My Teacher, My Coach

(A picture I took of Mr. Van Winkle when I was 16 years old. It was for the school annual. He hated having his picture taken.)

In my teenage years I spent many, many Saturday mornings sitting at Mr. Van Winkle’s kitchen table, sipping Pepsi, interviewing him about the football game from the night before. He was the head coach at Roland-Story High School, my school. I was the photographer for both the school and for the local newspaper, The Story City Herald. I was more of a photographer than a sports writer, but part of my job at that time was to report about sports, be it football, basketball, wrestling, track or golf. 

I would spend my Friday nights taking photos of the football game, going out for pizza with friends after the game, and then go home to my darkroom and spend hours and hours into early Saturday morning developing film and photos. After a few hours of sleep, I would get in my car and drive a few hours away to Mr. Van Winkle’s home.

I would show him a stack of photos from the game and he would help me figure out which ones would go into that week’s Herald.

I learned Mr. Van Winkle died last week at the age of 83.

Although I didn’t play football in high school, Mr. Van Winkle was my coach, too. I was always on the field with my camera, often times next to him as he paced up and down the side-line assessing and giving instructions to the team. He always seemed so focused and intense, telling the boys on sideline what he was seeing on the field and instructing them, teaching them as the game was playing before us. We all just listened and nodded. We couldn’t help but focus on him. He had our attention.

And he would sometimes look at me and crack a smile.

Oh and he HATED having his photo taken. Hated it. I had to sneak in photos.

Photo of Mr. Van Winkle by Ron Chelsvig, 1980.

One Saturday morning as I sat talking with him about the game the night before I asked him if he remembered kicking me during the game.

He looked at me in disbelief like I was kidding him. “I kicked you?” 

I nodded. “Yep. Right in the leg.”

I explained I was on the sideline taking photos and we fumbled the ball at a crucial part of the game and lost possession. Next thing I knew, Mr. Van Winkle turned and kicked me as hard as anyone had ever kicked me before. He was in a state of frustration. (And I knew he did not mean to kick me).

He didn’t remember it at all.

I just smiled and told him “It’s okay. I didn’t care. You were frustrated.”

But Mr. Van Winkle was so upset. He sat there shaking his head asking if I was alright. He was so upset. I felt bad for even mentioning it to be honest. He had such a kind heart. And he truly did not remember kicking me. 

He must have apologized a dozen times over the years.

My junior and senior year of high school our football team, his football team won back-to-back state football championships in Iowa. It doesn’t get any better than that!

Photo by Ron Chelsvig, Fall 1980, R-S team photo.

Photo by Ron Chelsvig, Fall 1979 or 1980. R-S football coaches.

He was proud of course, in a quiet, humble way. He was more proud of his boys than in anything he brought to the table. He had a way of making everyone around him feel special. And he was always coaching, always teaching, always helping everyone be better.

Photo by Ron Chelsvig

In my senior year I started being a staff photographer for the Ames Tribune, a big daily newspaper with a much bigger readership than my little farm town’s paper. And knowing the head coach didn’t hurt. It was hard to be objective, I must admit when I took photos of rival teams from obviously less sophisticated, less intelligent towns. I mean, come on? Hubbard? Gilbert?

Photo by Ron Chelsvig, moments after the state championship, 1980. Cheerleader and quarterback.

Mr. Van Winkle was a quiet man. 

Honest. 

Straight forward. 

Kind and occasionally funny. 

He was humble. 

Photo by Ron Chelsvig, Fall 1979 or 1980, for the annual and Story City Herald.

He wasn’t just an authority figure. He was the real deal. He didn’t demand respect but everyone gave it to him. I respected him because he respected me. Always. 

But Mr. Van Winkle wasn’t just a coach. 

He was a father. 

A husband. 

A member of his church. 

A member of his community.

I got to see him not just as a coach or a teacher, but as a family man, a dad, a husband. I was invited into his home dozens of times. He was such a proud coach, but a prouder dad. And I got to witness that side of him.

He was also my social studies teacher in high school and my driver’s education instructor. 

In the summer of my 15th year, me and fellow classmates went to the Story City elementary school lunch room to listen to Mr. Van Winkle lecture us about driving rules and regulations. He showed us black-and-white movies from the “Ohio State High Way Patrol” on the dangers of driving at night in the rain. (He relied on me to set up the movie projector and adjust anything necessary for everyone to view the old films from the 1960’s.)

And we would all pile into Mr. Van Winkle’s station wagon to demonstrate our prowess behind the wheel. (Yep, that’s right. I learned to parallel park in a big old station wagon.) I was so proud because he told me he trusted me behind the wheel over many of my fellow classmates.

One day he pulled me aside and told me, “I don’t understand you. You are one of my best drivers and yet you barely pass any of my written exams.”

Boy, did he hit the nail on the head. 

I remember feeling both proud and pretty stupid. Mr. Van Winkle was telling me a very obvious truth about me (which is true to this day): I’m pretty good at physically doing things but truly struggle when it comes to passing a written exam. 

(There is probably a diagnoses in there somewhere, but, hey, this was the 1970’s! There were no diagnoses back then. We were just kids.)

Later in life I became a very successful and effective physical therapist, but I’m not entirely sure how I did so well on those tests to get my degree and license.

Anyway, I got an “A” for my actual driving tests and squeaked by with a “C” on my written exam in order to pass my driver’s training class.

But you know what? Mr. Van Winkle didn’t use that against me. He never shamed me. He never used his authority over me to belittle me, like some teachers or town elders did. He was occasionally disappointed in me, but only because he wanted me to be a better person. He truly cared about me. I maybe didn’t see that so clearly as a boy, but I certainly do now.

There is a saying: "People will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

I don’t remember a lot of what Mr. Van Winkle said to me in all the many hours I sat in his classroom or at his kitchen table or on the sidelines of the football games, but I do remember how he made me feel.

He made me feel important. 

He made me feel seen.

He made me feel like I mattered.

I truly feel I did matter to him. I was important to him. He really did care about helping me become a better person. (Again, I maybe didn’t realize that then, but do now.)

As I sat at his kitchen table, asking him questions as a “journalist” he treated me with all the respect of a “real” journalist.

He was a real father-figure, real teacher sort of person in my life.

I don’t think I realized how significant Mr. Van Winkle was to me until I heard about his passing last week.

I truly respected him because he was respectable and respected me (even though he did kick me that one time. I think I just happened to be in the way when his foot came through, like hitting a June bug on your windshield in July on a gravel road).

I was sad to hear Mr. Van Winkle passed away. 

I could never call him by his first name. He was always Mr. Van Winkle.

I’ve been reflecting on how he modeled for me how to be an honorable man. 

He wasn’t some bloated egotistical person. He could have been. He won two back-to-back championships and hundreds of other games.

I read people calling him a legend. And he was. But I can see him in my mind’s eye shaking his head gently side-to-side, and being embarrassed by a description like that. 

I’m sure he would roll his eyes at what I write about him now.

He never made it about himself.
He always made it about whoever was with him in that moment.

I feel very nostalgic right now, remember him and his affect he had in my life. He was one of my teachers in the truest sense of the word. He modeled how to be a man to me just by being himself. Strong. Commanding. Gentle. Kind. Humble. Funny. Honest. All the words.

God bless you, Mr. Van Winkle.

Thank you for who you were and helping me to be a better version of myself. You were my teacher. And even though I never played on any of your teams, you were my coach.

And a part of me wants to write the perfect piece about you and what you meant to me. I hope I get it right, coach.

I wish we could sit and talk with you over a nice cold Pepsi right about now.

Your student,

Ron Chelsvig