Reflections on a Teenage Affair with my Adult Sports Coach

A memoir based on my teenage Poetry

Faulty

I am a mountain.

No one questions my strength.

Through the abundance of the earth,

I stretch,

Diving confidently through sandy layers

Growing roots in the depths of fiery stone.

No one,

Questions the strength of a mountain,

Until,

It is crumbling.

It is a profound experience, hearing your mother say the name of your predator. His name

was spoken with the absence of disgust, without fear in the undertone and lacking hatred in its

articulation. Her use of the name was presented casually, naively, in a tone that juxtaposed his

name as told by my own voice. She was blissfully unaware of her daughter’s trauma. I was recently

introduced to the academic concept of “Structural Determinism”. It can be described by

the paradox that certain systems are inherently ill-equipped to handle particular issues. As a

teenager, I ignorantly struggled with the physical embodiment of Structural Determinism. I

would have never admitted it and even now struggle with grasping ownership of my own inabilities.

And yet, in reality, my brain, my mental and emotional development, were unequipped to

deal with his adult manipulations. Structural Determinism: the fall of American multicultural

agendas and the fundamental issue with teenagers dating older people.

Seduction

We spoke of Hughes,

He quoted to me,

“What happens to a dream deferred?”

As we smiled.

I was jogging down Summit Ave. Minnesota fall was in full expression and the shadows

of the dream-like victorian mansions dramatized the abundance of yellow maples. I say jogging

but to be clear, I run fast. Running is serious business, it happens routinely, promptly, and with

immense focus. Running isn't just to run, it’s to chase something. When I'm chasing I chase with

my whole body, flushed arms and legs swing in a practiced rhythm; exhales are noisy, intentional,

performative breaths, my high-ponytail tick-tocks in a tempo interrupted by the masses of

blond hair sticking to sweaty and sunburned shoulders. When I start to feel tired, instead of slowing

down I run until I think I might pass out.”Pacing” has never been my strategy, my body has

been trained to give everything it’s got.

The text came in as I was changing music. “I’m headed to the bookstore-need something

new to read. Hamline Ave. Care to join me?” Maybe because I was already chasing him, I turned

around. Thanked my fast legs as I rushed home, anxiously shaved my entire body, and tactfully

waited an appropriate amount of time to respond, “Yes.” before hopping on my old red street

bike and heading to Hamline Books.

The beginning was a dream. The energy between two bodies that are forbidden from being

with each other is electrifying. Our first night together left me in a state of utter sensation.

We moved together in a way in which I was confident was truly unique. He whispered to me his

hidden fantasies in cumulation from his time as my coach, from our tragically PG and

anticipatory outings together, from his dreams. “Emma” he would say. “I have never felt like this

before.”

Nick knew he was beautiful. At first, we mostly saw each other in the gym, where he was

free to watch me without worry because of the context of his position. He always wore black,

from his t-shirt to the laces of his high-tops. He was excruciatingly sublime and carried his muscled

body with an air of complete capability. His brown hair was short enough that waking up in

the morning required no supplementary efforts. He told me once he was thinking of getting a

haircut and I boldly exclaimed, “I like your hair a little bit longer. It’s much easier to grab onto.”

The girls and I were shameless. We joked about our attraction to him and constantly

speculated about the potential of his reciprocation. Our afternoons were spent tying our t-shirts to

show off more skin, flirting audaciously as he coached us, and asking him inappropriate personal

questions. He acted humble, like he didn't notice our efforts to catch his interest. My time in the

gym was spent in crop-tops, strappy sports bras and tight yoga pants. I knew he was attracted to

me. I could feel him watching my every move, at first pretending he wasn't and later letting me

catch his gaze. I felt powerful. We were similarly confident in our sex appeal. He once told me

that my sexuality was what he was so attracted to; “it’s irresistible” he whispered after one of our

first nights together.

The all black, the converse shoes, the aesthetic- these were all part of the image that made

him so seductive. The other half of his charm was found in bookstores, the poetry section to be

exact, during coffee dates (he would order a double shot of espresso in a mug for here) and at art

galleries. These venues and consequent conversations spoke to the selective nature and most

definitely curated persona of someone desperately attempting to present themselves as uniquely

thoughtful and emotional.

It was just getting dark when I got to the bookstore. This was my third time seeing Nick

that week. We had tossed a frisbee, taken a hot yoga class and shared a meal. Despite my confidence

in his attraction to me, nothing had progressed farther than a hug goodbye. My friends

couldn't believe it, “But, why would he ask you to hangout? It doesn't make sense.”

they would argue when I recounted our late night text messages and outings within the streets

of Saint Paul. And, I agreed. I was utterly confident that we were not within the boundaries of a

formal coach and player relationship, yet could not shake the sensation that despite our undeniable

attraction to each other, it didn't make sense for someone his age to be interested in me.

My justifications were always in my maturity. I lived my entire adolescent life being told

I was mature for my age. I lived my entire relationship with Nick in a performativity of maturity

that I believed was needed to ensure his affection for me. I landed my first political internship

when I was fourteen years old. The following year I worked in a communications office for the

largest progressive PAC in Minnesota. When I met Nick I was just finishing my work as a campaign

manager for my city council member. My time as a teenager was spent interacting with

and being friends with adults. It made sense to me that I would therefore be attracted to older

men as well have older men be attracted to me. I was convinced that my maturity excluded me

from the traditional constructs of age-based relationships.

We spent timeless blissful moments in those aisles. Pointing out our favorite books,

reading Langston Hughes poems and searching for our favorite childhood memories. Later, we

stood outside the store, talking for hours about our families, his love of scary movies and the way

he thought my eyes glowed when I spoke of things that I loved.

His affirmations were often written. After he slept with me for the first time I received a

text message recounting his attempt to prepare potatoes and how he had mistakenly chopped off

his right thumb nail, distracted by memories of our evening together. Sometimes he wrote me

erotic poetry in which he spoke passionately about his attraction and deep desire to be with me.

He handed me power on a silver platter. The power of touch. I watched him melt at the hands of

my caress, be persuaded through the motion of my lips and shiver at my exploration of his body.

He affirmed me of this power constantly, telling me that my physicality, my sex was dream-like.

One night he wrote to me, “ I feel you on my skin and catch the scent of you in the air for brief

moments. I want nothing more than to be totally absorbed by you right now. You could devour

me like air if you should choose to.”

Control

It’s possible,

That I cannot say goodbye,

Because of the drama.

In a literary sense,

We are a love story,

Comparable in plot

To the complexities of Austin’s

The pages of our companionship

Beg to be continued.

Our chapters are often tearful,

Meant for the empathetic reader

As if derived by Nabokov

And I,

A dedicated aficionado, Cannot

put down a good book.

I cried a lot those fall months. I was immersed in a game in which I had no sense of the objective.

Every wrong play felt like the tragic drawing of a “backup ten spaces and give back all your money” card.

The game was cleverly won by Nick exploiting my lack of understanding and simultaneous desire to

succeed to secure his own standing on our board.

I was crying in the bath. I hadn't heard from him in two days. We had entered the period of pop-up interactions.

These pop-ups occurred as he pleased and the silence that lapsed in between our encounters left a tortured mess

of confused and overwhelmed girl who was crying in the bathtub. I wasn't just sad, I was angry. Pissed off, and in

desperate need of explanation. Every aspect of what I perceived to be a normal relationship was thrown violently

out the window by his treatment towards me. I convinced myself that I, as a younger girl, was simply

unaware of the nuances of adult relationships. The performance of maturity became my enemy.

So I cried in the bathtub and convinced myself to “play it cool”. Our off-season had ended and I

had returned to the gym with my youth ultimate team to be coached by him. The transition was

traumatic. Unlike our previous season in which our flirtations held no ground, now I was sleeping

with the coach. No one could know, that was one his rules. I had confided in my close

friends to his utmost frustration. At first, I was resistant to his desire to keep me a secret because

I was happy. I wanted to go places with him, share our relationship with our mutual community,

and gossip with my peers. As it got bad, as he became my coach again, I needed to talk to someone,

something he prohibited as a pillar of our relationship.

At the gym we could barely look at each other. Our navigation of the complicated social

relationship was awful. I spent my time silently attempting to blend into the backdrop as his

critical eyes examined and instructed. No longer was the gym a place I felt empowered physically,

by my sexuality, or with my teammates. It was a place of extreme panic. Pop-ups were

present in the gym too. He wouldn't look at me, talk to me, or act like I existed but occasionally,

sometimes, he would send me a text after one of our brutally uncomfortable sessions; “I

couldn't keep my eyes off of you.”

Sometimes after he finished coaching me, I would walk the few blocks to the house he

shared with his coworker. If we knew no one was home he would take me inside to fuck me.

This was the exchange for the horrific time as coach and student, a text, a silent and hidden fuck,

some small piece of recognition from him.

His persistence that we maintain our discretion left me to rely on him to process the

all-encompassing feelings that were taking over my life. As he became more and more absent my

desperation to see him become more pronounced. The cycle maintained his control over every

facet of our relationship. Despite the physical and emotional devastation of his antics (laying in

the bath, cursing him, body shaking with hurt and confusion), a text from him, “Let’s grab coffee

tomorrow,” would freeze my tantrum and instead and I would sigh in relief, ignore my inclination

to explode in anger, and say yes.

He had sex with multiple women while we were together. I learned about them throughout

the year we were together and the year following. One woman, was a distant friend of mine,

she was also young but in college.I heard about her and Nick through some friends. Of course,

no one knew that I was seeing him and so their casual gossip was not ill-intentioned.

Silently, I fell apart.

I was applying for colleges, I was getting rejected, accepted, making decisions, waiting

for news of a visa and graduating high school. Every aspect of my life was in emotional turmoil.

One of my high school teachers became his roommate later that year. He knew about Nick and

I. Never once did he say anything to me about it.

There was a period that summer, after we had finally called it quits in which I became

vocally angry. This was the beginning of my experiment in reliving what had happened between

the two us. I shared what was happening with a few people in our lives. The thing about Nick, is

that he is a hotshot. No only does he coach the strength training regimen for a lot of teams in my

community, he captains a major men's program, plays on the pro league and has slept around

with a considerable amount of my adult teammates. In this period, control became an aspect of

our competing narratives. As people questioned him, he lied. He accused me of trying to ruin his

life, causing him inconveniences and tried to make amends like he was slapping on a bandage.

He felt like his life was being ruined? His life, in which our shared community respected,

believed, uplifted and supported him, paid him money to coach their kids and thought all the talk about him and the younger girl was just “gossip”. It caused him anxiety when he forced me to

exit parties and social events with my teammates because of his unannounced decision to attend?

It was inconvenient for him when he was questioned about our relationship? A relationship in

which I was forced to agonize in silence. That required I teach myself how to breathe again when

it felt like he was using every ounce of his power to prevent me from moving. Our relationship,

as defined and maintained by his appetite for my body. Surprisingly, to this day, I still respond to

his texts.

Healing

Ode to the older man who told me he loved me

Thank you for teaching me that I should never be a secret

Grabbing my body from the small dark caves of shame and letting me take up all of the space in

the room

Now I know that I should be loud, scream from the handlebars of my old red bike

Wear $1 lipgloss because I like to shine

March in hightops on the hearts of men who have harmed me

Rapist. A person I confided in offered me the word as a way of reclaiming the power he

continued to hold over me long after our relationship ended. Her sentiment being that by acknowledging

him as my rapist I would disassociate my own feelings of fault. “Statutory rape”

was a phrase I heard frequently throughout the course of the year. I adamantly denied it’s connection

to my relationship with Nick. I was convinced that my desire to sleep with him, the “realness”

of our relationship and our “transparent” conversations about sex, excluded me from

being abused by the construct of age. The problem is, without a named source, pain is hard to

rationalize. I have a better understanding now, though emotionally I still struggle to come to

terms with the complexity of our relationship, logically I am able to find closure: structural determinism.

When you're a seventeen year old having sex with your twenty-eight year old coach,

you don't have uninfluenced consent to offer. Statutory rape is still rape. It's still never quite felt

like my word to use. Too many people in my life have suffered the violent trauma of rape. In a

way, I don’t want to appropriate my experience. Abuser. Manipulator. Toxic.

Shit-face. Those are my words of choice.

I see him everywhere. On the sidelines of my games. At parties with my team. On social

media. He started coaching my brother this past winter. He worked at a summer camp with some

of my dearest, teenage friends. He re-followed me on Instagram just this last week. Instantly, I

looked through my feed and attempted to interpret what he would think of my content. His

power is completely encompassing.

I took a picture of him once, at a coffee shop, the only picture he let me take during our

time together. I often struggle to comprehend “realness”. His ability to erase, ignore, selectively

acknowledge, and manipulate our narrative, lives on years later, making me to this day question

what was “real” between the two of us. When it doesn't seem real, I look at the picture, I try to

remember, I let myself feel betrayed, devastated, hurt, because I recognize, that if I let him erase

what he did to me, he maintains his position as the ultimate game maker.

Every few months he plays a small and calculated card. A text that reads “How are you

doing?”, an email offering explanation in the form of poetry, a smile in a crowded club in which

I am attempting to furiously exit. Each time this happens I want to scream “Get the FUCK out of

here”. I continue to be infuriated by his use of power. But, in honesty, these interactions are often

filled with the conflicting feelings of breath-stopping anxiety and a raging desperation to see

him. Specifically, to feel remembered by him and to find some resemblance of assurance that he

has not yet forgotten about me. That is my fear- that he will cease to look back on our time together.

That he will find insignificance in the poetry, the coffee, the sex, the deception, the manipulation,

the lies and all of the fucked-up bullshit abusive antics used to get a young girl into

his bed.

Goodbye is best said as written by my seventeen year old self;

This is a poem for all the young girls who like me thought sexy was saying yes. Whose carefree

was the new consent. Whose young feminism and confidence, and strong independent womanhood

was on a leash in the hands of the older man telling you you’re beautiful.

Ode the older man who said he loved me

Broke me down. Stole my sexuality and fed it the ravenous dogs of his ego.

Made my body a stranger from unfamiliar lands. Introduced me to panic attacks and drowning.

Without you, I would never have learned how strong I really am.

Get the fuck out of here.

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“Warning ABuse” Poetry Submission