It’s the fourth quarter of a close game. My teammates and I – seventh and eighth graders then – are trying to hang on and win. We (and by “we,” I mean “I”) give up a basket on defense because I allowed the opponent to drive by me on the baseline. Never give up the baseline. I’m gonna hear about this from coach. Timeout is called. Still underneath our opponent’s hoop, I can hear my coach yelling. I’m looking down, but I can feel him staring at me. The court is to my left, but I look up and to the right and realize I’m equal distance from the doors leading outside as I am my team’s huddle. Rather than face the music, for a split second I think about running out the doors, away from the adversity. I head to our huddle, where my coach is sitting there looking at me, angry and confused. “Do you know what cutting off the baseline means?” he asks. “Yes.” I say, trying to be definitive, yet sounding very timid. “No, apparently you don’t, ‘cuz if you did, you would’ve done it.” We end up losing the game.
Fast forward to the next day.
I’m sitting in class, it’s 3:00, and basketball practice starts at 3:30. I feel sick. Please God, make this geography class last forever. Prayer, unanswered. Class inevitably ends, and my teammates and I somberly walk from our classroom to the gym – through the same doors I contemplated using as an escape – to face the music. On the court, we gather around the locked ball rack where the basketballs are kept. Our coach sits at half court. “We don’t need the balls today,” he says, “Line up along the baseline.” Once we’re settled, coach sits before us. He goes down the line, one by one, telling us what we did wrong. He gets to me, again I hear about giving up the baseline (along with all the other mistakes I made). We’re all singled out, but singled out and criticized collectively, because we lost together. The rest of practice, we run.
Fast forward to the next season, I’m in eighth grade.
It’s 3:00, and I’m staring at the clock, praying for class to get over with so I can get to practice. The day before, we had just beaten the overwhelming favorite to win our conference; both teams were undefeated going in, and now we were alone at the top of the standings. Class inevitably ends, and my teammates and I excitedly walk from our classroom to the locker room. We walk through those doors to the gym, meet our coach, who’s sitting right inside. “No need to change, just go sit along the baseline in your school clothes.” The ball rack where the basketballs are kept remains locked. Minus our attire, it’s the same situation as the year before, only then we were at our lowest, now we’re at our highest. Coach takes his spot, per usual, sitting in front of us. One by one, he goes down the line, telling each one of us the good things we did. We’re all singled out, but singled out and praised collectively, because we won together. The rest of practice, we eat pizza and drink soda.
Fast forward to today.
It was too much for my junior high brain to comprehend at the time, but all these years later, I realize those moments were more about life than basketball. My coach, sitting there in front of us, was living proof of what the human spirit can accomplish in life.
My coach then was Bob Beinborn (aka “Rabbi”). He started coaching grade school boys in 1970. In 1986, he also took over the freshmen boys team. Later, after he retired from his grade school post, he assumed head coaching duties for the JV girls. Along the way, he continued coaching through several bouts with cancer. The reason he was always sitting in front of his players, as mentioned, was because cancer took one of his legs in 1988.
Coaching brings as much responsibility as the coach puts on himself or herself. There’s nothing wrong with a coach being solely concerned about coaching whatever sport they’re affiliated with; it takes a great amount skill to make the game as much about life as basketball, and to attempt to and do it wrong probably does more harm than good. To Bob Beinborn, coaching basketball and teaching about life were inseparable. Defending the baseline was as much about taking responsibility in life as it was about preventing the opponent from scoring in that small window of time. Rabbi was a master at synchronizing both aspects. He was your most substantial critic on the court, but simultaneously your biggest supporter, on and off the court.
During practice and games, he was your drill instructor, the unrelenting disciplinarian. He demanded perfection – or at least perfect effort – of his players. After practice/games, he was the most joyful and easy-to-get-along-with person ever, always accompanied with a backpack full of candy to hand out. He was one of the funniest people you’d ever meet … the king of one-liners. If he made fun of you, it was a badge of honor. He only made fun of the ones he cared about (which was pretty much everybody).
Along with all his coaching duties, Bob went on to become mayor of Cuba City, Wisconsin, from 2004 to 2011. Among his many accolades, he was named the University of Notre Dame’s “Man of the Year” in 2001, USA Today’s “Volunteer Coach of the Year” in 1998, and a 2004 inductee into the Wisconsin Basketball Coaches Association Hall of Fame.
In 2011, he died as a result of injuries suffered in a car accident. To the roughly 2,000 people in Cuba City, along with the vast majority of everybody who met him, Bob Beinborn will forever stand as a Vince Lombardi-esque figure: A larger-than-life personality, bringing success in athletics and in life to his community. Being diagnosed with cancer and losing his leg was adversity on a great big, real-life scale, but not only did Rabbi deal with it, he flourished in spite of it. Through coaching, he turned boys into men, his way of “paying it forward.” He taught everybody he coached to face the music, to own up to their mistakes, not run out the doors to avoid them, and to celebrate the good times with the same intensity you use to fight through the adversity, in basketball and in life.
On Friday, August 7th, the Bob Beinborn Memorial Golf Outing (dubbed “Rabbi Palooza”) will be held at University Ridge Golf Course in Madison, Wisconsin. For those interested in more information, please visit rabbiscc.com. Adversity on a small scale will be faced – bad shots will be made – but in the end, a celebration will be had.
“When you die, that doesn’t mean you lose to cancer. You beat cancer by how you live, why you live, and the manner in which you live.” – Stuart Scott
