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Let Football Coaches Coach, OK?

David Jason StinsonUntil Monday, when I nervously dialed McNicholas High School in Cincinnati, I hadn't talked to my first football coach in nearly 40 years. I got his answering machine. His voice still made me want to drop on my belly and give him 20.

Steve Klonne.

Ohhhhhhhhhhhh.

I've thought about Klonne often lately. Here's why: In a silly move by prosecutors, a Louisville high school football coach was accused in a trial last week of reckless homicide and wanton endangerment in the 2008 death of one of his players. Those prosecutors told a jury that Pleasure Ridge Park 's David Jason Stinson (pictured) caused the death of 15-year-old lineman Max Gilpin. They said he died of a heat stroke after he was forced to run "gassers," the traditional set of sprints that coaches unleash on players at all levels of football for conditioning and often for punishment.

Thankfully, after 90 minutes of deliberations, the jurors did the right thing. They acquitted Stinson of all charges. Still, you just know football coaches everywhere are glancing over their shoulders these days to see if their players are trotting onto the practice field with a lawyer.

It's football. It's violent. So, courtesy of those coaches who aren't concerned with trying to satisfy the naive by becoming Mister Rogers on the sidelines, it's splendid for teaching eternal lessons about character, toughness and the rest.

Players get hurt, of course, and sometimes, they die.

If you think it should be otherwise, may I suggest bowling?

No doubt, I'm old school -- with much help from Klonne, who was a Telly Savalas lookalike as our freshman coach at Mount Healthy High School in Cincinnati . He was HUGE, and it wasn't just because I was 14 years old. He was a body-building champion. Rain, snow or shine, he wore a white T-shirt with the Mount Healthy Owl logo on the front, gray gym shorts, white socks and black cleats. He looked and sounded like a football coach, which is to say he was scary and loud.

This was in 1970, when Vince Lombardi and Woody Hayes set the template for others in their profession. In other words, coaches were allowed to do anything to players just shy of capital punishment -- spit, curse, kick, grab, smack.

Not only that, for every practice, we were required to jog the one-third of a mile from the locker room to the deeply sunken area that contained a football field, several other wide-open spaces and maybe a drop or two of water.

It was called "Death Valley."

Did we complain? Yes, definitely, yes -- especially on that brutal jog up the hill after practice. But we mumbled in whispers for fear of The Coach, who was among the scariest and most respected persons in your world back then. The thing is, we didn't quit, and nobody died, and few were injured (at least, not to the point of needing an amputation or something), but these are different times.

With significantly less of that old-style approach to coaching, there are more tragedies occurring in football at the high school, college and pro levels.

Or maybe it just appears that way.

According to the most recent numbers compiled by Frederick O. Mueller, chairman of the American Football Coaches Committee on Football Injuries, Gilpin's death was one of seven in 2008 directly due to football. Mueller's stats also showed that such deaths have occurred in single digits for every year but one since 1978.

In contrast, Mueller's stats revealed an average of more than 20 such deaths from 1966 through 1972 -- as in my Death Valley Days. And, according to Mueller's stats, Gilpin's death joined that of six others resulting from heat stroke in 2008 to comprise the third-highest such total since the eight in 1970 and the seven in 1972.

Guess our Death Valley really could have been Death Valley. Consider, too, that coaches back then were huge on players using salt tablets (a no-no these days). Plus, the most significant liquid you consumed was afterward when you were encouraged to purchase a Gatorade or three from the vending machine.

I never heard back from Klonne, by the way. He is a busy man. Just last week, he was named as an inductee into a Cincinnati High School Hall of Fame. In addition to serving as the freshman coach at Mount Healthy and the varsity guy at McNicholas, Klonne's employer since 2005, he was an assistant coach at two other Cincinnati-area teams. He also spent 19 years running nationally renowned Moeller.

At Moeller, Klonne won his traditionally rugged league nine times, and he captured five regional titles and two state championships. He also reached the state finals three other times for a career record as a head coach of 186-71.

It all started for Klonne at Mount Healthy, where he had the same routine in the locker room after practices. He'd drop a 45 on the turntable across the way of Creedence Clearwater Revival singing Lookin' Out My Back Door.

To this day, I think of Klonne when I hear that song.

Well, that and Death Valley. Then, suddenly, whatever I'm trying to overcome at that moment doesn't seem so difficult.
Terence Moore is a national columnist and commentator for FanHouse. He is a frequent panelist on "Rome Is Burning," an ESPN show hosted by Jim Rome, that is seen Monday through Friday at 4:30 PM ET. Moore spent more than three decades working for major newspapers, including 26 years as an award-winning sports columnist for the San Francisco Examiner and the Atlanta Journal-Constitution. He resides in Atlanta.

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