Chapter 14: Coach Klum — Still Teaching

Ninth grade sucked.

Especially when contrasted with my golden eighth grade year when I was the quarterback of our football team, the leading scorer on our basketball team, and the center fielder on our baseball team. I had a close group of platonic friends and a pretty girlfriend.

My brother was in Vietnam. Our country was raging. But my life was good.

Then it wasn’t. My girlfriend broke up with me. Upper class guys with cars got all the hot freshman girls. A doctor said I had a heart murmur and recommended against football. To this day, I think I could have played, but I’m pretty sure that I used it as an excuse to not play for a coach that I thought was a jerk and because of my own self-doubt.

I decided to focus on basketball. I mean really focus. Like practice every single day focus. I decided that hooping would be my identity.

There were deep reasons why I turned to basketball. Up through 8th grade, I was a group guy. I liked hanging out. The night my 8th grade friends and I went Christmas caroling and had hot chocolate afterward was a perfect night. I loved being with peers.

Then high school shook my world. I went from the close community of St. Timothy Catholic school — there were just 100 of us in our “graduating” class — to a huge public high school. Fed by St. Tims, St. Joes, and the giant Trenton (Michigan) Junior High, there were 550 students in my freshman class at Trenton High School.

I wasn’t confident. I wasn’t sure I could compete. And hanging out was never the same.

Apparently, Christmas caroling and hot chocolate were for kids. The high school thing to to do was to crash someone’s house when their parents were away and drink beer and smoke dope.

I loathed it.

When I was seven, my dad let me taste beer. I gagged and I’ve hated it ever since. Marijuana smelled bad and made me more low than high. Still, I was 15 and wanted to fit in. I’d reluctantly show up, sip beer, and act like my joint was the best thing ever.

It wasn’t though. So a couple of months into high school, I withdrew into myself.

I turned to basketball because I could play it alone. On Friday and Saturday nights while my peers partied, I’d be in our backyard by myself, dribbling and shooting in the dark.

I loved to shoot. The immediate feedback was addicting. You made or you missed.

My dad and brother could both shoot, and I was following in their footsteps. In my first game for the Trenton Trojans freshman team, I started (starting was so prestigious) and scored 21 points. The next game, I scored 11 more and banked in the game winning shot.

Then a growth spurt — six inches in six months — messed me up. My body felt strange. I was thin and uncoordinated. I could no longer shoot. For good reason, Coach Chaffin benched me.

Then, thankfully, I began adjusting to my length. The summer between my freshman and sophomore year, my dad encouraged me to attend Pistol Pete Maravich’s week-long residential basketball camp in western Pennsylvania. I didn’t stand out there, but meeting, watching, and learning from Pete gave me confidence. I set a goal to bypass the junior varsity team and go straight to varsity. Playing varsity as a sophomore was prestigious.

In September, a Trenton teachers’ strike gave us students an unanticipated month long “vacation.” Cool, I thought. More time to practice.

__________

If I was a normal teenager, I would have rebelled that October when Dad told us we were moving to Ann Arbor. But I wasn’t normal, and I knew it. I had friends and crushes, but my friends partied and my crushes were unrequited. I was obsessed with basketball and here was a chance to play for a new coach at a new school where no one would know the awkward me. A fresh start seemed exciting.

My new school was Ann Arbor Huron High, the home of the River Rats. (I know! Huron High was built near the Huron River, and for a large part of my life I was embarrassed to tell people what our mascot was. I’d cringe when a classmate in a rat costume would run around the court at halftime. But now I’m sort of proud of it. I’ve never heard of another school or team called the Rats.)

On my first day, I went into the gym looking for the varsity basketball coach, Edward Klum. I found him watching his players play pick-up. Then in his 40s, he was bald but fit.

Before becoming a social studies teacher and basketball coach at Huron, Coach Klum attended the University of Michigan. He played on the Wolverines’ basketball team and earned his teaching credential. Later he’d return to U of M part-time as an assistant basketball and golf coach.

But Mr. Klum’s calling was teaching and coaching high school kids like me. Before helping to open Ann Arbor’s second high school in 1969, he had taught at three other Michigan high schools. But he found a home at Huron and never left.

The home of the River Rats

I remember Mr. Klum saying that although he loved coaching, teaching was his first love. I get that. Maybe it’s because teaching is more challenging. For the most part, a coach’s players want to be there. They chose to play the sport. But in most cases, a teacher’s students don’t want to be there. They didn’t choose to study a subject. So, when a teacher is able to engage an apathetic student, it’s a huge win.

Yet, even though I was in Mr. Klum’s International Relations class I would always think of him more as my basketball coach than history teacher. And because basketball was my passion, his impact was immense.

For three years, he taught me the game. The first thing he did was not let me play varsity as a sophomore. Even if I was good enough to be one of the top 12, I wasn’t good enough to be one of the top 8. I would have sat on the bench during varsity games. But if I played junior varsity, I’d get plenty of playing time.

He was right, of course. Although our jayvee team was terrible, I averaged over 14 points a game while gaining confidence and earning respect. I also found my lane in a huge public high school.

My closest friends were black basketball players, which was different. Trenton High was 99% white. Perhaps the best compliment I’ve ever received was not even intended to be a compliment. One day before a Friday night road game in Lansing, there had been racial strife at school. While sitting on the floor in the visitors’ locker room at halftime, it got heated.

One of the white players, asked the black players why they were so angry.

“Because every one of you white guys on this team is racist,” a black player said. “Everyone except Jaime.”

I’m not sure if the other white players were racist, but that was the black players’ perception. That they thought I was the exception made me peculiarly happy.

__________

Huron was more of a basketball school than a football school. When our football team’s quarterback came into the gym and joined our shooting practice he was, at best, mediocre. My teammate, William Brooks, said to him, “Boy, you need to get back out there on the football court!”

Football court. I still love that. Basketball mattered most, at least to the non-white student body.

Coach Klum made us a community. At one practice during my junior year, he felt we weren’t competing hard enough. “I want to see you fight,” he said.

So I picked a fight with 6’3” Clinton Brantley.

It wasn’t much of a fight. Clinton was kicking my ass, but when teammates started to break us up, Coach said, “No, let them go.”

No, let them break it up. I thought.

After a Clinton knee to my solar plexus, Coach said, “Ok, that’s enough,” and pulled Clinton off me. Then, bafflingly to both of us, kicked us out of practice.

Alone in the locker room, we didn’t fight. We were talking it out. (Did Coach know that’s what we’d do?)

“I couldn’t back down,” I said.

“I get it,” Clinton said. “Especially with those girls watching.”

Girls were watching? I had no idea. Maybe I should have felt humiliated, but I felt okay. And closer to Clinton. (An unexplainable guy thing.)

When practice was over, Coach came into the locker room and said, “When I said fight, I didn’t mean it literally.”

Now you tell us, I thought.

Today, Coach would probably be severely reprimanded or even fired for letting us, let alone encouraging us, to fight (even if he didn’t mean it literally). It was a different time. Letting us settle it ourselves worked. Afterward, we laughed about it. Our team was more unified. Neither Clint, nor I, nor our teammates ever considered complaining to anyone about Coach. We knew he loved us.

__________

While playing for Eastern Michigan University, I returned to the Huron gym once during winter break to practice with Coach’s current team. Then I didn’t see him again for 15 years.

By then I had moved from Michigan to California, gotten married, served in the Air Force, became a teacher and coach myself, and had two young daughters. In 1990, while visiting my parents, I surprised him. Recently retired, he was at work at the University of Michigan golf course’s pro shop. After I caught him up on my life, he smiled that warm Coach smile. I knew he was proud.

I told him how he was a critically important positive influence when I was struggling through that lonely, difficult time in my life. Boys need solid male role models, especially between 15 and 18, and I had Coach. Way too late, I thanked him.

Over the next three decades, whenever I’d visit my mom in Michigan (Dad passed not long after that 1990 visit), I’d make sure to connect with coach. He watched me go from a young teacher to an experienced one to a retired one. We’d always talk basketball, of course, but most of our time was spent sharing our thoughts on teaching and life. And how important he was at such a formative time in mine.

One of those visits included my daughter, Kyrra. Afterward, she told me, “Daddy, he’s an older you!”

In 2021, just as the pandemic was allowing us to gather again, I flew to Michigan for a family reunion. And if I was in Michigan, I had to call Coach.

“I’m here at a downtown Ann Arbor hotel, Coach. Where do you want me to meet you? I’ll Uber over.”

“Don’t call an Uber,” he said. “I’ll pick you up.”

I wasn’t sure how I felt about that. Coach was 93. Besides, the Uber was already on its way.

We met at his favorite breakfast place and talked for three hours, Afterward, despite my safety concerns, I agreed to let Coach drive me back to my hotel. We hugged and he kissed me on the cheek. As he drove off (quite competently) I wondered if he thought he’d just seen me for the last time. That he was saying goodbye forever.

Coach was 93.

We’re not usually aware when the last time we do something will be the last time we do something. However, in this case, I was hyper aware that I might never see Coach again.

But we’d have one more meetup.

_________

Two years later I’m on my drive, visiting my sister in Cleveland. I’m leaving the next day, headed to Chicago, but I’ve got to stop in Michigan and see Coach. Anxiously, I make the call. He’s 95. Will he pick up? Will he remember me? Is he still… alive? We haven’t spoken in months.

My fears were immediately put to rest. Within ten seconds, I knew Coach was okay. Vibrant as ever, he was eager to hear about my trip. Not surprisingly, he was curious about me hanging nets on netless rims.

His past two years had been rough ones... He’d already lost his wife and just recently, his dog. He was no longer in his long-time home. Alone now, he had moved into assisted care.

I picked him up there.

I shared stories of the My Vital Lesson project, and asked him if he’d share his.

“Sure.”

Given everything he’d been through, I was prepared to cheer up a sad, lonely old man. But if he was sad and lonely — he had to be, right? — he never showed it. As was always the case with our meetups, he made me feel better about life.

Our conversation included stories from our past, but we mostly discussed the present and, surprisingly, the future. I’ve found that with our most precious people, conversations are not just about reliving the past and catching up. It’s about sharing what’s currently on our minds and in our hearts. It’s about what we’re thinking about now.

Besides sharing his most vital lesson — “Learning to Win from Losing” — what was currently on Coach’s mind fascinated me.

“So, I’ve been watching the tennis (he meant Wimbledon), and I wanted to bounce this off you…”

Then Coach explained his theory — that if basketball defenders mimicked tennis players when they’re about to receive a serve, it would give them an advantage.

It may or may not work (I think it might), but that’s not the point. What’s so impressive and inspiring was that Coach, at 95, was still thinking, still theorizing, still strategizing, still teaching.

I hope Kyrra is right. I hope that’s the future me.

__________

The goodbye was a tough one. Coach said he wished I could visit every week. I knew I couldn’t. I assured him that I’d stay in touch. Again, I thought we might have just shared our last moments together.

Later, I composed an email to his son, Phillip, who was two years ahead of me at Huron. He had played for his dad, so I knew him a little, but I wasn’t sure how to phrase what I wanted to ask. But he understood — that if Coach was nearing the end, I wanted him to alert me. I wanted to be there.

It didn’t work out. On December 4, 2024, I received an email from Phil:

It is with a very heavy heart that I’m letting you know that the Coach, my father, Edward Klum, passed in a deep sleep while in hospice care today.

My brother & I agree that he was not just Coach, teacher and influencer to his 2 boys! He was all those things to many, from his “ballgame boys” (as we called his players when we were young) to the students and young people, both men and women that he touched throughout his life.

At 97, his life as coach, American history teacher, & friend was not only long, but very wide and ever educated…

The news was stunning, not shocking. Damn, I thought. I wanted to be there.

One of my planned stops on my drive was the Motown Museum in Detroit. If Coach wasn’t available, if God forbid, he hadn’t answered his phone that last time, that’s where I was planning to go.

I still haven’t been to the Motown Museum, but I’ll be eternally grateful that we had that last precious day together. Not just because I got to record Coach Klum’s vital lesson, but because I got to learn one last lesson from him — that as long as I’m still thinking, theorizing, strategizing, and teaching, being alive (despite the inevitable long-life sorrows) will be worth it.