“We live in a world where every Saturday afternoon some fat-bellied, lazy slob lays on a couch, farting, drinking a beer and smoking a cigarette watching a world class Olympic figure skater who has sacrificed 10,000 hours of practice to become the best in the world and calls him a sissy!”

— Tom Chapala, former Jeffersonville High School wrestling coach



We had just lost a wrestling meet at Charlestown High School during my sophomore year, one in which we were, at least in Coach Tom Chapala’s mind, heavily favored.

Upon our return to a line of cars with waiting parents on a later-than-normal school night, he quietly and calmly requested we all take a seat in the bleachers.

Coach Chapala silently walked out and handed out a couple of bottles of vitamins and instructed everyone to take one. I will never forget the anxious moments that preceded one of the most fire and brimstone motivational speeches I ever received from a coach or teacher.

Most of the speech in its entirety could not be printed in a family newspaper. I can only hope that somewhere during my son’s young adulthood a person with the character, integrity and morality of Tom Chapala will enter his life and assist me in teaching Cameron how to grow up and what it means to be a man.

Chapala was a “grizzly bear” of a man — a dedicated bodybuilder with a muscular, burly physique that was complimented by a bald head and a booming voice. He had played football for legendary coach Paul “Bear” Bryant. He was a master storyteller and motivator.

When you did something right, you never felt greater pride, as he knew when to tear into you. But most importantly as a coach and a mentor, he knew when to praise and build you up. When he expressed confidence in you, you felt like you were unbeatable. He is the one coach that I totally felt the old cliché about: “You would be willing to march into battle with him.”

The lessons he taught me away from athletics are the ones that I most incorporated into my life. It was he, along with my father, were the two that most taught me what being a man really is. Sure, I wanted to be a machismo athlete with mental toughness and Chapala required, make that, demanded such a goal.

However, watching him interact with young people throughout the school building away from athletics was where I learned life’s real lessons from him.

In the 1970s, high school programs such as inclusion and special education did not formally exist. Students that had special needs and were learning disabled often blended right in side-by-side and were just left to fend for themselves, mostly.

It was watching how Tom Chapala dealt with such kids and with those kids who didn’t fit in the mold as far as behavior and had other emotional issues that he really shined. I saw a man that had the toughest side that any coach could display while engaged in athletics, yet he displayed a tender heart when dealing with kids who needed someone to care when many didn’t have someone who did.

He was a genuine Teddy bear when dealing with those kids. He demanded respect, but also showed affection and concern. Such kids were drawn to him.

In all of my years in and around the school system, I have never encountered another more natural born teacher, motivator, instructor, friend and caring human being. I credit him as being one of the most important role models of my life.

I read a piece in the newspaper some years back about Tom Chapala — who eventually left JHS and was a coach and teacher at New Albany High School. It seems that he and his wife had a special needs son. The article went into great length to discuss the special relationship and bond between the two.

The irony for me about a mentor like Tom Chapala is simply this: At a time when young men need a man like him in the school system — I know that the way he did things would never be accepted in today’s politically correct, or as I prefer to call it, politically insane climate — his methods would be considered too rough for the fragile teenage ego. His language in a locker room would be too crude. His challenging young men to grow up and be strong enough to overcome their personal weakness would be considered too mentally cruel.

A good coach will always convince team members that they are better than they will ever be. If this were not the case, upsets in amateur sports would never occur. I know I won some wrestling matches I should never have won because of Coach Tom Chapala convinced me I could win them. I also know that I enjoy watching figure skating in the Olympics to this day because of him making me appreciate that any champion — anyone that is the best at what they do — should be appreciated for the price they pay to be the best.

More importantly, he showed me it is not unmanly to show compassion for the less fortunate. It is not unmanly to stand up against the power structure in support of kids in which he believed in, as I saw him do in ways that ultimately I feel led to his departure from JHS.

I saw him fight for the unpopular causes and take a stand risking his position. I saw an occasional gleam of moisture in the eyes of one of the most physically imposing men I ever knew when his heart was touched.

My favorite Tom Chapala story occurred at the sectional wrestling match during my sophomore year. I was the junior varsity wrestler in my weight class behind varsity wrestler Mark Dixon. Mark contracted an illness right before sectional and I had qualified to wrestle in the sectional match against an Indiana wrestling legend, Jim Cornwell.

He was from Bloomington and had wrestled since sixth grade and was now a senior. He had never lost a match in his life and was the three-time state champion. I had wrestled just exactly enough varsity matches to qualify for sectional and was winless.

I was, as could be expected, quite nervous; OK, more accurately I was scared to death as I awaited the beginning of the match. Coach Chapala put his arm around my shoulder and talked to me. He told me about how much I had improved, how Jim Cornwell was a student athlete just like me. He convinced me that I would become a legend over the course of the next few minutes if I only remembered what I knew and rose to the challenge.

The name Lindon Dodd would become folklore by defeating Jim Cornwell. He looked me straight in the eyes and told me that if I did my best, I would make myself, my parents, my school and the wrestling world proud. It was one of the greatest motivational speeches anyone ever gave me. I was invincible at that moment and about to march into battle for my leader.

As I took to the mat and engaged Cornwell, I was full of confidence and, in fact, I scored the first point during the takedown, and for a very brief moment of almost greatness, Jim Cornwell’s shoulder brushed the mat. I think there was a nanosecond of silence throughout the gym.

As any computer-literate person will tell you, a nanosecond is a very small measurement of time. Jim Cornwell beat me by a score of 21-1 — for the wrestling noninformed that would roughly equivalent to a score of 100-1 in basketball — and went on to finish his career as the three-time undefeated Indiana state champion. I am pretty sure he doesn’t even remember my name.

This is the rest of the story. After Coach Chapala left my side, left me full of confidence and hope — albeit a man on a mission — he walked back over to the rest of the team, who probably knew my fate.

A teammate later told me as Chapala approached the squad he had that mischievous grin on his face that always let you know had had something on his mind and exclaimed to my supportive teammates, “Lindon’s just about to have his (expletive deleted) kicked!”

Lindon Dodd is an Otisco resident who is a freelance writer and can be reached at lindon.dodd@hotmail.com