Buff Daddy

“Buffkin!!!” My coach screamed my name as I walked out of the locker room, helmet in-hand, jogging steadily to the practice field. He wasn’t angry; because I was a middle schooler who happened to play with the high school team, it was normal for me to be late coming to practice each day. It wasn’t that I was some superstar middle schooler playing with the big boys. In fact, it was quite the opposite. Up until this point, I had been a disappointment; I was called up to the big leagues only because I was thirteen, 6’4”, and already pushing three spins. But I was soft, both in body and temperament. And it didn’t help that every day was catch-up, trying to stretch, warm-up, and absorb whatever drill or technique the coach was already teaching all at the same time. This day was just as confusing, as all the players were lined up in a giant circle, with Coach standing in the middle.

“Buff: hurry up! Buckle your chin strap and get in the middle!” Coach barked.

“Yessir,” I sighed, buckling my helmet and wiggling my mouthpiece free of the facemask, “what are we doing?”

“You know what, Buff?” he smiled, laughing softly, “I’ve seen your report cards. I know you’re a smart kid. I bet you’ll figure it out fast.”

“Okay,” I whispered, not realizing that this would be the last time I would ever trust a coach, and I secured my teeth in the mouthpiece.

He checked, asked if I was ready. I nodded. He told me to take an athletic two-point stance, so I widened my feet, straightened my back, and bent my knees. And then, confidently, he yelled “54!”

I stood, confused, staring at him. Clearly I was missing something. I waited patiently for further instruction and whatever the hell “54” meant, at which time an angry linebacker crashed into my kidneys at full speed. The sound echoed off the grass and trees surrounding the practice field; it sounded like two-by-fours cracking in half.

I hit the ground so hard with zero oxygen in my body. I looked up and saw the player who destroyed me: it was a zit-faced Neanderthal with body odor issues and a devilish, toothy grin across his face. He wore number 54.

As tears ran down my cheeks and I struggled to breathe and regain my footing, Coach bounced joyfully. The circle of bloodthirsty teenage boys cackled in response. Coach leaned in: “See, Buff? Have you figured it out yet?” He continued cackling as he yelled “92!”

I knew he was coming, a behemoth defensive lineman with the IQ of my shoe came barreling to my left, and though I could see him coming, trying to recover from the first blow meant I just had time to brace myself for the next. 92 trucked my upper body at such an angle that I left my feet, spun in the air, and smacked the ground yet again. I heard the echo of the hyenas at play. I struggled to my feet hurriedly. I was no longer confused, but angry. “38!” A tailback, a young third-stringer, this time in front of me. I gnawed down on my mouthpiece and stepped to him, closing my eyes tight. A loud crack sounded, the echo of two cars colliding bouncing off the school buildings behind us.

The hyenas stopped. I opened my eyes. 38 was curled into a ball, fetal, on the ground in front of me. He moaned and gasped. Coach bounced and jumped delightedly. “45!” A fullback, starting fullback, behind me, stepped forward. My feet chopped at the ground, pivoted, turned me 360, and I stepped forward, low and powerful. When I hit him, he left the ground, flying back six feet on his way to the grass. “71!” Starting left tackle, again at my six, charged. I charged back. The sound of our contact was sickening, and 71’s knees buckled and he slumped to the ground. “26!” Another tailback. “Aww, hell naw,” he yelled, and everyone laughed. “65!” Our starting center, and he didn’t hesitate one bit. And just like 71, he crumbled with a loud smack and a pitiful groan. “99!” Crack. “30!” Ended. #6, #10, and #22 all politely declined after that.

When I was done, I couldn’t hear the cheering over the sound of me desperately trying to regain my breath. I sweated clean through my practice gear; I was bleeding from multiple scrapes on my arms, knuckles, and from a very nasty busted lip that was already swelling. And I had bitten clean through my once-new mouthpiece. I stood, in my athletic two-point stance, pulsing rhythmically as I inhaled and exhaled powerfully, and Coach began to clap. He blew the whistle and everyone retreated to their position groups. I stood firm, using all my strength to bring my heart rate down. Other coaches began tending to 71, who was still down and barely moving, when Coach came to me and placed his hand on top of my helmet.

“Damn, Buff,” he whispered, “I think we just watched you become a man.” I said nothing, and I simply jogged over to my position group. I know I should have been angry, but I wasn't. I was on fire. The adrenaline coursed through my veins, and the only thing that calmed me was the fact that I’d made Coach proud of me. I was a man, indeed.

At the end of practice, I rode home on my bike. When I got there, I walked in the door and Mom said, “Hey, Bryan, how was practice?” I didn’t answer her. I wasn’t being disrespectful. I simply didn’t recognize the name anymore. I wasn’t Bryan anymore: I was Buff.

That was me at thirteen; now I’m forty. I’m no longer a football player, but rather, I’m a football coach and a high school English teacher. My name is Buffkin, which is just a great name for a football player, coach, and tough man. It’s a “man’s name”, which is what I loved about it. I spent so much time in my childhood being soft, sheltered. I was Bryan, and that was fine. It was a fine name. When my parents divorced while I was very young, my mother hated the Buffkin name, as anything that connected me to my father was blasphemy. At that point in my life, I was non-social, rarely left the house, darkened my room with black-out curtains, and stayed locked in my room for most of my day. And I grew to hate myself. But that was Bryan. Bryan was soft, juvenile, and emotional. Bryan was sensitive, stunted, and inflexible. Bryan was a child, and Buffkin was a man. So from that moment on, I was Buffkin. I identified as Buffkin.

I transferred to a new school the next year, where few people knew who Bryan was. I met most of my friends early that summer when I worked with the football team, and they all knew me as Buffkin, as athletic circles typically only refer to you by last name. So when I walked the halls of my new school, and teachers and girls asked me what my name was, I had to make a choice: I didn’t want to be Bryan any more. Bryan was a childish, innocent, isolated part of myself that I wanted to distance my new self from.

“Me? I’m Buff,” I would answer. And they would smile.

Buff is simple to say, simple to spell. It’s easy to remember: the fact that the guy built like an NFL lineman goes by “Buff” is an easy concept to get behind. It’s playful, jovial. People say “Buff” and they smile. I wanted to branch out, be a clown for a bit, open myself up to being this charismatic funnyman that I wanted people to see. And thus, Buff was born. People knew Buff, and they liked Buff. I got out of my funk and I loved this new person I was becoming. As a loving tribute to Sean Combs, my friends started calling me “Buff Daddy,” and that was equally fun to hear. When I walked through the hall, high-fiving some and smiling at others, hearing “Buff Daddy'' hollered down the halls brought joy to my life.

Buff, Buffkin, and Buff Daddy have been kind names to me, following me through high school, into college, and into my career as a teacher and coach. And in my youth, it was fun, acceptable. But now I’m older. I’m married. I have two young boys to raise. So now, I have a different choice to be made. I’ll be in church, in my Sunday School class. A new couple has joined the church and decided to give our class a shot. They approach, introduce themselves. Then they look at me. Do I say Bryan? Bryan is my name, after all. It’s my first name, my Christian name, my government name. Certainly, there’s nothing offensive or suggestive about it. But if I say Bryan, it feels wrong.

It isn’t me.

“Buff,” I say, and they give me the standard smile and confused eyebrow that I’m used to when I use that name around adults.

“Buff,” the husband smiles, “Yeah, I think I can remember that.”

“We call him ‘Buff Daddy’,” my good buddy slaps my shoulder and smiles.

“YOU don’t have to call me Buff Daddy, I assure you,” I joke. And right then and there, these people know what I’m all about.

In my classroom is a big metal plate that says “Buff Daddy.” Embroidered on the back of my favorite coaching hat in red are the words “Buff Daddy.” As I walk down the hall, my high school students high-five me, yelling, “What’s up, Buff Daddy?” I do get the occasional old-school teacher, set in their ways, who groans at the lack of formality, the very thought that a teacher would answer to such a name. But at the same time, I’ll get the occasional administrator who will shake my hand and call me Buff Daddy on my way to class. Why? Because they know what the kids know: Buff Daddy isn’t your old, stuffy literature teacher. His class will be fun, enjoyable, and entertaining. His is a classroom that you can be comfortable and safe in.

Ironically, Bryan was too juvenile for me as a kid. And now Buff and Buff Daddy sound too childish for me as an adult. But you know what? I’m okay with that. I’m still kind of a kid in my mind anyways. That’s why I love being a teacher, because working with teenagers all the time helps me to feel young. It feels great being a football coach when all the players love you like a surrogate dad. I love the fact that football made me change my name, and now football is what helps me confidently keep that name.

So I’m Buff. Or Buff Daddy, if the mood strikes. But recently I’ve taken to a new identity, one that comes with a new name, as well. My friends call me Buff. My students and players call me Buff. And that’s great. But when I come home, I have two little boys whose eyes go wide, whose smiles beam when they see me walk through the door.

Those two boys call me “Daddy,” and man, do I love that name. It makes me a new man.