try to cut the bird-watcher some slack. At least he was trying to make a difference, and so, I decided to volunteer to coach a team. The region’s directors were thrilled to have another sucker, i.e., …volunteer step up.

Having a somewhat obsessive personality, I spent many evenings studying what I discovered was the world’s most popular sport, also known as the beautiful game. I ordered books and read them cover to cover. Most of the coaches in the league came from other countries, such as Mexico, England, Scotland, Ireland, Portugal, South Africa, Germany, Brazil, and other countries, where the game of fútbol is king and just about every boy grows up with a ball in his crib. I soon discovered that the top coach in the league was an Israeli gentleman named Abe.

I introduced myself to Abe. They asked me to coach, but I’m fairly new to soccer, so I’m hoping I can ask you some questions every now and then. They tell me you’re the man to talk to.

Abe smiled. Sure, Skip, call me anytime, he said, as he gave me his phone number.

I took Abe up on his kind offer and called him several times a week, each time bombarding him with questions. Abe always graciously complied. I can’t recall how many times I called Abe, but I know it was quite a few, and he really helped me learn the basics.

While I didn’t know much about soccer, I’d like to believe I’m a natural coach.

My first coaching gig was back when I was in high school. My younger brother, Steve, then in middle school, was on a local YMCA team. Steve’s Y team played baseball, basketball, flag football, track and field, and even competed in swimming—just about every sport but soccer. Steve’s team wasn’t doing well, and one day, he came home from practice and said his coach had quit, leaving the team high and dry. No parent stepped up, so Steve finally asked if I’d take over as coach.

I readily agreed and quickly got to work, preparing. My very first move was to encourage Steve to recruit all the best athletes at his middle school. Being a popular kid and a great salesman, Steve ended up convincing many of the top athletes at his school to join the team. The Condors soon soared from last place to the top team in their league in just about every sport, quite a dramatic turnaround. I don’t remember a lot about those years, but I do recall we had one kid on the team, Chris Haynes; this kid was huge, I mean really huge. He was also fast and powerful. He was a man among boys. During football season, flag football, Haynes was so big and so intimidating that opponents, instead of trying to grab his flag, would actually run away from him to avoid having to make contact with him. It looked a bit like Gulliver versus the Lilliputians. He’d score a touchdown just about every time he had the ball. Steve also brought in some kids who were equally talented in some of the other sports our team competed in, and, as such, the Condors became a virtual juggernaut, destroying our competition. The lesson here was very clear! You don’t have to do a great deal of coaching when your team has vastly superior talent.

After the games, I’d pile Steve and his teammates into my old Chevy Nova and treat them all to ice cream. It so happened I worked at a local Baskin-Robbins and got a discount.

I think the only reason the co-owners of the franchise, two brothers, hired me was because my last name was Robbins, and they thought I had to be related to the Robbins who cofounded the famous company. The main offices for Baskin-Robbins were only a few miles from the store where I worked, so although I denied being any relation, I don’t think they ever believed me. I wasn’t even sixteen years old when I applied; however, within a short time, I proved to be a valuable employee, so much so that the owners appointed me as Store Manager after my being there for less than a year. I’d guess they saw how responsible I was, especially for a high school kid. Plus, they liked how I always tried to sell customers bottles of fudge sauce, caramel sauce, cones, and more, whenever someone ordered pints, quarts, or gallons of ice cream to go. Having grown up in a family retail business, I had an innate understanding of business and sales, which most high school kids just didn’t get.

Early one Saturday morning, just after opening the store up by myself, not an uncommon occurrence, since mornings were usually the slowest time of the day, in walks a young white guy, maybe in his early twenties, dressed in dirty jeans and a wrinkled white t-shirt. I approached him as he leaned against the counter to place an order, or at least, so I thought. Suddenly, he pulls out a gun, pointed directly at my stomach, from less than a few feet away. He then tells me to open up the register and hand him all of the cash in the drawer. Not a huge surprise at this point, as I figured he wasn’t there for the flavor of the month. I had no thoughts about anything other than doing what he said. I sure wasn’t going to try to play the hero and attempt to save the meager ice cream receipts, less than twenty dollars; plus, it seemed to me he might possibly be even more frightened than I was. I distinctly remember his hand shaking as he held the gun. He seemed as nervous as could be. This guy was definitely no Dillinger. It was probably his first holdup, guessing he was a druggie, desperate for funds to feed his habit. Who else would be dumb enough to rob an ice cream store, especially in the morning right after the store opened, with no time to fill the till? I remember being less scared than I thought I should be. Maybe the situation was just too surreal for me to grasp, or maybe I was in a state of shock. I’m not sure why, but I handed over the money to him without hesitating, nervously dropping some loose change on the floor. After handing him the cash, he told me to go to the back room as he followed closely behind, the gun now sticking into my lower back. I recall asking him if he was going to kill me? Kinda funny looking back on it, but I’ve always been the inquisitive type. He gruffly replied, Just shut your mouth, and do what I tell you. He then said to lock myself in the bathroom and to not come out for a half-hour or he’d kill me. That’s when I knew I was safe. After about fifteen minutes or so, as silently as possible, I unlocked the bathroom door and cautiously creeped out, listening carefully for any sounds. Not hearing a peep, I peered out the doorway, as subtly and slowly as possible. Not seeing him in the small store, I rushed to the phone and immediately called the police and then my bosses. After the police arrived and the bosses drove over to relieve me from my shift, I ran home and excitedly told my mom what had happened. At this point, the whole experience was just an exciting adventure that I knew I’d remember for the rest of my life. A few days after the holdup, I was asked to come to the police station to look at books filled with photos of suspects. After looking through hundreds of photos, and not seeing anyone resembling the holdup guy, I returned home. That was pretty much the end of it. I’m sure that robbing an ice cream store of about twenty dollars wasn’t going to result in a nation-wide manhunt, so it wasn’t long before the whole situation faded into time, becoming nothing more than a distant memory. It worked out well for me, though, because the owners of the store, being the sympathetic gents they were and feeling bad that a youngster like me was placed in such a precarious situation, were now more congenial to me than ever. I think they might have been more traumatized by the whole deal than I was. In any case, from that point on, they graciously allowed me to give ice cream to my friends and family at a drastically reduced cost. My younger brother and the boys I coached on the team were the main beneficiaries of the great ice cream caper. Well, I guess I was the luckiest of all, having not been shot; in any case, this event played a part in my first season as a coach serving as a tasty bonus to all the players on the team since I always paid their tab.

A season later, Steve had graduated middle school and my coaching gig was over. I wouldn’t coach again until many years later, six years after Ben was born—a fourteen-year hiatus from coaching.

Chapter 2

The Seahawks of Soccer

I was born in Seattle, as was my entire family. Though our parents moved down to Southern California when I was just a little tyke, many of my extended family remained in Seattle—my grandparents, an aunt, uncle, and cousins—and so I visited the Emerald City often while growing up. That is how I became a die-hard Seahawks fan when they joined the NFL in 1976.

When I started coaching Ben’s team, I knew I wasn’t going to make naming the team a democratic process. I didn’t want to be stuck with a team named the Scooby Doo’s, or the Foot-Fighters, the A-Team, or the like.

I decided to name the team the Seahawks after the team I’d rooted for since the franchise began.

In our first season, we finished somewhere in the middle of the pack, which I felt was a fairly worthy accomplishment given I was a total neophyte to the game. The kids seemed to have a lot of fun, and the parents were complimentary about their new and enthusiastic coach. Maybe they were just cutting me some slack, knowing I was new to this. In our second season, we finished near the top of the league. There was a yearly draft in the league in order to keep parity, so the team’s roster changed annually. I tried to draft the boys I wanted back, but that wasn’t always possible, so there were always some returning players, as well as a group of new players.

A key part of my success as a coach was that I had a way of making the game and practices fun for the boys, though I’d still be working them hard. I’d often bring toys as incentives, going to the Dollar Store every week to stock up. I also gave many of the boys nicknames. A short, stout defender named Paul was Paul the Wall because I told him he was like a wall that no one could get past. Then there was Bobby The Bullet, faster than a speeding bullet, and Super Glue Glen because he marked players so tightly. Another boy was The Hitman because he was so tough. Jake the Snake was our quick moving goalkeeper.

Back then, in the eighties, attitudes weren’t nearly as politically correct as they are today, so I could get away with some of these now controversial monikers. The boys on the team seemed to take great pride in their nicknames. I innately understood how to make the game fun for the kids, which was half the battle.

By the third season, the Seahawks contended for the league championship. However, we lost the game in a tight penalty kick (PK) shoot-out. Nonetheless, this season, we beat Abe’s team, and Ben had become one of the top players in the league—obviously, a huge boost to our team’s success.

Another factor to my quick rise up the coaching ladder was that I knew what I didn’t know and had no ego about bringing in help. Early on, I found a former college player and paid him to help train the boys at practices. I always sought out help from former players who’d played the game at a fairly high level.

When Ben was eleven, we hit pay dirt. One of the office ladies who worked for my company was dating Martin Vasquez, who just a few years earlier played for the U.S. National Men’s Soccer Team. He’d also played professional soccer in Mexico and was still playing in the top league in the U.S. at that time.

I asked the young lady, You think Martin might be interested in helping train my son’s soccer team and earning some money on the side?

I’ll ask him, she said and returned a few days later. Hey, good news! Martin is totally up for it.

He was soon