This continues an occasional series of stories written by Ohio State students, faculty and stuff, describing an important day in their lives.
It’s common to look back on certain experiences and say “that’s when it all changed.” At the last football game of my final year of high school, a realization struck that has influenced me beyond adolescence.
It was 7:30 p.m. on Friday night. I was becoming aware that this was the last time my friends and I would applaud the boys we’d been applauding for four years in the stadium my family helped build.
Football is an integral part of me because my father, Barry Goettemoeller, has been coaching all my life. By that moment of kickoff, one thought had pushed all others away. This was my last high school football game I would share with my dad.
I’d never had a commendable relationship with my father and more conflict developed throughout high school because it was hard for us to coexist. His personal and professional lives collided. He struggled with that.
We always argued about what I could wear, who I could hang out with and where I could go. His primary concern was how my actions affected his position in the school and community. This sparked resentment in me that would rise like hot magma waiting to spew everywhere.
Occasionally, though, a light would shine through. Watching football together, helping him record tackling statistics while reviewing film and seeing him on the sidelines as I cheered from the stands on Fridays made me feel closer to him. Gamedays always indicated a cease-fire.
According to him, this commonality exists because I “know what passion and effort is put into the job without much praise,” and feel obligated to “pay homage to his life and career by showing similar passion.”
That’s true, to an extent.
I’ve always loved football. It’s the only foundation upon which my relationship with my father was built, but until Oct. 20, 2006, I never understood its magnitude.
Three years have passed and I still remember the sound of the marching band, the smell of grass and sweat, the feeling of the crisp October air, and the total contentment that consumes me while watching my favorite sport in its purest form. I was the coach’s daughter, wide receiver’s girlfriend and team’s proudest fan.
These titles had become my identity.
The game flew by. We lost 20-6, but strangely it didn’t matter. Once the clock ran out I headed to the field to hug my dad and tell him how proud I was, a ritual that by then felt more natural than brushing my teeth.
Then, my dad’s Senior Night ritual began. He and every senior player went to the far end zone and joined hands, spreading sideline to sideline, and they took their final walk across their field.
I’d watched the “senior walk” at least five times, but standing beneath the scoreboard with Pierce Oaks, a junior and my boyfriend throughout high school, I discovered a paternal correlation in this act of closure and suddenly couldn’t control the tears that were falling from my eyes.
Pierce recently told me that suddenly “I could tell you didn’t want the moment to end because you knew it was something you always shared.”
He said my response showed him “how much it really meant and how it could affect more than just the players.”
I realized that having my relationship with my father rely on our common passion wasn’t a burden, but a unique blessing, because it brought us together. It sounds silly. But at those elusive moments when our differences and resentments disappear, I know there isn’t anybody else I would rather call my dad.
